I was relieved to see that this southern gem (affectionately referred to as “the armpit of the south”) was not overlooked by your site, but am perplexed as to why the person writing the article would neglect to mention the accolades Crawley has gained.
While most ***** consider a fight to be anything ranging from randomly combining words like ****** and Licker with various body parts, best so far has to be a **** calling a fellow **** a ‘****-******’ (heavens NO!!!), to a full on Pose&Push style brawl, Crawley ***** have managed to elevate this to a new level.
Your average Crawley **** is able to brag that Crawley recently reached number 6 in the nations Stabbings table (impressive for somewhere that still hasn’t achieved City status). For those of you who read the tabloids you may be thinking the name Crawley sounds familiar? That’ll be due to us recently achieving the feat of having the youngest mother on record in Britain living amongst us, and while just turned 14 is a respectable age for *********, this one had a miscarriage a year ago!
How grim is your Postcode?
By this point you may have started believing that ***** just go around stabbing and banging their bints in the well shadowed alleyways, but NO. There is another favoured pastime of your average **** which CANNOT be overshadowed. I am of course referring to the Pint&Fight phenomenon that rules there lives. Of course pints are expensive and become troublesome to carry off to the local park bench or the **** Mecca (the local Bus Station); hence Tescos has made a resolution to always have a special offer on 3littre bottles of white lightning!
Imbued with the newly found strength and power found at the bottom of a 3litre bottle of white lightning the **** and his *shudder* Crew can now take it to the next level and actually throw a punch. So to prove there Metal to the 13 year old ******** following closely behind the ***** will choose the most docile looking bloke (possibly even 2 if there feeling brave) and the fun begins. They will always have to justify why they have randomly started to hit you to the young ******** and will usually do this by bumping into you and saying “Whadja call mi?” This must immediately be followed by a drunken punch at which point up to 4-8 fellow ***** will commence “Givin’ the lil’ *** a right-good kickin’!”
All though this is a common event in Crawley on a Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday & Sunday night, there is often a welcome respite on Monday nights as all the local pubs announces offers on upscale **** drinks like WKD Blue (NEVER ORANGE!!!), Smirnoff Ice, Archers and Bacardi Breezers. This has the desired effect of getting the ***** so slaughtered after there third or fourth bottle that they are force to stagger home haranguing and shouting and is by most people considered a council-run scheme to give the residents at least one night’s relative peace.
If you do by some unfortunate twist of fates find yourself in Crawley tried to avoid the Town Centre and any and all Street corners and alleyways. It is also prudent to avoid Broadfield and Bewbush or for the more adventurous among you, try to spot the single white minor without a sprog (if you don’t find one don’t be discouraged none of the locals have either). In fact your probably better of just running for Gatwick, which is always invested by hordes of ***** and *********, but is obliged by the government to offer cheap flights as a means for lost wanderers to flee the Town post-Haste.
As a final side bar I would like to tell you about a personal experience I had in Crawley. While committing the heinous crime of walking down the street with a friend wearing a leather coat, I had the displeasure of bumping into a **** on the pull who had snared a young ******** and was busy impressing her, by offering to **** up everyone in site. His gaze eventually fell on us and he taunted “Howz ‘bout I **** up those *******!” which got rounds of pig-like chortling sounds from his ********. In response I dismissively gestured and calmly said “whatever,” forgetting that this is one of the ***** sacred words. Angered by being dismissed in front of his potential shag, I was threatened with DEATH to which I calmly replied that it would be rather foolish as prison was a most unpleasant place to be. Further antagonism from him was met with an amused grin from me as he slotted perfectly into **** Stereotype. Finally it was too much for him and after no less than 3 attempts he was able to break a bottle on a metal dumpster (cleanly break the bottle! A wet mackerel would have been sharper.) He then proceeded to hold the bottle against my chin while I talked forcing his hand to bounce up and down as my jaw bone pushed against the smooth glass. As a final gesture of bravado he attempted to thrust the bottle through my thick genuine leather coat and then threw the bottle at the ground smashing it and thus giving himself a dignified exit from which he could then walk away, ******** in arms, with that choice phrase “you ain’t worf it!”
Ah, Bless ‘em.
