Sleaford, populated by neanderthal divs with no desire to better themselves or open their minds and horizons. Indeed, where else has a populace whose ambitions are gaining a tractor license and incest? Narrow-minded, mentally-deficient and blinkered, the average resident of Sleaford (Excepting those who have arrived from elsewhere and have actually seen something of the rest of the World) believe this festering pustule to be the centre of the universe. The highlight for them being the occasional trip to Grantham or, rarely, a visit to the cultural mecca and bright lights of Lincoln. Even the opening of a ‘Wine Bar’ – or slightly upmarket spit & sawdust pub had me weeping with mirth! To expect that a Sleafordian even KNOWS what wine is, let alone pour it down their chinless necks would puzzle genealogists for decades.
This ‘Sleepy’ (Read: Backwards) little market town has no desire to drag itself out of the middle-ages – Sleaford makes Saudi Arabia look cosmopolitan and interesting, a few beheadings on a Friday midday might actually liven things up a bit. You can almost feel the depressive atmosphere as you arrive, imitations of normal humanity roam the streets making any civilised people who enter this godforsaken cultural vacuum feel uneasy especially when encountering the locals. In summary, erasing it from the face of the earth would have no knock-on effect whatsoever and nobody would really take any notice of its demise. I never felt happier to leave and every time I have returned, nothing has changed, either in the town or the mentality of its residents.