Brierley Hill is epicentre of dole life, where shell suite clad obese women of the night parade their back and bum cleavage whilst swapping their milk tokens for weed and amber leaf tobacco. When not dressed in tracksuits, the local female populace favour bras 3 cups too small peeping out of fat oozing boob tubes and denim miniskirts.
Barneys playbarn is [allegedly] the local drop in centre for anyone active enough to leave their ps4 alone for 1/2 an hour.
Overcrowding and inbreeding is prevalent where threesomes with your cousin is the norm. The Wannabe Chav element (they are not even fully fledged chavs) flock to Brierley Hill like ants around jam, whence they proceed to revel in their own s**t while decorating their overgrown gardens with dirty nappies.
Jeremy Kyle could not afford to run a programme here, as the DNA test list of perspective fathers for the ADHD afflicted, ritalin dosed brood, is just too widespread often venturing as far as Pensnett.
The local diet consist of Iceland pasties, deep fried nuggets and on dole day McDonald’s happy meals, all washed down with Frosty Jack cider or panda pop for the kiddies.
90% of these people will live and die within a quarter of a mile of where they were born.
This towns local cash in hand jobs consists of paper rounds, drug running or standing on street corners (right next to the police station). The queue outside the venereal disease clinic to rid yourself of custard d**k, is only just shorter than the post office queue on pension day. A place where if you haven’t shagged your mate’s missus, it means there must be a viagra shortage.
Untaxed, uninsured shag vans carrying mattresses are the least of your worries here, as none of the drivers of them actually possess a driving licence.
On summary, any decent person possessing any moral substance should stay the f**k away or risk horrific flashbacks of this downtrodden community.