Workington
Grey, dull & depressing.

Stayed here for one night by mistake whilst rambling round the north.

On walking into the local hotel (which if I remember right was the only place of colour in the town - it was bright pink), everyone stopped and stared and someone menacingly whispered "ramblers".

As we'd been hiking for days I washed up some of our camping gear in the bathroom before going downstairs for dinner. When I came up said camping gear was gone and found out they'd been in to turn down the room (in the evening? looking for stuff to thieve I reckon) and thought we'd been cooking with our camping stove in the room. We werent allowed to have it back till we checked out, which oddly enough turned out to be at the crack of dawn the next day.
(EvilMeister, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 14:43, 1 reply)

Warrington.
I live in Blackpool (see page 3 of this qotw)

However, I work in Warrington. This place is a fucking shit hole. Its like they started to spend money on it, then thought "fuck it - lets go the ale house"

I drove through a suburb the other day on the way to town, I swear to god it resembles a bombed World War 2 City. Shit shit shit.
(hoogie Original Cunt Horse Author, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 14:37, 2 replies)

Cleethorpes
Cleethorpes has the shortest pier in the UK. Back in olden days, they were worried the Germans would use it as a troop landing point, so they rebuilt it. It’s now 200ft long. Which just leaves 1,100ft of mud bank between it and the refreshing brown waters of the Humber. It burned down. They rebuilt it. It was opened by Tim Mickleburgh, Hon Vice President of the National Piers Society.
(Miraclefish How appropriate, you fight like a cow, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 14:21, 1 reply)

Harlow = Shit.
That's it.
(mcnelson, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 14:16, 2 replies)

Pissed-up mongs in Droitwich
Just remembered the existence of this youtube video (NSFW). As mentioned in my previous post about Droitwich, the town is populated by retards and all there is to do is go to the pub - this video brings those two elements together rather grotesquely. If you explore the uploader's other videos you'll find more of similar and a load of BNP propaganda. As I mentioed in the previous post they love the BNP in my town, and the uploader is someone I've clashed with on politics in the pub.
(raymond "three griddle pans" luxury yacht lovin' the christmas action, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 14:13, 1 reply)

On the outskirts of Stoke...
... there's an area called Fegg Hayes.



You don't need me to tell you anything about its awfulness. Just say the words out loud, and then ask yourself: can anything pleasant ever be associated with those sounds?

I think we all know the answer to that.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 14:11, 2 replies)

I remember finding this a few years back:
thisishaywardsheath.com/

worth a look - very funny.
Cheers.
( BobbyParadise, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 14:10, Reply)

I nearly
Posted this in reply to Enzyme’s excellent Stoke post just below, but I think there’s enough for a new post.

Newcastle. Not the proper Newcastle you understand, but Newcastle-Under-Lyme, a matter of minutes from Stoke and from Keele University where I attended.

Living in Newcastle was, to be honest, not that good. But it’s a really weird place.

We lived on pretty much the main road going through Newcastle. Called, relatively inexplicably, Liverpool Road, it was a dual carriageway. There was 6 feet of pavement and another 6 feet of path between front door and road.

We lived less than a minutes’ walk from 6 different takeaways and 3 off licences. The convenience was second to none, but the associated midlander clientele wasn’t. Among your harmless alcoholics and old people, you had groups of vicious, spitting, seething cauldrons of hormones commonly known as ‘chavs’. Now the boys at least we didn’t have too much trouble with – we acknowledged that they were far more likely to do us damage than us them, and they noted that we were exceptionally larger and hairier than them. So at least when it came to students vs. chavs there was a sort of truce.

The girls however – whole other story. 12-13 year old, puffer jacket wearing, hair ripping their scalp off by their ponytail, gum chewing, dance music blaring from phone, skanks. Truly horrible to behold. But the attitude to us was the icing. Unlike the boys they had no fear of retribution – they were girls, we couldn’t be knocking seven shades of shit out of them.

We were visiting our favourite kebab house for the 4th time that week, I was having a quick fag while they knocked up our pitas, 2 of the above-mentioned sauntered along. ‘Give us a fag’ was uttered. ‘Err, no’ was replied. This went back and forth once more until ‘say that once more and I’ll fucking stab you.’ Again, I offered that they should fist eachother and leave me alone with my cancer stick. Their response? To step inside, walk up to my admittedly mild-mannered friend Tim, and take his can of Lilt. Out the door and off down the street.

