Bingley, West Yorkshire

North EastYorkshire

A strange occurrence happens in the outwardly looking, boring but reasonable and middle class yorkshire town of Bingley, every weekend from 7pm on a Friday till 11pm on Sunday the ***** take over and consume the place like the plague.

It would seem shocking if you had only visited during the week, but this is nothing more then a cunning plan by the ***** to make us feel more secure. Whilst we live our respectable lives, working and spending our time wisely they migrate to the hell holes of nearby Bradford, Keighley and Shipley to claim their dole money, take there NVQ’s in arsing about and generally being an irritant on the face of the earth. God forbid you should fall for this because suddenly they congregate at 7pm on the friday to begin there predictable pub crawl across the town. Armed with another weeks benefit or student bursary they hit the local weatherspoons to participate in there weekly stella drinking contest, taking the time to complement each other on there latest burberry gear before they are too blind to see it.

For the **** connoisseur this is a particularly wondrous place, a whole range of ***** on offer, from the predictable group of late teen lads in there finest trainers, boots and trackie bottoms to the blinged up group of girls in there early 20’s necking down pints of cider and the new breed of style *******,a cross of **** and middle class, who actually takes the time to purchase hair product and a pair of jeans but cling on to there bright white trainers for life. But nothing still quite beats the site of the underage **** being thwarted in there attempts to gain access, the protests of their legal status are unheard as they and there addidas trackie bottoms are turned away in the direction of the of the local Spar to purchase whatever alcohol is on a special offer that week.

How grim is your Postcode?

However, suddenly in small groups they move on, the purpose of the cheap lager has been fulfilled and now they want entertainment, so off they move down the road to the local Q’s. Already aware of the lack of desirability of having a pub full of ***** they have now employed doormen and a no baseball cap rule, sadly these have been failures, as they are simply asked to remove hats at the bar, but are still not evicted, this at least provides you with a good glimpse of **** hat hair, a stunning sight which can only be described as a birds nest on a tracksuit. Once they have filled the jukebox with enough 90’s dance music to make even Snap feel remorseful they ever released a single they go off again, for one final pub call before they reach the Shrine of the Bingley ****, Porkys. The nightclub, once voted the 7th worst in Britain, is a mecca to the ****, rockports being a necessity for entry.

Here they congregate religiously till the early hours, attempting to speak to each other about the nights events but coming out with a mouth full of utter stupendously pointless drivel that only their kind can understand. Three things will hit you upon entry, first the amount of burberry caps, secondly the stench of urine wafting its way from the toilets as the drunk ***** carry on in there who can pee up the toilet wall contest and thirdly the urge to get away as quickly as possible, i would suggest you do.

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