Placed on the edge of a moor, Bodmin has the distinction of being the single most miserable place in all of Cornwall. This tiny town nestles in a valley and is home to a large mental institution and an old prison famous for the highest prison wall ever built. It also has some of the ugliest council housing seen anywhere in the world. Someone in town planning really hates Bodmin.
Despite a huge police station and a massive amount of policemen assigned to it, Bodmin has a huge crime rate. Speculation that this is because the local police refuse to arrest their own sons, brothers sons, aunties sons and grandsons is in fact unfounded. The truth is that the female ***** commit most of the crimes and, as it not politically correct to blame females for anything, they get away with it.
Bodmin ***** are a breed apart. Ferociously interbred and intellectually challenged to the point that you can get more sense out of a ball point pen, they nevertheless manage to create an extraordinary amount of local vandalism. Speech appears to be an attempt to mimic dogs growling. This means that during their constant mating rituals you can overhear them grunting things like, “You’m a pretty maid. Wanna shag?.” (you have to repeat this with a sore throat and in a Cornish accent to get the full romantic effect).
Mornings for Bodmin ***** do not exist. They begin to get out of bed around 2:00 in the afternoon and by 3:00pm they have made it to the local cafe where they lie down on the benches and go back to sleep. By 4.30pm they are awake again and ready to go steal a few magic marker pens and cans of spray paint. By 5.00pm they are covering the town in squiggles. By 8:00pm the ***** are wide awake and off on Cider stealing expeditions. 9:00pm finds the ***** in the local playing fields or “sittin’ up the beacon” (Huge local stone monument) getting very drunk. 11:30pm sees the rampage begin. Fighting, smashing windows and running up and down on the pavements screaming, to wake the local residents are their usual starters. This is often followed by mass synchronised vomiting. Then sitting on low walls and spitting keeps them occupied until about 1:45am. This is the time for the Crazy Frog ***** to appear. A sound, that resembles a noise made by keeping 200 angry wasps in a large biscuit tin, begins to grow and swell. This disturbing sound echoes, as it bounces around the side of valley, making it seem as if millions of ***** on scooters are descending in their hoards.
In fact, there are five of them.
Heads down to reduce drag, they resemble badly dressed hunchbacks as they wobble towards the town centre at 25 miles an hour. As they approach the ***** — whoes dads are not rich enough to buy them a scooter and who are still sitting on low walls surrounded by growing pools of saliva and vomit — the mobile ***** leave it to the last second to pull their brakes on hard and skid to a halt on bald tires. This ritualistic behaviour makes female Chavetts into nymphomaniacs and male foot-bound ***** insanely jealous. When the fight is over, the Chavettes mount the scooters and are whisked away, at hair ruffling speed and accompanied by broken exhaust noise, to the local bed siting rooms to be ritually screwed. (The local age of consent is 13).
Angered by their lack of cool in not owning a scooter, the pedestrian ***** attack phone boxes, windows, raid clothes lines looking for “gear” and rip up plants from front gardens. Dustbins and bottles are thrown into the middle of the road. Cats are chased and kicked half to death if caught and mirrors are torn from parked cars. Remaining Chavetts go on burglary sprees and all parties meet up in pre arranged bedrooms to divide any loot, play play-station games that went out of fashion in the rest of England in 1986 and drink more cider.
Each month with a z in it is a bath month for Bodmin *****. One advantage of this non existent bathing system is that the ***** do not have to shop lift hair gel. Their hair is already stiff and well stocked with various crawling things.
Bodmin ***** do make one concession to hygiene. The stench of Clearasil hangs like a cloud over their local haunts as they fight losing battles with zits that simple washing would quickly get rid of. An advantage for Bodmin locals is that fear of water keeps ***** indoors when it rains. Thus the air of gloom and depression that hangs over this moor-side town is accentuated by the fact that the only time the place is peaceful, is when the weather is foul and no one can go out anyway.
September is magic mushroom month for the ***** of Bodmin. A successful ‘shroom’ hunt is evidenced by the general weirdness of the graffiti that appears and the haunted looks in the eyes of ***** and Chavettes as they try to pretend they feel cool when they really feel like hell. This is a great time to get your own back on them and spreading paranoia filled rumours about a large influx of, “drug police in plain clothes” and, “new tech stuff that can detect mushrooms on your breath from 50 feet away” is a great sport. Such rumours can clear streets in seconds and shops have even been known to make profits during these “happy hours.” My personal favourite paranoid rumour, that I spread in 1996 with wonderful results, was to inform a bunch of shiftless and stoned 15 year old ***** that police helicopters had been spraying the “schroom” fields with secret chemicals that slowly poisoned you over months. The only symptoms of the chemicals were headaches and a dry mouth. Every time ***** got hangovers from Cider drinking they became convinced they were dying.