Abingdon or more accurately, “ScAbingdon”

Living in Abingdon, Oxfordshire

Abingdon, oh Abingdon. One of the oldest inhabited towns in England is now one of the newest blights on civilised society. A Brexit-voting hinterland of Greek barbers who will willingly set your ear hair on fire for a tenner, punctuated by coffee shops that sell warm ***** and a historic centre that is a minefield of dog ****, used Costa cups and discarded marijuana dog ends.

Living here is an end to end life full of sleepless nights from the brain-deprived f*cktards who drive in endless circles around the town centre in their heavily modified Vauxhall Corsas, popping their engines and making them backfire almost 24/7/365, only muted by the local Airfield where the Air Force will gleefully do short take off and landing exercises nightly in huge transport planes, giving not a merry **** about anyone living within a ten mile radius.

Conveniently situated 8 miles from Oxford, connected by a bus service that is akin to the Ferry across the styx, populated by every wretched example of breathing sputum you could care to name. Hideously expensive to live in, and with a notorious **** blackspot known as Saxton Road where Nick Griffin had his first sexual experience – and residents celebrate this annually by beating the living **** out of anyone who dares to try the rite of passage known as ‘walking from one end of Saccy Road to the other without getting your head stoved in’.

How grim is your Postcode?

Local pubs cater for the disgruntled populace with a mixture of warm pissy beer and extreme violence, and then there’s always the Bun Throwing – where ill-educated foul-smelling ***** will happily inflict brutal violence upon you if you try to catch a rock-hard sultana encrusted dough grenade ahead of them.

Utterly, totally and completely charmless in every respect.