Clacton. Where do I begin? It’s HELL. Burning HELLFIRE. If you’re thinking of coming here, or god help you, thinking of moving here, DON’T!
Over-run with ***** and townies, it’s a horrible place to be. A total ******** in the toilet of hell. I hate going in to town (Although why would I? It’s New Look, Boots and um.. MacDonalds – That’s it) because anytime, day or night, there are always some snotty-nosed drunk 13-year old berks out to make snide comments or pick a fight.
Then there is the varied wildlilfe. Pigeons and seagulls. Which is why half the town is buried under bird ****. They’re like the *****, totally unafraid.
Moving on to the delightful schools. I had the misfortune of being expelled frome a private school (But look where I come from, I moaned) and last September, I started at the Clacton County High School. It was so bad I had a panic attack after one lesson and haven’t been back since. Tres amusant!
The vast array of entertainment venues is also a selling point. A couple of ****** clubs where my sister frequents (She’s a **** – and I say that in the hope no-one knows who I am) which often turn into brawls after some drunk says “I likes yooor ladeee, matey” and gets a swift decking from some toothless Kevin&Perry look-a-like with a traffic cone on his head. Highly sophisticated. A whole road devoted to “amusements” where spotty boys hang out during school hours, trying to nick a *** off some poor, unsuspecting alkie. One crappy cinema, where the ***** actually pay (unless of course the sneak in the back door) to make people uncomfortable and irritated, by hosting loud phone conversations (not dissimilar to Vicky Pollard, Her Royal Chavness) and throw popcorn at 5 year old children. It’s not pleasant. if you can even get to your seat through all the sweets, chewing gum, coke and condoms on the floor *shudder*.
I was about to point out the only reasonably-safe place to get away from this hellhole, the train station, when I realised even that isn’t safe. Trying to escape to Colchester (A half-hour train journey away, and it’s not all that bad – at least they have a few decent shops) on a Saturday afternoon is like ascending Everest using toothpicks and a USB cable. If you can fight your way onto the platform through the hoards of screaming children, stressed parents and vandals writing “Kevin woz Ere” on the windows of the trains, and non-existant Station staff, then congratulations, you’ve done well. Now try sitting through half an hour of a train acting as a playground, MacDonald’s “restaraunt”, mass-phone box, dressing room (I kid you not) and feel sane at the end. If you can do that and still have your sanity, you’re smart. Very smart. Unless you’re a ****, in which case it’s second nature to make other people feel as much like **** as possible while acting like you own the place.
No wonder I suffer from agoraphobia.