Brighouse is a focal point for West Yorkshire chavs who want to show off the latest mods to their wheels – although how most of the inbred morons prowling the streets can afford them without resorting to theft is one of life’s great mysteries. Most Sunday evenings, dozens of low end “cruisers” with widened exhausts and beefed up sound systems converge in a contest to see who is the pinnacle of bad taste. Then they make a beeline for any one of a number of pubs known to serve underage boozers before proceeding to rampage throughout the town centre.
Tread carefully on these streets – every few hundred yards you will find the shattered remains of glass from telephone boxes ; the frequency of vandalism has meant that the phone companies have simply given up on repairing them. On one fateful night, not only was every telephone box in Brighouse vandalised, but every pane of glass in the dingy bus station was smashed as well.
Even the “trendy” new housing estates aren’t safe, graffiti “tags” being sprawled all over pristine street signs. Add to this barrels of toxic waste being dunped in the canal and you’ll have an inkling what sort of respect the local chavscum have for their town.
Fortunately there is little of interest to even the most bored of chavs in Brighouse – they all mug little old ladies for bus fare to nearby Halifax.