Continuing in the vein of thievery, one of the idiots living in our house left the sitting room window open one night. The window that looks directly onto the dual carriageway. Naturally, during the night the window was ripped off and we lost all the DVDs and the PS2 in the sitting room. They then came back one day while everyone was out, ripped off a kitchen window (round the back and over a fence this time) and up through the house. They walked straight past my room with PC, widescreen LCD and hundreds of DVDs and went for housemates’ laptop. Obviously they were only there for a very quick raid. They got a good look though and came back again, this time tearing an entire window out in a downstairs bedroom. Luckily I’d taken the hint by that point and taken all my valuable stuff out of the house.

In contrast, I saw more super/hypercars in that town than I have anywhere else. Porsches were frankly commonplace, a bit like a Golf. Ferraris were seen regularly, and we followed at least 2 Lamborghini Gallardo Spyders through town. I even saw a Bentley Brooklands once. Honestly, now – who lives or at least works in a town where you get so many people described as above and where you can buy a 3 bed semi for £70k, and drives a car worth knocking on £300k? I always saw Newcastle supercar drivers as somehow ‘big fishes in a small pond’ – if they were that successful, they wouldn’t ever leave London! Most enjoyable was picturing them going back to their 3 bed terrace in their Gallardo.

So yes, Newcastle-Under-Lyme. Very conflicted place.
( Rookie You'll have to speak up, I'm wearing a towel, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 14:09, 6 replies)

The Wirral - (not the posh side)
So many towns, so many plastic scousers, I've lived in loads of places on the Wirral some make Winsford look possibly idyllic!

Places such as:

Bromborough - With delightful nightclubs as the Ritzy and Channel 5 with their mirrored dance floors.

Higher Bebbington - Where the locals thought they where posh when their post codes changed to 'CH' from 'L' meaning they were suddenly part of Cheshire.

New Brighton - Clubs like; The Chelsea where people were left for dead by bouncers outside.

Birkenhead - My God, where do you start? The roller skate rink says it all really.

Wallasey/Liscard - I'm shuddering just thinking about that place, it must have 4 cashconverters or similar!

And finally: Rock Ferry and New Ferry - They have/had a pub called the Abbotsfort, where you had to be invited in as a guest before you could set foot in the door. I left the area after hearing gunfire, thought it was a bit too much.

Obviously i'm going back a few years here, but in all honesty I can't see it having changed in the slightest.
(Kip, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 14:03, 11 replies)

Hello Skegness!
(or Skeggy, as those locals who have mastered the power of speech affectionately call it).

Hello to Skegness Railway Station. The end of a meandering little line from the East Midlands, it’s serviced by infrequent, dirty, scabby little trains taken by assorted oiks who smoke, drink and litter the carriages as if they were their own disgusting front room.

Hello to the world’s greatest concentration of static caravans and trailers outside of America. Millions of people, it seems, make their way to Skegness to holiday. Some choose to stay. Forever.

Hello Butlins. You might think holiday camps can't be that bad, you might fondly remember watching Hi-De-Hi. You're wrong. Billy Butlin himself opened his first ever camp in Skegness and it's been downhill ever since. The dregs congregate here to forget.

Hello to the seafront. ‘Skegness is so bracing’ goes the slogan. No it isn’t, it’s fucking freezing. Cold and windy, all the time. Raining for the most part too. And the sea itself? Filthy, of course, the brown water of the North Sea endlessly churned up in the Wash, making paddling or swimming (if you can bear it) akin to being trapped in the washing machine with a bag of sand.

Hello to the Jolly Fisherman, official town mascot, dreamt up by a railway marketing executive in the days when British seaside holidays were something to aspire to. Nowadays the pitiful, ruddy-cheeked fat man running along the beach looks like a sex offender fleeing from the mob (another scene to look out for in the holiday snaps)

Hello to a piss-poor selection of run down amusement arcades, greasy spoons, shops selling utter crap and ‘family pubs’ frequented by arguing, violent tribes of Neanderthals, swigging watery lager and shovelling plate after plate of burger and chips down their greasy, bloated necks.

