Great Yarmouth: probably the most inappropriately named place in the solar system! Christ on a bike – what a f**king dump.
In the 1950’s there were many God awful Butlins/Pontins holiday camp type destinations springing up around our wonderful coastlines. There, the grandparents, yes the ascendants of today’s anti-social delinquents competed in glamourous granny, knobbly knees and (no) talent competitions. In the competition between towns, Gt Yarmouth won hands down. Sadly it has kept it’s place at the top of the premier division of s**te seaside towns for the past five decades.
It’s claim to fame – it was the very first town ever to be bombed by the Germans in the first world war. Why couldn’t they have kept going for the next 90 years?
It is the most violent place I’ve ever lived (including the last 2 years in the middle east in Saudi Arabia and Iraq). In the winter when all the scrubbers from Wisbech and Bedford piss off home, there is nothing left to do except fight each other or f**k each other. Both of which the residents do with astounding competence. However, that is sadly, where the competence stops.
To get to GY you drive along the longest stretch of straight road in the backward county of sister-marrying Norfolk. The county once had the prestigious honour of having the highest number of illiterate people, incestuous families and illegitimate children in the land. It is also one of only 2 counties in England with no motorway, the other being Cornwall. It is not surprising there are no motorways in Norfolk, there is nowhere worth going too. The M11 once made an initial effort at getting to Norwich, but at the last minute swerved off left to Cambridge.
Originally the road into GY went straight through the town and into the sea (as it should). Once so many simpletons had driven into the sea, the wrecks eventually became reclaimed land and it started to be built upon. Slowly, the landfill site which is the s**t tip known as Yarmouth emerged. Emerged is the correct term, let me explain why. This part of the East Coast is the closest to the continent. At the end of the last war, many of the Nazi scientists escaped across the North Sea to the first piece of land they came across. Either GY or it’s firstborn, Lowestoft. Even though Lowestoft maybe it’s firstborn it is not exactly a favourite child, but more an illegitimate, backstairs, tradesman’s entrance type sort of intellectually impaired sprog. The Nazi’s brought with them, the results and recipes of all their interbreeding experiments. Unfortunately, not the pure Aryan race sort but the half human/half animal sort. It is easy to spot the 4th generation Yarmouth native. They are either 3’ 6” or 7’ 6” with a six inch flat forehead, no chin and an Adams Apple the size of a ballcock. They emerged from the sea looking like extras from the latest episode of Dr Who and the Sea Cretins.
As you arrive in GY by road or rail, your optical senses cannot fail to be subjected to the Vauxhall Holiday Park. It looks like a British Army mock-up training ground of a Bosnian village, where they trained the squaddies before they passed through the gates of Hell called Sarajevo. Take the wrong turn (right) and you come across the theme park called Cobholm. Disney has made this a fun park of the land that time forgot. Here you will see the epitome of engineering ingenuity as sheds and lean-to’s of every appalling description lay scattered at irregular intervals across this desolate landscape. No one will be employed in this theme park, for all the residents are the attractions where fur clad cavemen attack anything that moves whilst out walking their pet Sabre Toothed Tigers. Coachloads of kids on birthday party excursions point and laugh at the ‘actors’ unaware they are having a real taste of life before civilization.
Chief Chav hangout is the seafront, known as the Golden Mile. I can only assume the Golden alludes to the amount of gold sovereigns and chains on view. The glare of all this imitation garbage, reflected off the shiny shellsuits dims even the suns rays and probably an atomic blast. Nowhere will you see more tracksuits than an Olympic village with gold medals as big. The events for which these have been won will consist of the 100 metres with a knicked telly etc. If ever you have the mis-fortune to be in this hovel then ensure you have a pair of pilots Raybans or a welders mask to stop your retinas being burned out by the glare from this crap.
