Hull

One of Britain’s greatest war heroes, Captain Edmund BlackAdder mentioned the 3 great university’s of England; Oxford, Cambridge and Hull. He was corrected by General Sir Anthony Cecil Hogmanay-Melchett that there were only 2 great universities, because Oxford was a complete dump.

On every main arterial into the city is a sign saying “Welcome to Hull, a fine city.” That is simply an echo of the everyday events in the Magistrates courts in Alfred Gelder St, second home to the ****’s. “I find you guilty, fined £20, next,” as he bangs the gavel down. The local rag, the Hull Daily Mail used to have a hall of shame where the names of the recently convicted were published. The Brazilian Govt refused to cut down any more rain forests to supply the paper needed to keep up with the ever increasing criminal population and their career of choice!

Firstly, we have the Hull accent. Having spent a great deal of my formative years elsewhere, when I moved back in 1988 I didn’t speak with a broad ‘ull accent and was treated by many as if this was a crime and on many occasions called a ’cockney ******,’ I’ve never lived in London in my life but to the majority of ****’s who’s knowledge of geography consists of forages to the next council concentration camp going ‘on the rob,’ this can only be expected. Most think that anything south of the Humber is Watford and north of Beverley is Scotland. Now back to the accent, to start with there are no ‘H’s in ‘ull except at the rugby grounds. So it is “the ‘ammers on the ‘at stand in the ‘all.” Anything with an i in it like nine, five and lime is pronounced if it were ‘ar’. So they become narne, farve and larm. Road is rerd and ‘oh no’ becomes err nerr. So if you don’t smoke, don’t drink coke and live on Holderness Road, you would say “I dert smerk, I dert drink kerk and ar live on ‘earlderness rerd.” There are some beautiful women in ull, then they open their mouths.

However, please remember for every ******* – there are still decent, honest, law-abiding, hard working people from there that I am still privileged to count as my friends (until they read this, that is)! Most of these people have moved to the outlying villages (or Australia). Prior to me emigrating to Brisbane (clean & tidy, modern, friendly, cosmopolitan and **** free) I was good mates with 3 infamous brothers from Bransholme, we were all in the Royal Navy together. I have seen in The Nightjar (their local), the big curly coat stand used as a javelin, lance, club and other medieval type weapon, usually with the same results as said weapon. One of these brothers after leaving the RN the first time, became a ****** addict. Possessing the strength, courage, fortitude and resolve usually conspicuous by their absence on Branshole, he went ‘cold turkey’ and sorted himself out and re-joined the RN. He is now a Lieutenant-Commander and instructs trainee officers in electrical marine engineering. They’ll probably name a school after him.

I was once brave, foolish or suicidal enough to go with them to the one nightclub in Branshole ‘Senna’ called Telstar. The clientele were solely the great unwashed and stale beer breathed un-shaven (that was just the *********). As a ‘foreigner’ to the estate I could not even look at anyone without warnings of “gerring yer ****** ‘ead kicked in.”

As for the sister estate attached to the top end of it, where do I start? As Sir David Attenborough would say when describing the home of an exclusive species of animal “here we find the home of the dregs of humanity which exist on its staple diet of poverty and squalor, both of which you find in abundance in this **** fertile breeding ground.”

I think both Branshole and North Branshole were conceived in the same womb at the same time. Yes they were twins at the biggest mistake in conception since Adolf Hitler’s dad had a few pints of wife beater and felt the need to empty his nuts. But the embryo called NB died shortly into the gestation period and didn’t miscarry but remained in the same womb decaying until it was aborted and brought into the world rotten, fetid and stinking. It has been left on the floor of the back street abortionist’s shop, to decompose and spread filth, germs and disease from all the ****** that feed off it growing stronger by the day. Like a cancer it has spread slowly taking over the whole body, killing off all the good cells, until it strangles the life out of the small minority of decent people forced to live there. Sadly though NB has not been cremated or buried as in normal deaths, but has remained on the surface to rot. The maggots of decomposition can be witnessed squirming out of the orifices and eye sockets of the corpse of NB spreading their infections of every anti-social condition known to man (and probably some yet to be discovered).

Anyone who has now been on North Bransholme for more than 2 years of their adult life and chosen not to move away must now be considered a fully fledged **** and nothing more than a one-celled piece of pond life, with the backbone of a jellyfish (or other aquatic invertebrate) and no ambition, no future, no hope and probably very little of practical good or use, to offer to modern and civilised contemporary society. (Unlikely they’d understand much of the last sentence). They possess the manners and intelligence of the ‘Royle Family,’ and the temperance of the ‘Biffa Bacon’ family from VIZ. Their social skills appear to be at a level with Neanderthals from about 10,000 BC. The women are comfortable with being clubbed as a sign of their males endearing love and devotion to securing a warm, clean(?) and cozy cave for them all to dwell in. They communicate in monosyllable grunts with actions as confirmations, the actions usually being immediate and ruthless when dished out to ********* and bairns. ‘Owr lass’ appears content with seeing her ******* heathen either take after their sperm donor and learn how to throw primitive weapons at anything moving outside the immediate confines of their council cave (sometimes inside depending on how many pints of ‘wife batterers bitter’ he’s had) or like her, simply create more savage mutants, thus ensuring there is no chance of ever erasing these oxygen thieves from the face of the earth. To clearly define which gender the devil spawn of her over-active loins belong too, the ********* will be given hooped ear-rings the size of a tractors inner-tube, and the ***** a baseball cap with the peak bent into an upside down ‘u’ shape like a piss trough.

