England, thy beauties are tame and domestic
I'm spoiled. I live in Edinburgh - arguably the one of the most beautiful cities on the planet. But freely I admit that Scotland, while home to gorgeous scenery and some lovely towns, does a special line in grim, grim, grim places: Lanarkshire anyone? Motherwell? Hamilton? Airdrie? Suicide-inducing shiteholes one and all. Also worthy of special mention are the settlements around the State Hospital for Scotland and Northern Ireland at Carstairs.

But each and every one is Florence, St Petersburg and Angkor Wat rolled into one compared to Preston.

I once spent two weeks in the Holiday Inn, Preston, and frankly I'd rather have spent the time dodging arse-rapes from the criminally insane in Carstairs. Hull's a monstrosity, Wigan's a toilet, Peterborough is the death of poetry but I imagine they have some redeeming features - even if it's just a lower incest rate than Preston.

There is nothing in Preston except rain, ugliness and unrelenting endless depression. I know, I looked.

Is it actually some kind of social experiment? A kind of anti-New Lanark? Did some mill-owner decide that he would create a living hell on top of a plague pit, build squalid dwellings from a wattle-and-daub of pus and misery and finally smother it in dual carriageways and industrial estates.

The nicest thing about Preston is the station. Why? Because it's the quickest way to get the fuck out.
( calgacus Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae, Thu 29 Oct 2009, 12:17, 2 replies)

I click
for I dig the Byron (or possibly Corries) reference.
( Raindance Work is inversely proportional to post-count, Thu 29 Oct 2009, 12:41, closed)

Why 'tis both!
Yay for Romantic poets and once folk duos now unos.
( calgacus Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae, Thu 29 Oct 2009, 14:10, closed)