Hello to the local nightlife, not least Flirtz lap dancing club. You could be forgiven for thinking you'd somehow landed in at the Moulin Rouge, or one of Pigalle's other legendary bordellos and burlesque houses (that is, if you were an imbecile). Replete with its regiment of vile, tanorexic strippers (and noted for its curious use of a Reliant Robin, painted in corporate colours of pink and purple and parked strategically around the town as a mobile advert to pull in the punters), Flirtz is the zenith of a visit to Skeggy. After this your likely destination is hospital, since no night out in the town is complete unless you've been glassed and then beaten up.

Hello Skegness! Wish you weren’t here.
(Lo Pan is in big trouble, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 14:02, 7 replies)

Bolton
The best advice I can offer about living in Bolton is to move a few miles out.

It's not so much that Bolton is excessively bad - yes, there's too much concrete, a chav problem, too many pound shops, odd people round the bus station and some of the pubs are far too rowdy on a Saturday night. It's probably also worth mentioning Ikon - an infamous nightclub which doesn't like anything even vaguely alternative (I've been turned away three times, at which point I sensibly gave up and decided never to go again).

Really, the problem is that in a choice between going out in Bolton and catching a train into Manchester (15 minutes), there's really no competition.

Move 2-3 miles outside Bolton (preferably not towards Deane Road or Farnworth/Salford) and there are some very nice areas.

Actually, Farnworth is probably a good town to ponder putting on the list..
(syllopsium, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 13:56, 2 replies)

A friend of mine*
used to live in Brixton, and apparantly there are a lot of stories you can tell about the place. The police don't bother with warrants, they just kick in the door, and are apparantly not surprised that a gun will be waiting for them. The way he tells it, the whole place is filled with people who not only are violent and see nothing wrong with beating others up- on both sides of the law. All they care about is money, and they genuinely still think that capital punishment exists. High incidence of personality disorders as well, belief that they are in fact some-one entirely different, and an interest in masochism.



*May or may not be The Clash
( Amberl was stripey and dominated Europe, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 13:54, 1 reply)

I've just got back from visiting Hiroshima
Now there's a shithole, it looks like a bomb's hit it.

Actually, it's quite nice really. They've cleaned up and everything. But parts of it did remind me of Coventry rather a lot.

Length? 500miles on the bullet train
(GoodLord doesn't have time for sigs., Fri 30 Oct 2009, 13:41, Reply)

Stockport (aka: Grotport, Chavport, 12th worst town in UK according to The Idler's 50 Crap Towns)
is Manchester's runty, ginger, younger sibling, despite having both a larger surface area and a greater population. The fact that Stockport is so overlooked compared to its richer, more glamorous neighbour despite this is testament to just how unrelentingly mediocre it is in every respect.

Its huge number of suburbs range from the snooty, mock-Tudor John-Lewis-ness of Bramnhall to the run-down, bombed-out hell-hole of Brinnington (where bicycles are burnt out because there simply are no cars)

Its major landmarks include the Stockport Viaduct (2nd largest Brick structure in Britain donchaknow) and the Co-Operative Bank Pyramid; a massive glass corporate eyesore.

It's also home to the Hat Museum alongside other unattractive attractions.
( Fitznicely into a thimble, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 13:41, 10 replies)

Pretty much any working class town in Britain...
Let me start by pointing out I'm from Bury in Lancashire, so I'm not some upper class snob having a poke. My problem is Bury, like almost every working class town in this country, has turned into a dead end grey cluster of hopelessness where the locals, having fuck all better to do, get into a rut of work, drink, work, drink, work, drink.

Nobody has any pride in the place anymore. Bury has a fairly rich history, and could arguably be considered one of the most important towns in British history, inventing not only the police force, but the flying shuttle which helped kick start the industrial revolution. But hardly anyone in the town knows any of these things, because we don't celebrate them. If you go to a place like York for example, the streets are literally filled with historic buildings and plaques telling you why these things matter.

In Bury, about 10 years ago, maybe less, they discovered some Roman ruins when they tried to build a car park on top of them. even after this discovery, they still tried to build the fucking car park. Fortunately the site was listed as being of historical importance, and you can now go and visit it if you're remotely interested, which nobody seems to be. It's behind the Peel pub.

