Bangor. A university city where the bookshop shut a decade ago. A city where the magistrate’s court was pulled down to make room for a police station which is open 9-5 Monday to Friday. Because at least in Bangor, crime does indeed sleep.
I once asked a representative from Soest in Germany why Bangor was twinned with their town. He was confused, and could not answer. Soest is a medieval city of world-class quality. Bangor is a place where the only real club is called The Octagon (oh yes it is, I will never formally recognise the name “Peep”) and where I once witnessed three 15 year-old girls sneaking in through the fire doors, only to offer oral relief to the enraged bouncer upon being ejected and being thrown out bodily.
Bangor, in short, is a dump. If you’ve ever thought of visiting the city for the pier (windy, wet, cold) or the cathedral (tiny and interesting, but opposed Yates’s and always smelling a bit of pee), or maybe even the new gay pub (the last one was burnt down), let me advise against it. If the natives don’t eat you, attempt to mate with you, or make vague, threatening sounding little noises at you, the sheer boredom of being there will finish you off. By all means, enjoy the longest, emptiest, most charity shop-laden high street in the UK. But for the love of everything holy don’t go up Mount Street on a dark night. You’ll be puked on, have at least two syringes lobbed at you, and witness bare buttocks of a terrifying aspect you never thought imaginable.
Please, do yourself a favour, go to Conwy instead.