Behold ye a place so gloomy and miserable that not even Heinrich Himmler would dare visit such a depressing edifice of human decay, for such a visit would have necessitated Heinrich’s convalescence in a concentration camp. There is an urban Corpse called Cleveleys, and this sh*tty shanty ‘town’ is very quickly becoming Lancashire’s equivalent to Jaywick in Essex, if not worse.
A place where the only life is near death and dear reader, visiting this ageing decrepit soulless abomination is indeed an unforgettable near-death experience, from which you will need to seek medical attention. A cracked, congested, concrete strip of an open-air mausoleum, populated with ammonia reeking unfortunates shuffling about aimlessly, mouths agape, clutching for dear life white plastic bags, replete with cheap nasty tat procured from the profusion of charity chops that sprout like smallpox on a leper’s sphincter.
A sceptic tank festering within this sceptred isle, superfluous with Zimmer frame Zeldas, Motability Scooter Sandras and mumbling, stumbling Michaels; all wandering about, without purpose nor direction. You could be forgiven for thinking you were visiting an urban community psychiatric ward with mogadon infused patients wandering about in the guise of local people shopping, but it’s not, its Cleveleys a strip of excremental detritus attached to the **** of Blackpool. It the sort of town that can suck the life out of you, such that you will be craving gargantuan amounts of Prozac to restore those depleted serotonin levels.
Moribund Muck Mound
Beware, there are 3 things you need to be aware when visiting this moribund muck mound, and naturally certain precautions will have to be taken to prevent harm to one’s physical health.
- There is the stench of BO, semi-fetid corpses that have not seen soap in many months, found ******* about in doorways of the local dive bars.
- The smell of human excrement, backsides that have not been wiped in months, approach cash machines with gloves on and finally…
- The corrosive rank of ammonia, piss-stinking pensioners in profusion, pottering and prancing about or charging aggressively on taxpayer funded Motability Scooters.
The greatest concentration of this unholy trinity of malodorous malevolence is without doubt to be found within Poundland; suitable attire like an NBC/HAZMAT suit is a most urgent and paramount expedient, when visiting this shop.
Get out while you can
If you are young, and a ‘local lad’ you can get some local bint pregnant, have a disabled child and enjoy your Saturday afternoons taking delight over the prospect of the bargains in the charity shops, pushing the wheelchair around the cracked pavements caked in dogshit before wandering home to the all obligatory DSS rented beds(h)it. In many ways, the place is an ideal location to film a new series of “The Prisoner” that meets Star-Trek, where Spock and Jim Kirk are time warped into some inescapable dimension where there’s life “but not as we know it.” How being born and bred in such a **** place crushes the ambition in you and how you become resigned to this terrible fate of an existence, day after day, encountering death such that you will age prematurely and welcome death itself with open arms.