The inhabitants of this Godforsaken s**thole are numbskulls of epic proportions, an entire town of retarded autistics. They race up and down the seafront in the TWOC’d pieces of junk, looking like they’re trying to audition for Mad Max IV. The local funfair is called ‘The Pleasure Beach.’ Pray tell what is remotely pleasureable about wandering around that concentration camp. I’d rather wander around a mosque in central Baghdad draped in the Stars & Stripes, singing ‘Yankee Doodle comes to town.’
Having been stupid (or drunk) enough, I have allowed myself to be engaged in conversation (using the word in the loosest possible terms) by chavettes. Immediately upon opening their sewer like mouths, the first one displayed teeth like a row of condemned houses, and it was apparent that the sov’s on (all) her fingers were at far more regular intervals than her teeth. The second one’s molars resembled gravestones, two more washes of the jewellery would have seen it turning the same shade of green as the aforementioned teeth. This close encounter of the grotesque kind, made me immediately think of the female praying mantis who rips the male’s head off to initiate sex. “Hi honey, I’m home – what the aaarrggghh.” As Rudyard Kipling said ‘The female of the species is more deadly than the male.’ Certainly where the Yarmouth based chavette is concerned.
Come the first signs of summer sunshine, then busloads of chavs from the landlocked counties descend on the place like plagues of locusts on a crop destroying frenzy. The only difference being the locusts are not tracksuit and baseball clad tossers on an alcohol fuelled, bar destroying frenzy. Busloads of inmates on weekend release excursions from Belmarsh, mix with the local population who are akin to recently escaped long term inmates of Rampton. The pathetic results of these wretched encounters can now be seen proudly strutting down the seafront scaring the kids, the pensioners and the disabled.
The town council has tried everything from Rentokil to Ghostbusters to the Pied Piper to rid the place of this vermin. But 10/10 to the chavs, they resist with a stalwart degree of stubbornness, like cockroaches (who can live for 3 days without their head) they refuse to be cleansed.
Tucked behind the seafront are rows of tacky little guest houses called ‘Sea Breeze’ and ‘Nu Holme.’ Here sad families from Wellingborough, are pleased to boast that they’ve been staying in the same £10 a night B&B run by Dora Winterbottom, every year since the sea receded enough to expose the wreckage now laughingly called ‘the east coasts premier seaside holiday destination.’
Prime chav spotting opportunities are in The Tower. Situated in the centre of the strip it is prime for a remake of the The Towering Inferno if only someone could set the place alight. On the top floor is ‘Tiffanys’ a colossal meat market of stale perfume, watered down beer and thousands of w**kers who’ve “got a problem.” Across the road is The Marina Centre, which is actually the centre of bugger all. Outside the horses and carriages trot up and down mixing the smells of horses**t, donkey s**t, gyppo s**t and human s**t.
Interspersed with the human trash and at the same regular intervals are tacky sea front café’s selling stale (knob)cheese rolls, foul tea and beach toys to amuse that kids that were rejected by the orphans in Dr Barnardo’s. The Sealife Centre, is an oxymoron purely by name before you even part with your hard earned cash to venture beyond its graffiti defaced doors. The first challenge is to actually ‘see life.’ It’s that crap even the sharks and piranhas were knocking back the opportunity of free live food for life.
God forbid if intelligent life from another planet ever lands in Yarmouth first, they’ll climb straight back into their spaceship and carry on to the next distant galaxy
Yarmouth has no integrity, no dignity no soul and no hope. It’s only hope is for the government to pass a law allowing towns to commit euthanasia. Or alternatively for a tsunami of biblical proportions to race down the north sea, eradicating any trace of Yarmouth ever existing and reclaim it for the sea. Or maybe we should hope that soon, somewhere, we will bring forth a new world leader for us to hail. He who will develop ‘The Final Solution’ and test it out on the east coast chavs.
Yes Great Yarmouth is the ‘Vera Duckworth’s earrings’ of seaside towns, and a weekend trip here is truly ‘an excursion to hell.’