Bruton, rural Somerset, ahhh! Somerset is a county that contains a bizarre breed of **** that is part mongrel, part rat-boy. Evolving from a filthy gene pool of local redneck hillbillies and with a family tree with more connections than you care to imagine. i.e – “me and the missus got divorced but hey at least i still got me sister” or “me muvvers bruvvers cousin” type a thing.
Having worked at the local youth club i saw plenty of **** action close hand and Somerset is like any rural county that i would argue that the **** is a more Urban species compared to the rural hickeys.
For more South Eastern based rural ***** a trip to “tawwwwnnn” (town) is a mission and essential to chavdom status, whereas the rural hickey is more akin to keep it local and make sure invaders from neighbouring hoods such as Castle Cary don’t enter.
The rural **** has a bit more class and history shows that a good old knuckle is often had at the town monument or the local rec with rival mobs. The Urban **** is more sloppy and can’t fight opting for happy slapping as his choice of violence (when the victim has no option of Queensbury Rules).
Bruton is a lovely looking town set in hilly Somerset and with a dovecot on a hill, churches and quaint shops, however the local cesspool has created stock from saxon times with saxon values and hence confrontation is probable.
In Somerset that confrontation is often organised and under the guise of Sunday morning football where you can get kicked to **** by both father and son in one morning! All the players are related to each other ( a span of three surnames) and you just feel grateful that mother isn’t allowed to play against you or you would be in trouble!