Birkdale, Merseyside, Property Guide
Written by Anonymous Visitor and posted in Merseyside, North West

Birkdale is the posh neighbour of Southport. At least it is in the mind of the select inbred Tarquins and Anabellas who live within its leafy streets, nobody around here has a job because they have grown rich many years ago on the profits of others work or just inherited a pile from their satanic mill owning ancestors. So Birkdale consists of Posh Chavs people who are not cleaver enough to make money but have it anyway. In the “village” as they call the row of shops by the station you will find every possible extra expensive shop to throw your money at, fancy cheese and butcher shops. You won’t find any chip pan fires around here, as they all eat at the tiny bistros and wine bars, which sell them last years food trends at next years prices, and if there is a purpose in life, its being seen to be seen with a wine glass in ones hand sitting outside these places surrounded by a fake plastic hedge, so one can see people and call over to them “Darling”! And “Youuu Hoo”

The Dark Side – There is a much darker side to Birkdale of course, and this is the many many old Munster style Victorian houses that have been partitioned into cramped 30 bed “Rest in peace Homes” where in exchange for coughing up the last of your inheritance you can continue to stay in Birkdale sucking up puréed food while muttering racist comments about the new-to-country care staff who are the only ones brave enough and desperate enough to tolerate working with the coffin dodging festering inhabitants.

Things to Do – So what is there to do in Birkdale – well nothing really, inhabitants spend there winter in disguise on the Costa Del sol in the cheapest package holiday they can find because its cheaper than turning the heating on in their Munster house, then when they come back they say they have all been in Niece and “Darling how could we ever of missed bumping into you”, “but oh it was so divine”. Back home In the summer the only options are sitting in the street café’s or showing of the huge park of a garden behind their Munster Houses “In aid of Cherrrity” some of these gardens are truly massive and ornate quite spectacular, and the owners are so proud doing their bit “its for the spastics you know”, but then the next day you see that they have almost daily visits from professional gardeners who do it all for them! and it costs them 200 times the money made at the charity day.

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Chariots of Fire – The rich aged coffin dodgers all have mercs, on private plates of course so you can’t tell its several years old, once they finally have their licence pulled out of their claw like grips after being caught driving at 10 miles an hour on the pavement, they swop to electric mobility scooters and take back to the road – because they believe they are entitled to as the used to pay road tax, once the police get them back on the pavement they then ram small children, dogs, or any other coffin dodgers who are too slow to get out of the way, on a Saturday night in the summer many wine bars could be mistaken for a shop mobility centre and of course ” its totally legal to drink as much as you want in one of these darlings”

  • Blackface

    The author is completely correct about Birkdale. However, he or she is a f**king mong when it comes to basic English.

  • mawdesleytractor

    Mawdesley is like a tiny piece of Birkdale, with all the amenities, transport links, and joy removed, that has been dumped on some flat, featureless, rotten-cabbage-stinking drained bog land in the arse end of Lancashire. A similar sort of person (i.e. a rich old person) that infests Birkdale also infest the tiny, snob retirement/aging commuter enclave of Mawdesley. That said Mawdesley, does perhaps attract a much more anti-social type of snob. You’d have to hate humanity and life in general to choose to live in a place so relentlessly miserable and lifeless as Mawdesley. Instead of wine bars, the preferred activity of the aging snobs is scowling from behind the windows of their Range Rover as they drive along the potholed lanes that cross the flat, desolate, drab grey landscape.