North EastYorkshire

On arrival in West Yorkshire’s Pound Shop Paradise you will be greeted by a swathe of rancid smelling, stripy topped translucent, skinned pond **** swarming the streets of Bradford like extras from Dawn of the Dead.

Bradford has often pretended to be something it can clearly never achieve, but this is something that can hardly be blamed on it’s deceptively pleasant appearance. However, what is left of the place from it’s wealthy Victorian past struggles to conceal what successive regeneration executives have yet to point out in their glossy brochures.

Bradford is awash with the kind of people documentary producers dream about. If you want entire families of sub human in bred career criminal scroats with the morals of a paedophilic serial killer in your fly on the wall production, then a stroll through inner city Bradford will bring all your chickens home to roost.

How grim is your Postcode?

Throw in a very well established mix of racial tension, neighbour hood feuds, gangstas, pimps, honour killings, car jackings, crack, heroin and random acts of extreme violence you have the kind of place that the rest of the world can only gape at through the bars at in shock and amazement.

Whilst other modern cities have expensive looking bars and restaurants packed with young professionals on their lunch breaks, Bradford has expensive looking bars and restaurants packed with gippos, ******, ***** and soaks cradling their 2 for the price of one pint of Stella and staring out at the people who dare not go in (the young professionals on their lunch breaks).

Central Bradford has some wonderful places to sit and while away some time in the art of **** spotting, but none more wonderful than outside the Young Offenders Unit below the Kirkgate Shopping Centre. If you’re not sure where it is just look out for the mountain of tab ends and discarded burger cartons – then you’ll spot the pus encrusted faces of the cheeky ***** scratching their gonads, swapping grunts and imagining their piss soaked shell suits are cutting edge fashion, whilst they wait to give their probation officer some (bum fluffed) lip.

********* in Bradford are even easier to find. Look out for the flashing sparkle of a hundred weight of cheap crass bling. Look for babies with their hair on fire. (Prams make excellent ash trays in **** land.) Just listen to see how many times the word “****” can be compressed into a monologue that involves no beginning or end and few breaths for air in between.

Stand outside Greggs and wonder aloud as to how babies with no teeth manage to eat pasties, how people that appear to have no regular source of income (other than a giro) can afford such outrageously expensive prams to cart their lizard faced offspring around in and wonder even more how these sorry excuses for human beings don’t even realise that half of the country is laughing at them.

Or as my mate put it – “Don’t they know they look like *****?”

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