After arriving in Chorley in 1980 my life became a depressed mountain of misery and boredom. The once thriving nightlife now reduced to a few stinking scabby pubs and some stupid so called micro bars that sell ridiculously overpriced cat piss.
If your unlucky enough to find one of the festering dives that have live music on, you will be treated to some ludicrous middle aged men pretending to be punk rockers playing 42 year cover versions of 1970s punk band songs, or worse some daft old blokes thinking that they are rock stars playing some skanky old heavy metal nonsense.
Whilst listening to the live music you can watch the dirty old female alcoholics dancing or swaying about like demented maniacs fawning over the idiotic old men in the band.
To round the night off you could go for a putrid kebab from one of the many rancid takeaways Chorley has to offer and then go down Astley Park for a piss, then sit on a bench and have a good cry as to why you are still in this mundane f*cktitude excuse for a town, where none of the locals can even speak correctly, and dress like they have just come out of prison and want to kick your head in for daring to try and get served at the bar before them.
The only hope for anyone living in Chorley or fkn “Charley” as the thick locals put it, is to die or win the lottery.