Sometimes you need an outsider to point out the bloody obvious...
“If you think about it there’s absolutely no fucking way that would work in real life,” I said as we stepped off the train at my beloved home city. My mate Paul and I were visiting mutual friends – it was Paul’s first time here. Paul was a Midlands virgin. “I mean. He gets eaten whole, fucking WHOLE – and then you’re supposed to believe all those stomach acids, fart gasses - fuck knows what – aren’t gonna eat through his suit. And he’d probably suffocate first anyway.”

We walk along the platform, dodging the freshly laid piles of early Friday night vomit and the aggressive pygmy woman with the mop who’s muttering under her breath: “Cunts, cunts, cunts...” as we stoll past. We make it inside the train station proper – a glorious greenhouse of a building with shiny floors and a dead heroin addict being wheeled out the bogs by a couple of paramedics.

“So he goes flying off, gets well and truly light sabred to fuck, and falls inside the big snarly thing with the teeth,” I say. Paul’s looking at the corpse as its wheeled past. A lovely colourful red blanket covering up the human car crash of a life now extinguished underneath.

“What the fuck is that?!?” Paul asks.

“Its a dead person,” I explain. We continue walking, “Just a little way into the centre. Whatever the fuck you do don’t look like you’ve got any cash on you. Pickpockets every fucking where round here. When we get to the centre we’ll find a pub and have a little drinkie. Shouldn’t be too violent round this time. I’d say we’ve got a couple of hours before the evil dead in boob tubes come out for the night,” we go outside and start the trek towards the city centre. “Now – where was I? Ahhh, yes. Boba-fucking-Fett! He gets eaten alive, right? And then apparently in this comic book I read he gets spat out and miraculously comes back to life! Fucking balls! Ohh, mind out here,” I guide Paul away from the kids stood over the flypass gobbing down onto passers by. “Don’t wanna get christened in spit, now, ehh???”

Paul stops. “Jesus, Spanky – has anyone ever told you this place is a fucking shithole?”

I contemplate this for a while. Seems pretty fucking obvious to anyone with the full use of at least one of their senses: “Yeah, ‘course they have... But it’s MY shithole. Now how about going and getting that drink? They might not even be using plastic pint glasses yet.”

And I remind myself: Coventry – its shit, but at least its not Leicester....
( SpankyHanky, Mon 2 Nov 2009, 16:57, 5 replies)

sounds delightful
must visit sometime!
(Black Coffee Addict, Mon 2 Nov 2009, 17:16, closed)

I knew you were describing Cov
Which speaks volumes, really.

(and at least it's not Beduff...)
( Nikfuf Eetr Northern Midlander, Mon 2 Nov 2009, 17:24, closed)

"at least it's not Beduff..."
Hear, hear and thrice hear.
What a bloody depressing dump. The only reason Bedrock will not win this is because no one from there can use a computer.
Having said that, I love Beduff, it makes Funeaton look brilliant
(Jackson Cannery, Tue 3 Nov 2009, 14:46, closed)

I went there once.
Reminds me of Bradford...
I'm dissapointed I missed the sweary pigmy woman though, sounds like a laugh.
(Me, I'm not... in any way intoxicated, Mon 2 Nov 2009, 17:39, closed)

Theres always
'Shirt off angry Rastafarian constantly eating bananas' or even better, the interesting collective of newspaper sellers that sit at strategic points around the city centre....
(Oil Slick, Tue 3 Nov 2009, 22:37, closed)