If the north east is truly the arse of Britain, then Middlesbrough is its skid-stained gusset. Consisting of one suffocatingly narrow high street, the town center is a depressing state of affairs, but woe betide the traveller who ventures into the suburbs of this tarnished jewel. By day it may not seem so bad – there are a few shops which may catch your eye, and you could enjoy a baked potato in the high street before taking a look at “the bottle of notes” one of the more famous sculptures left within reach of the public in Britain today. As the sun begins to set you decide to catch the train back home. You set of walking back toward the hihg street. But now it is night. And at night…the demons come. As you near the top of that narrow high street it looks quite different. Witness now the dark, seething, pulsating shapes of vermin. Human vermin. The language has changed. English, your mother tongue is useless to you now, discard it in case it makes you stand out. As you try to creep, unnoticed to the train station, adopt a similar diction. Screaching high pitches that rise and fall. “Eeeer I never went to school innit”, “Scuze me mistaaaaa you got ten kwid for me mams head?” “Jordan, get back here or Ill knife you in the throat you little s**t”. As you decide to plunge into the thick of the high street (how bad could it be, its only a ten minute walk to the train station after all) you may first decide that the shop doorways will provide the most cover allowing you to slink past the crowds of filth. As you move into the first one, something from the shadows grasps your ankle.You look down and see a 15 year old mother of six gnawing on a dead dogs hind leg while her young drink from one of the towns many open sewers. She is clutching your leg, the furry paw hanging from her mouth. You rip yourself out of her hand but a shred of your trouser tears off in her claw. This is bad news as she may now be able to track you from the scent. You speed up a little and pass one of the many nightclubs. From the doorways eminates a sea of Ben Sherman wearing soveriegn ring toting, tattoo ridden beasts and as you see the palid white bellys hanging out of stretched to busting lycra tops, you wish you had invented that sterliser ray gun after all. To ame it to the train you will still need to navigate the burberry wearing s**t heaps that congregate under the over pass and the gypnack dole scum waiting to shiv you in the kidneys and steal your shoes.
A delightful place.
Middlesbro goes by many names – boro, middy, town, much as feaces goes by many names – turd, dung, s**t.
Finally, it could be argued that these youngsters are merely a product of our society, that we create them and so are responsible for their welfare. I say this – when I throw my garbage in the street, the rats that come and feast on it dont ask for a giro.