When the days hunting is complete and the **** hunters return victorious with a Nova they’ve twocked which is laden to the gunwhales with DVD’s, ****, booze and cheap tracksuits. They will divide the spoils amongst the clan, before gathering around the fire (fuelled by furniture they’ve knocked off and is too good quality to fence) and proceed to get ‘ripped to the ****’ on the nicked booze and some Charlie they took as part payment for knee-capping the posh kids from Sutton Park. The meal the fearless hunters have caught will be cooked over the fire, the smell of barbequeing cat mixing with the soulful and melancholy sobs of the 80 year old widow next door as she calls forlornly for her missing Tabby. Owr lass, owr kid and the bairns all shovel food into their mouths at a rate that looks as is they’re trying to get washed with it. An unlikely scenario, given that is a concept totally foreign to the council cave dwellers of NB. The Tabby’s skin is added to the collection almost big enough to make the She-Bear ******** a fur coat to wear when she takes the barbarian bairns to Mucky Dee’s in Prospect St. Charles Darwin states in his theory of evolution, that the missing link was when a pig ****** a goat and the first resident of North Bransholme was born. Their employment (poor choice of word) of the English language is rudimentary at best. They do not appear to be able to string one coherent sentence together without using the word “like” and the phrases “know what I mean,” obviously interspersed at regular intervals with the ‘F’ & ‘C’ word. They think ‘eloquent’ is a big grey animal with big ears that lives in Africa. Ask them what they knew about ‘articulate,’ they’d tell you that it was their brother that knicked the lorry off the docks, laden with Lambert & Butler.

One of the **** Centrals in ‘ull is Princes Quay shopping centre (PrinnyKey). Located within, dwell gaunt youths, so hollow eyed and sunken cheeked it looks like someone’s shoved a hoover up their **** and is sucking everything downwards. They hang about the top floor seeing who can gob on the punters below and offering and threatening violence, then running away like frightened rabbits at the first sign of it actually materializing. Their whole purpose in life is to try to drag others into their ever increasing downward spiral, until the whole city is immersed in a vortex of violence and a quagmire of thievery, drugs and despair. A true **** paradise, a haven of heaven.

I used to play rugby for The Crown on ‘earlderness rerd. One day we had the unparalleled stroke of mis-fortune to have to play the marauding heathen masses from North Bransholme. The rugby team from NB were at a distinct advantage because everyone one of them looked identical, you couldn’t tell them apart. It was raining but the webs between their fingers made it easier for them to catch and hold the ball, especially with 6 or 7 fingers per hand. Some still had the visible scars from where the second head had been removed or where they’d had surgery to separate them at birth after they were born joined as congenital twins/triplets/quads. One of them hadn’t had the surgery and had one body and 2 sets of legs. He looked like a crab or a one man scrum. Like many sets of Siamese twins that share organs and body parts, they had followed suit. One family shared the brain cell, they shared sisters, maybe even dicks. I’m told that a boy on North Branshole can tell when his sisters ‘on blob’ cos his dads **** tastes funny! It’s reminiscent of the Midwitch Cuckoos from ‘The Village of the Damned.’ I digress. At the rugby match in question, whilst everyone was on the pitch or touchlines, some of the mongoloids followers kicked the changing room doors in, knicked all our clothes, shoes, towels, sportsbags etc. They even took our ****** socks and underpants. We had to get into our cars (those that hadn’t been knicked cos the keys to some of them were in our trousers/bags) covered in **** and freezing and soaking wet and drive home for a shower. Those of us that still had our house keys and could get into our houses of course. **** behaviour in the late 80’s before the bleedin’ phrase was ever invented. One of our lads sat in his house all that night (Saturday) in quiet and darkness waiting for the inevitable, which was of course the perpetrator to let himself in with the keys to turn the house over. One golf clubbing later saw the simpleton begging for mercy and threatening to call the cops. How stupid can you get to break into someone’s house a few hours after knicking their keys?? They’re bound to be expecting it. **** intelligence – about 6 places to the right of the decimal point. The only decimal point they’d understand is when weighing out the smack.

We played a pub on Orchard Park in a pool and darts tournament. We were offered to hang our coats up, but chose to sit on them instead. After soundly thrashing the opposition, one of their team smashed a pool cue in half and informed us ‘you might have won in here, but you won’t be winnin’ in the ****** car park.’ **** sportsmanship??