The biggest problem though seems to be that the council are doing everything in their power to obliterate any historical trace of the town. A quick list of indiscretions:

They tore down the oldest shop in Bury (which was 200 years old I believe) to make the entrance to a fucking car park 6 feet wider.

They just recently pulled down a block of shops which had been standing for nearly 100 years to build this fucking monstrosity:



Incidentally, what is now standing looks fuck all like that. Imagine the same picture, but with grey concrete instead of glass. On top of which, it now towers over every other building in Bury, and doesn't fit in with the surrounding area one fucking bit. There was a petition to dispute the building of it, but the council ignored it and built it anyway. Oh yes, and I discovered that building on the 300 brand new flats seen in the picture (the wood fronted bits) has been frozen, because no fucker wants to buy them. They're currently standing there empty, without running water or electricity. £100 says they end up going to the DHSS.

They fill literally every available space with big fucking grey warehouses, and make them into retail parks. I live 15 minutes away from the town centre, and I have to walk through 3 of the fuckers before I get there.


Now I'm sure it's not just Bury that has this attitude to "modernisation" and "economic expansion", but Jesus christ I've been to few places where it's more apparent. It's no wonder everyone is so fucking depressed and spends every weekend getting shitfaced and kicking the fuck out of each other.

I'll end this with an interesting factoid, that you'd never fucking know if you were visiting Bury because typically no mention of it is made anywhere:

The Peel statue (of Sir Robert Peel, prime minister and inventor of the police force) in the town centre has the buttons the wrong way round on his waistcoat, implying that he was a transvestite. The scupltor, upon realising his mistake, was so mortified that he had sleighted Bury's most famous son in this way that he hung himself.
( PMGT -Bacon., Fri 30 Oct 2009, 13:36, 13 replies)

Gorton, Manchester.
I ended up living in Gorton because I couldn't afford to live in Moss Side.

I didn't know much about Manchester when I decided to stop commuting and buy a house closer to my office. I asked around a bit about what would be a suitable area for a first-time buyer, and then did a price search on a few estate agency websites.

I found a few places that looked reasonable; a couple of them was in Gorton. I made appointments for viewings. On the radio in the car as I drove up the M6 for the appointments, there was a programme called Britain on the Box; they were talking about the making of Shameless - and about how it was filmed in West Gorton. This set off alarm bells. Arriving early, I checked out the area around one house - and decided not only that I was no longer interested in the property, but that I was not even going to get out of the car. I do have some standards.

The second house wasn't as grim: reader, I bought it. It's a house that in London would easily have cost twice as much. A couple of miles across Manchester, it might easily fetch several tens of thousands of pounds more. What killed the price was its location.

Gorton is not a lovely place. As you drive east out of Manchester, Gorton is the bit where you wind up your windows. This is not so much because someone will take something from your car as you stop at the lights; it's much more likely that they'll take the opportunity to throw litter in. If the lights are particularly slow to change, they might get their dog - invariably called Tyson - to foul your passenger seat as well. The physics of how there manages to be so much litter and dog crap on the streets of Gorton is baffling. How so many cigarette packets, fag ends, food wrappers manage to get through my gate is a puzzle that has me defeated. But they do.

As I said: I ended up in Gorton because Moss Side was out of reach. And yet, bizarrely, I like it. I don't mind the derelict and boarded up houses. I can tolerate the three stabbings that have happened within a two-minute walk of my front door in the past 18 months. I'm very happy living there; and despite appearances, the streets aren't nearly as dangerous as people think - I suspect there's a double-bluff in operation, inasmuch as such is the fear of being out at night that not even the muggers risk it: the result is that the streets are actually completely safe.





Though I do have to admit that if I still live in Gorton in five years, something will clearly have gone very wrong with my career.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 13:35, 8 replies)

Wellingborough
A place so utterly devoid of character and unremarkable that it paradoxically stands out as being one of the most pointless places in England. Populated predominantly by kebab shops and Polish food markets, what is left of the town's indigenous tribe clutter the greasy, spit ridden pavements like small swarms of angry and mentally hindered wasps. Children haunt you down the street gobbing abuse whilst hassling for change and cigarettes. The tracksuit still rules okay on the streets of Wellingborough... except on Friday nights when a couple of hundred clones leer and piss all over the faux-cobbled centre, roaring "Build Me Up Buttercup" and puking their way out of the one nightclub. All wearing the same 'edgey' pink shirt they bought from Burtons; the town's only non-sports clothes shop.

