Creeping insidiously from the murky depths of the now silt-choked and chemically polluted Teifi River, Cardigan was once a thriving port, ferrying passengers to and from the New World. Now the place is filled with a strange, uneasy mix of Welsh Nationalists, middle-aged “artists” from Surrey and Sussex, chavs from various English cities who were clearly hounded out of their hometowns due to repeated ASBO’s or being on the Sex Offenders Register, and mental health patients. Nowhere else in Britain can you sit in a pub and see Middle-Eastern men wearing dresses kissing in one corner, while in another corner a huddle of tracksuit-wearing miscreants exchange drugs for cash, all oblivious to the fact that a drunk farmer wearing a vomit-stained Wales rugby jersey from 1985 is berating the barman for being a “Ffycin Sais”. The town stands as a testament to the post-modernist, globalist dream.
Local pastimes include arguing over how other people’s medically-prescribed Valium or Temazepam is shared out, moaning about the English, moaning about the EU, fishing in the Teifi (a fruitless exercise now that local agricultural landowners have chosen to continually dump waste chemicals into the water), signing on for disability allowance, moaning about the government, moaning about what Dai said to Bronwen about that slag next door, getting pissed in Gabs (the local brothel, er, nightclub), and smoking cannabis. Now I’ve smoked some weed in my life, and travelled around the country, but I’ve never seen a town population consume so much herb. EVAR.
Places of interest include:
- A castle (stolen by the town council and other interested parties from the previous owner due to her being old, frail, and, most importantly, English), recently restored to a frankly unsatisfactory standard with the help of a TV programme about renovating derelict buildings.
- Some sheep.
- Many closed-down shops. For some reason people seem to think that opening shops selling useless, expensive rubbish in one of the most economically-deprived areas of Britain is a great idea. They are repeatedly proved wrong.
- The Guildhall, where before the CCTV revolution, gangs of 15-year olds would drink, conduct drug deals, fight, threaten passers-by, and generally make a nuisance of themselves. Nowadays those same chavs are all at home, nursing their infant progeny, so brace yourselves for a new wave of puking, rat-faced teenagers plaguing the streets of Cardigan in about 12 years time.
- An absolutely stunning beach called Poppit Sands. One of the few redeeming features of this bleak, damp fog-hollow of a town.
In summary, only come here to live if:
- You haven’t got long, or
- You have chronically low self-esteem.