Driffield used to be nice. It was just a little market town, with lots of fields around it. A picturesque little place. But no more. C***s have taken over: hanging outside cooplands on the bench, waiting for a pensioner to exit so they can rob them for their cheese scones, shouting abuse at ‘that slag that chucked robbo cos her gave her the clap’ and proudly telling public servants to ‘f**k off!’. In Driffield, and you’re a high flying student who has a bit of a bad patch, you get your parents called in and you are given detentions until you catch up. However, if you’re a c**v at the school, you are left to continue on your spit ridden path. Why? because everyone knows the signs; it may be judgmental and narrow-minded, but its true. The c***s are like a separate community, except they are an infestation. My theory is, that lovely travelling folk came to Driffield, for a circus or something, and one dirty dog got a local girl pregnant. Then, after promising he would write, (when he never learnt) he left her their with sprog. Then she gave birth to a beautiful baby that in turn sowed the seeds of
gyppo lovely travelling folk and created a little in-bred colony.
Heres some traits of the Driffield C***s:
- Sit in cattle market car park while they take it in turns to finger ‘that lass in year 9’
- Drink Tesco lager while they do this.
- Look under vending machines at school for 20p to buy a cig at dinner.
- Wear mud covered socks over trackies, that smell like campfires and vodka.
- Start fights with the fat kid, because they don’t fight back and it makes them look ‘well ard’.
- Call teachers ‘silly cunnats’
- Pitifully attempt to biro over the date on a bus ticket so they can get to Bridlington to ‘see me bird’.
- Sleep with overweight, ugly and mentally challenged girls, young enough to pop out a few kids before she turns 16 and wants to do a ‘beauty ferapy course’.
- Wear Ethel Austin jeans that obviously were made for their children, as their muffin tops are as big as their arses.
- go in Boyes and steal cheap make up.
- hold up the queue in the post office gassing to the other breeders.
- dance in hooters after drinking a full bottle of vodka, while ‘tryna look well fit cos kentys ‘ere and that slapper int’.
- having legs that look like streaky bacon due to fake tan they found at the back of superdrug in the skip.
- hurling abuse at women in suits ‘wot you lookin at me for? you think your better dont ya? jog on silly cunnat, or ill knock you out’.
- using phrases like ‘light us up dickhead’, ‘your a silly faggit you are’, ‘do you know who i am?’, ‘ere, hold me spliff, i need a s**t’…..to their children.
I work my a**e off every week in a really stressful job, so I can survive in a poxy little flat, while these s******s get benefits and handouts, which come from the working persons pocket! 264pounds of my wage every month goes to them. I’d rather my tax go to cancer research-thats a real disease. Not ‘I cant work cos I used to be a real good footy player til I got beat up by Bluey cos I dint pay him back for that weed, so I cant work now cos it hurts my legs.’
Get a job. Wasters.