Welcome to the in-breeding capital of the UK, Carlisle! As you enter the city you will find the auction mart. Generally smelling of s***e, this is the place where the farmers meet to moan about how badly off they are. Then they sell their livestock and go for a few drinks and an extended lunch at the Auctioneer… the farming watering hole of choice. After which, they then park their trailers up in Tesco opposite and wander around doing their shopping in overalls and wellies covered in excrement.. nice!
Moving down towards the town you come to Harraby and Botcherby. Two huge council estates and the main breeding ground for in-bred c***s. Known locally as Scarraby and Botch, these vast estates contain residents who live next door to their mums, who live next door to their grans and often next to their aunties. It is often difficult to know if they live next door to their fathers unless a DNA test is performed. These two tribes do not like each other and generally look down on each other. Harraby is special. It consists of `new’ Harraby… a fifties style sprawling metropolis of pebble dashed grey housing and ‘old’ Harraby… a pre-war estate of dull brick buildings, maze like crescents and the usual rows of local shops which double up as meeting places for the local drug dealers and prostitutes. Sensibly, the local police have located their new HQ and cells in between these two estates.
Moving down London Road you come to Botchergate. A street which now has gates at either end. To stop the drunken c***s from getting run over on a late night bender. Well done City Council.. don’t encourage them not to drink so much, put up gates to keep them safe whilst they fall into the road, flashing all that God gave them as they do so! The bars and night spots along here leave little to be desired. Whilst under-age school girls parade in mini dresses and platform shoes, the school boys ride up and down on bikes. Old men stand outside the doors of the bars smoking and attempting to chat up the school girls who all look well over 25.
In the daytime, this place is depressing. Walk along and enjoy the game of avoiding the piles of sick on the pavement whilst teenage mothers push prams, with toddlers running ahead and their mothers hold their fags over the baby in the pram. Usual attire can vary depending on the time of year. Fake Uggs are very popular in all seasons, grey tracksuit bottoms and pink hoodies with Lonsdale written on in winter and short jersey shorts with cropped tops showing off tattoos and piercings in summer.
The men usually wear a baseball hat over their shaved heads and sports attire, often football shirts regardless of age.
Children run along the street whilst the chain-smoking mothers wander two hundred metres behind. Often these pre-school children swear and tell each other to f**k off. Usually wearing pink with the word’princess’ in sparkly fake jewells on the front, the girls tend to have wonderful names spelt with real imagination such as Aimeeeee, Keri-Anne and a personal favourite TAOME (The Apple Of My Eye).
Feeling brave enough to enter a shop? Carlisle has the worst customer service ever. You will be ignored unless the shop assistant knows you. When you are paying they will chat either to the other person serving or else to the person behind you in the queue who they know. You will not get a thank you. Ever.
Finally, to make your c**v spotting day out, head to the bus stops behind the market. Here you will find c***s in their native environment on a Saturday afternoon. Men clutching cans of lager, smelling of Lynx, Argos gold laden teenage mothers with prams and fags, small children running wild and a fog of cigarette smoke.
What is lovely is that they are all happy. Happy to never venture out of their comfort zone. Happy to mix with as few ‘outsiders’ as possible. As one local wrote in the local newspaper ‘we are happy and what makes us happy is other people’s misfortune’. Welcome to Carlisle!