A once pretty market town, nestling over the river; a centre of social life for several valleys.
20 miles from the bustle of pretentious Cardiff to the east, whilst a similar distance to the west Bridgend was a less industrial alternative to Swansea. Twin-Towns “Pretty ****** City”.

Time moves on and the Valley Villages, traditionally home to miners, steel workers and farmers; now offer no industry other than steroid dealing, car ringing and benefit swindling.

Bridgend has expanded massively in the last 20 years, it’s now very much a dormitory town, a suburb of Cardiff just a 20 minute motorway ride away.

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Sadly the expanse of the town has seen the movement of the VC’s (Valley Commandos – local dialect for ****) into the towns “Housing association” areas.

Wildmill, Sarn, Bettws and the “Beirut” end of Brackla are the larger of the **** enclaves. Special attention must be given to Chelsea Avenue your first guaranteed home after Prison.

“Cash Converters” gives them a place to cash their Giros and **** their stolen booty. Iceland a place to do the weekly shopping for the babies with Victoria wines and the Spar near by to pick up a can of VAT the preferred cider.

No less than 12 phone shops give plenty of choice for ******’n’grab shop lifting; whilst a good selection of charity shops will ensure plenty of their child allowance is still left over for **** after kitting out the baby with clothes.

The development of retail parks has left the town centre bereft of any social standing. “The second smallest woolies in the UK” and a Dixon’s smaller than one you’d find at an airport being the only two national names on the high street.

Having once read an article in the sun and seen the adverts on Sky (before it was turned off for not paying the bill). Claiming for accidents has become a growth area of attempted income for the VC community.
This fits in nicely with their social theology – “nuffins” ever their fault and everyone else should pay for them.
You can’t walk down the streets without hitting at least 6 clipboard carrying no-win-no-fee agents. Genuine claims revolve around falling over something, never noting the large amount of alcohol consumed that day as the cause of their lack of observation or co-ordination. Whilst most are entirely fictitious, bred form urban myths of payouts for nothing – always a “friend of a friend”.

Kebab shops on every corner ensure a good greasy diet for the evening on the way back from Monroe’s, and the closed down Ritz bingo hall car park provides an open space for novas, corsa, saxos and Ka’s to be displayed to the 17 year old *********.

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A town that, over the years, has descended into a primitive mess of **** culture. A particular haunt is the ‘Argos-Peacocks-Wilkinson’ triangle, where teenage mothers with bad skin blow lambert and butler smoke merrily over their malnourished offspring and where “uberchav” grandmothers in their late thirties exchange tales of pub glassings at high volume while their elizabeth duke bling pointlessly rattles.

Bridgend never used to be this bad – it all went downhill when they opened lots of out of town superstores, meaning that the town became appealing only to those without regular access to cars. Now it festers like a sore on the **** of an already chavified South Wales, full of feckless unemployable wasters with a fondness for smack and child neglect.

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