A mate who is a gas fitter for the council was working in a hovel in NB when the young **** that lived there let her dog **** in the house. She wiped the **** up with the dish cloth, threw it back in the sink onto the washing up and then offered him a brew. He declined so she went back to watching the ***** she’d put on in the hope that this young, clean, attractive, married, well to do, decent, hard-working, tax paying, law abiding man would shag her. Her the spotty, lice riddled, stinkin’ specimen of humanity that scientists should have put in a glass case and studied for a few years then wrote a thesis on. ******** expectations and perception of reality??

I lived on Summergangs Road, my house was called The Pleasuredome and backed onto East Park. It was the site of many and frequent acts of heavy drinking and even heavier debauched parties. I did not however, as alleged by one of my neighbours to Tower Grange nick, sell drugs from the house, or even have anything to do with the ****. I also had a full time job on the oil rigs, and if ever I was in a scrap it was never mob-handed. When it snowed I actually went down the street with a shovel clearing the snow from the pensioner’s pathways – true!

There was a bunch of teenage retards who used to hang around in the park called the ‘Insane East Park Agro’ (creative name fellas, must have taken months of waiting til each of you had your turn with the family brain cell to come up with that one). One night these tough guys broke into the wildlife pen and caught all the rabbits and guinea pigs etc, and slaughtered them and **** their remains from the tree and bush branches, then strung their entrails between the bushes. Can’t help wondering if they’d have tried **** like that if the pens had housed tigers, lions and bears!!

The same ‘hard ********’ once attacked all the pensioners (yes 70 year olds when they were playing bowls). This was around 1994 about the same time as the 50th anniversary of the D-Day landings in Normandy, the majority of the old boys present had been there. These old codgers weren’t scared then and weren’t scared now. One took his dog lead off his dog and belted this teenage ****** in the face with it, another old fella set about one of them with his walking stick. The Insane East Park Agro were last seen running away from the pensioners threatening retribution, the burning down of the bowls club and the petrol bombing of the next tea dance!! **** toughness – up there with primary school kids. One of them was caught and asked why they did this. His response “dint you ‘ave no fun when you was kids?” Well yes we did, but our fun did not consist of slaughtering defenceless animals the same size as my hand that brought a lot of pleasure and enjoyment to others, or picking on the elderly and infirm who had made immense sacrifices in their life and you should have more respect for. “**** ‘em” was the best he could manage. Personally I would have knee-capped and then ‘tarred and feathered’ the little *******. Vigilanteism is OK with me.

I caught a bunch of ten year olds taunting my Alsatian puppy, I told them to piss off, they threatened to come back and **** it by sticking a red hot poker up its ****. I pointed out to Einstein that there was nowhere and no way to heat a poker in the open air, so he simply said, ‘we’ll set fire to the kennel and the house for a fire’ I smacked him around the ear and told him to come back with his dad/brother etc. I’d just bought a load of sports gear back from Australia and NZ and had it ******* on the washing line (stupid move I know). The following day, I came back from taking the dog for a walk and it had been shredded with knives. Chavism.

A ******* family lived a couple of doors down and their Staffy Terrier was attacking my rabbit hutch trying to **** the rabbits so I kicked it off. The owner who looked like a failed experiment from Hogwartz School of Witchcraft and Wizardry threatened to embed a garden spade in my head, if I dare to try and stop her pet from killing my pets again. Chavism.

A woman down the road from me was getting the ferry to Rotterdam and got a taxi to the docks. At the ferry terminal she realized she’d forgotten something so dashed home to find the cabbie turning her house over. She’d been gone less than 5 minutes! **** opportunism 10/10.

I worked on the doors of some pubs in the city (cos I was skint with a wife and baby to feed, not cos I’m a mindless moronic thug with no teeth, my face covered in scars and knuckles covered in tattoos). Some of the bouncers were OK, but unfortunately there was an element who saw it as an excuse for ‘legalized’ violence and would provoke the punters into starting trouble, then commit acts of pre-mediated and unprecedented savagery. It was sickening seeing a bloke who’d come out for a drink with his wife get the **** kicked out of him for objecting to a bouncer feeling her up. When I refused to participate in the acts of unbridled thuggery, I’d be called a ‘shandy drinking ******’ and would be ostracized for refusing to give false statements to the cops or perjure myself in court. I quit when I couldn’t live with myself anymore. It was just as well, I’d narrowly escaped being glassed about three times (each time by a female), rendered first aid to a man who’d had the heel of a steel tipped stiletto embedded in his cheek (in the Bass House) and I had on numerous occasions been an unwilling participant in an adaption of the children’s birthday party game ‘pin the tail on the donkey.’ The new version was called ‘land a kick/punch on the bouncer when he’s on the deck and heavily outnumbered, even though we’re just walking past and it’s nothing to do with us.’