Written by Anonymous Visitor and posted in Devon, South West, United Kingdom

The arse end of nowhere, where pensioners go to die and chavs go to procreate.

A night out in Newton is not to be missed if you are a fan of recreational slumming. Why not try out the Market House on a Friday night, join in the karaoke and bask in the poverty but watch out for the gold shower curtain ring earings swinging about to the noisebox, they could cause damage. Favourites include ‘I will Suvive’ (How apt in such a dodgy pub….they may survive a broken relationship after Daz walked on on lil chardonnay but its unlikely they’ll survive the slagfight afterwards). Then if you manage to keep your eyes down and avoid a glassing nip across the road to the ‘Jolly’ Farmer. Highlights include front row seats to bareknuckle fighting with the bouncers with Daz losing his I’m Staring at Your Tits t shirt in the fracard and a great view of ‘Potato woman’ who, since owning a jacket potato selling van has managed to grow to the size of it, making it look a little like a large white metal suit (picture metal mickey in ‘female’ form). Potato woman doles out potatoes to pissed up Abbotians after they have spent the majority of their Giro at ‘happy hour’ (god the irony). Sharing an IQ with a goldfish, potato woman also grows to the size of her environment like fish and their ponds, so sooner or later she might upgrade the converted transit. But don’t think the excitement ends after a night out. The Chicken Cafe is situated in the Indoor Market a great scouting ground for filthsters from buckland and Broadlands estates, festering blisters on the festering welt that is newton. The Chicken Cafe serves p***y pensioners tea and cheap chicken dishes that they shovel into their dribbling mouths whilst waiting for death to relieve them of their Newton nightmare. I have actually witnessed one of these pensioners drinking tea from a saucer….what is that all about?….form surely follows function? Not in Newton. If you fancy a trip to the outskirts of Newton, why not try Trago Mills. A knock down bargain basement selling everything from awful taiwanese ornaments that will adorn Shazza’s new council flat to add that final bit of class, to abysmal CD’s of past dance hits to reminisce the time Dave gave ‘chelle a seeing to behind the bins at Burger King. Scumsters from the north appear to love Trago’s as its known affectionately and they like nothing more than dragging their greasy offspring around then ruining the suspension on their vauxhalls with clutter to adorn their northern griefpits. If you like your chavs truly filthy try Rootin’ Tootin’ Boot Scootin’ Nootin….you won’t be dissapointed.