What really makes Wellingborough stand out is the sheer amount of literally insane people wandering the pavement. A woman resembling an overweight Norse troll sporting inexplicably shiny and enormous trainers walks endlessly round the block like a mad animal trapped in a cage. Tragically, if only she'd not continuously chosen to turn right at the end of the street she would have achieved something with her life by walking further than anyone in human history. There's also a elderly man who rambles the streets topless. He clangs about with him a huge metal pole, waving it at people as he mutters enthusiastically about serial killers and east end thugs. He once passed me whilst crossing the road and opening his nasty white beard he piped up, licking the words as they came out; "Don't get run over now."

And then there's Karaoke Karen... a pale skinned woman with hair like a bright-ginger version of Jack Nance in Eraserhead who gained local notoriety in the mid 90s with persistent episodes of ghetto-blaster fueled mayhem involving a breathless and unnerving dance in the middle of the town's busiest streets. She disappeared for a number of years but was recently spotted clutching a lamp-post in a desolate car park, staring vacantly out of her sad and fattened face as if gazing through a shallow veil of happy memories and into madness itself. Truly the human embodiment of Wellingborough.
(Mr Eraserhead Why aren't you a lemon?, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 13:31, 4 replies)

Sittingbourne (Kent)
It's not an average town, because if it were absolutely average, that itself would be something to remark upon about it. No, Sittingbourne is a dead end cul-de-sac of a town. If someone were to create the most banal prison planet in existence, it would resemble Sittingbourne.

Which makes it all the more remarkable that, having moved to Melbourne, Australia, I now have the pleasure of spending thousands of dollars to visit the damn place to see my family.

As my father and I walked down the road to the Wetherspoons for a cheapskate father and son bonding session, we were discussing what in the town had changed, and my dad said "Well, Sittingbourne hasn't changed much at all really."

We then turned round the corner into the high street to find two large men scrapping in the road, and shaaatin a' eech uvver.

"No dad, the town hasn't changed at all..."
(theremin put the lotion in the basket on, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 13:31, Reply)

Ferryports
All ferryports in the UK and Ireland are shitholes with low IQ zombies as residents. Top of this steaming shitpile is the one and only Fishguard.

Many years ago before RyanAir and EasyJet existed I was delayed 12 hours there.

Went for a meal ordered and waiter asked to be paid up-front, then was given a meal that was rank.....the meal looked like a gone-off abortion in brocolli dish that was cooked in 1945. Complained, was told to fuck off.

Went to pub next-door, me and my brother dropped a pound coin on the pool table to get in the queue for a game. Our turn came, was told that one of us must play the last winner for £50.00 (this was 1987).

Anyhoo, brother, who is ex-merchant navy, decides to give these inbreds a lesson and clears the table before his challenger sinks any balls whatsoever.

Did he pay-up, no, so my brother got thick and basically we had the shit kicked out of us, were arrested by the coppers and stayed in cells until the ferry arrived.
( The Scrunt Wants a Dozen Pints, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 13:23, Reply)

Fucking Dundee.
This is typical behavour for Scumdonians.

www.thecourier.co.uk/output/2009/10/30/newsstory14028832t0.asp

Im so glad i got the fuck out of their years ago. Best sight of all is Dundeee in my rearview mirror as i sped away from the place after any fleeting visit.
(mabazaritchie ...Its not rape if she cums first..., Fri 30 Oct 2009, 13:18, 1 reply)

Olympic venue? Hmm.
A friend of mine recently suggested that if the beach volleyball event were to be held in Great Yarmouth in 2012, we should go watch. There are two problems with this. Firstly, I imagine the view would be restricted by the locals grasping for a sight of women with two arms and two legs. Secondly, assuming the ladies were playing barefoot, every single one of them would test positive for intravenous drugs after the event. Mostly AIDS.

