Welcome to Consett! The inbred rusty-old-trampoline furnished capital of the North.
Once a thriving steel industrial town, now a graveyard for old trampolines, rusty bikes and old pissy mattresses.
Thursday is flea market day, where most locals bring their gammy legs out for a hobble down Middle St. with the chimps for a flakey pasty.
One gob on a stick with 3 kids to 9 Dads was heard to say ‘so i says, and she goes, and i like, so she went, and she said’ as she wrapped her face around a fag puffing away with no teeth because her latest carpet carrying jobless lazy skagheed fella knocked em out for drinking the last of the cheap cider.
Little Ronaldo doesn’t like pasties, it serves no purpose than to wipe away the tram lines from each nostril to save his tongue from licking the salty tracks.
Cats go missing daily causing national manhunts on facebook. Widespread panic because tiddles has popped 3 doors down to Beryl’s because she has better tuna.
Yes, come to Consett where houses are 2 a penny and the legal line of cousin has been brushed under the carpet far too often.