I cannot offer you a reliable explanation of the phrase ‘sent to Coventry’. But what I can offer is a reliable explanation of the desolate hell-hole of a city centre that awaits any poor unfortunate who may be sent there.
The first thing you’ll notice on exiting the train station is that…there aren’t that many c***s about. Think about it though, this is logical. The station is there for decent people to escape the city. C***s, by their nature, would never dream of leaving anyway as this would mean a) leaving behind their big group of uniformed t****r mates and doing things on their own and b) amassing enough intelligence to be able to buy a ticket, work out what a train is and what time and platform it leaves from. Not a chance.
Instead, for your first experience of c**v, take the steps from Platform 1 and head towards The Rocket. If it’s the day of an England match, forget it, the streets will be milling with fat, heavily tattooed (probably whatever super c**v Beckham’s just had inked) jokers, clad in Burberry Caps and severely over stretched ‘In-Ger-Land’ shirts, either shouting abuse at the screen, (‘ya facking cheating fop ref bastad’), their kids (‘Oi Brooklyn get fackin’ back ‘ere ya c**t’) or passers by (‘Wha’ ya lookin’ at c**t’). If it’s not a match day you’ll probably endure the delights of a popular dance track disco/karaoke, where leather faced never-beens pushing the wrong side of forty compete with each other for one last ride on a scabby c**v’s milk muscle. Indeed C***s need never leave this area as across the road you have the delights of the Central 6 shopping precinct; contents include JJB’s, Sports Soccer, First Sport (wardrobe covered), Burger King (meals out) and Mothercare for the chavettes (although these people are only mothers in a biological sense).
Had enough. You’re not even in the centre yet. Follow the subway towards the centre (remarkably safe, given the seclusion and lack of lighting) and the first watering hole you’ll experience is the Litten Tree. Its combination of cheap food and drink deals attract the dregs from all around –like Wetherspoons with music. Except the music just happens to be an ear-crushing mix of dance and ‘Urban’, rendering any attempt at conversation dead in the water. An appropriate phrase given the aqua like quality of its beverages. In front of you is the Glasshouse, it’s new and it’s loud. I’ve never been in though so I can’t pass comment yet.
The discerning c**v now has a choice (errr wat that?). They can turn left and go to the market (and Burger King), where store after store compete with each other to sell fake threads and jewellery. Or they can go straight on along Hertford Street, a treasure trove. This street alone has four charity shops, a Poundland, a 99p shop (for when the giro’s running out), a JJB’s, a Gregg’s, a JD Sports and an arcade, a perfect hideaway for school aged c***s bunking from school. Follow through to Broadgate and then you’ll be in C**v hell. Just stand by a bus stop near the Leofric Hotel for a while, perhaps take in the scenery of the First Sport shop in C**v-thedral Lanes. It won’t be long before you spot groups of filthy chavsters, either pissed up and shouting bollocks, pissed up and hassling young women on their own, shouting at head-splitting volume into their ‘mobys’ (Actual quote I heard to a young c******e: “You’ve got a bloody big mouth for such a little girl”. The witty comeback: “Fack you, ya pede-file” or hassling the ‘goths’ and ‘punks’ that hang out around Lady Godiva. You’ll probably be treated to the wonder of a ‘bad-a*s’ prick burning round Broadgate in his souped up Matchbox car, pulling ‘doughnuts’ around the corners whilst pounding out incomprehensible mumble mumble West Coast (c)rap at volume 11. If you’re really unfortunate the c**t might come back round the other way – pedestrianisation has a lot to answer for.
Bored of that. Head on down to the Flying (no) Standards, the token Wetherspoon’s pub. In the day you’ll probably be lucky and only have to share your time with aged Irish drunkards, regaling you with random stories. The weekend however plays host to drunken fuckwit c***s, supping cheap Stella and Breezers, cackling along in their immensely annoying hybrid of Midlands and gangsta, boasting about how easy it was to get into “tha bitch’s knickers” or how “no CSA bitch got me yet bro’ or how “little Romeo’s turning out jus’ like ‘is ol’ man” or how “I only got 40 ‘ours innit” (community service that is). Perhaps some hilarious holiday anecdotes: (“Went to Machorca innit, was fackin’ great, ‘cept there were fackin’ spick’s there, one of ‘em said summit to me in fackin’ froggy or summit so I said – fack off greasy Manuel ‘fore I fackin’ smack ya.”
Feeling peckish by now. I’d be surprised if the stench of hairspray and alcopop hasn’t made your stomach churn. Well, if you are, you’ll avoid the new Nando’s next door (too classy innit) and head straight to McDonalds in West Orchards, the only place with more c***s per sqaure inch than the dole queue on giro day.
The tragic thing is this is only scratching the surface; I haven’t covered the High Street, the Sky Dome or the Burgess yet. All are collapsing under the weight of Burberry and fake gold. Arrrghhh