Great Yarmouth fucking sucks
(Darth Foxtrot A one-man army dedicated to making fetch happen, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 13:17, Reply)

Caernarfon
Makes Rhyl look classy

nuff said
(iamjthearmeroar, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 13:13, 2 replies)

Maps of Rubbish Towns
Bluemeat asked for a map of all the towns mentioned so here it is.

I've only done the first 60 odd so far cos i'm lazy but i'll get to the rest a bit later.

Hover over the pins in the map and click more info for a link to a story about that town.

(I only included stories with one town in it and with replies cos I couldn't be fucked doin all of em and if i missed yours out then it's your own fault for not being funny enough)

www.bing.com/maps/?v=2&encType=1&cid=C466460095A9834F!537
(NuffMuff fucks shrubbery, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 13:05, 18 replies)

Buttfuck, Egypt
Never found it in an atlas, but it's the wife's stock phrase (sometimes abbreviated to BFE) when we find ourselves at the arse end of nowhere, as in "Jesus, it's like Buttfuck, Egypt here".
(Capo, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 12:52, 4 replies)

Jarrow
The streets of Jarrow are paved with slime.

OK, it was black ice, but slime is believable enough.
(and now for someone completely different, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 12:48, Reply)

Manaus
Actually, Manaus is not so much rubbish as fucking, fucking weird.

To get to Manaus, you have two options: fly or get a boat. It is slap bang in the middle of the Amazon Rainforest at the confluence of the two rivers that make up the Amazon itself.

Now you are probably thinking that somewhere which can only be reached by boat or plane has a small population. Nope, it has a population of 1,700,000. Or to put it another way, the same size as Birmingham.

It is hotter than Satan's nutsack in Manaus. And the humidity is like nothing you have ever experienced before. Every day, at around 3pm, there would be a monumental thunderstorm lasting around half an hour. Every. Fucking. Day. In fact, Manaus residents would make appointments "after the rain" as it was such a regular event.

Clothes would last you a matter of hours before you have to change due to the sweatiness and the dust. One shirt I had actually rotted and had to be thrown away.

Beer is served in ice sleeves because if they didn't, by the time you got halfway down it would be around blood heat.

The place is lousy with legions of mosquitos, butterflies and numerous other insects. All the grass in the municipal areas has been replaced with astroturf, as regular grass either rots or grows so quickly it has to be cut every other day.

In the middle of all this is the opera house. A magnificently spectacular, opulent and completely over the top monument to the rubber barons' wealth. And the rubber barons truly own the city. On the way to the hotel, the taxi driver told us we were lucky we were British, as there have been a number of high profile kidnappings/extortions of wealthy Brazilians who came to visit. The police were usually the ones who did the kidnappings.

On our final day, we watched a plane on final approach to the airport literally fall out of the sky and explode. People scarcely looked up.

Never have I been somewhere so bloody weird.
( Undercovercarrot got done for gross misconduct on..., Fri 30 Oct 2009, 12:47, 6 replies)

swansea fukin city.
welcome to swansea steroid abuse capital of europe.
Geographical and spiritual home of "spice-boys" - steroid abusers with mullets who spend even more time over their hair than an american news anchorwoman. Home to a stangely polarized mix of wonderful open-hearted people, complete cunts, and not much in between
swansea is the only place outside of arkansas and turkmenistan where having a mullet is considered cool.
(full of beans, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 12:38, 4 replies)

Folkstone, Kent
Home to the largest Asda George clothing section in the country...

nuff said.
(snarf81, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 12:29, 2 replies)

Scarborough
is the only place where I've felt like a rock star, just for not being from there.

I had this conversation with a lady running a whelk stall:

"Hello! These lobster tails - are they from lobsters caught locally?"
"No love. They're processed fish squashed into the shape of lobster tails, and dyed pink".
"oh"
"How many would you like?"
"none".
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 12:29, 3 replies)

Ode to Forest Fields
I wandered lonely as a cloud
O'er pavement, estate and field
When all at once I saw a crowd,
Running towards me with FUCKING GUNS NOPLEASE NONONONO EERRKKKK--
(Darth Foxtrot A one-man army dedicated to making fetch happen, Fri 30 Oct 2009, 12:22, Reply)