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For those of you who don’t know, allow me to tell you:

The University of Warwick is not in Warwick. It is just outside Canley.

The beautiful green bubble of the University is pressed up against the delapidated brick suburb of Canley, which is wedged between Tile Hill (former drug dealing centre of Cventry) and the A45. The beauty of this arrangement is that, from time to time, the chav residents wander in a drug induced stupor onto the main road to Birmingham, and not unlike so many little bunnies further up the road, become jam in a tracksuit. The problems arise because students have things that the locals want. A future, literacy and, let’s face it, consumer durables which can be sold in the back alleys of Cov to fund drug habits and pay for Clown Pendants from Elizabeth Duke. All the students at the uni know someone whose ground floor room has been raided by the simian get of a local slag. They also are bound to know someone who has been assaulted in the local Varsity (prior to all locals being banned from that venerable haven of cheap booze).

My favorite story about Canley comes from a friend of a friend who lucked out in the housing lottery and ende dup living on the Earlsdon fringe of Canley. Walking home one night, he and his friends were narrowly missed by a brick flung by a pikoid pack. Turning, to see where the brick had come from, they were cursed at by the locals. Who proceeded to let loose their mangy Alsation. Says Pete:

“So I did the only thing you can do in that situation. I ran away”

One of the Warwick boys did manage to get one punch in before scampeing away, outrunning the drugged up, Wife Beater drinking scallies.

This is a typical midweek event.







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