As a youngster, I remember the ex-mining town of Eastwood with fond memories. The birthplce of DH Lawrence and the local market as far as the eye could see with quality products….at affordable prices.
Around 8 years ago this picture started to become a distant dream. The market changed and Iceland and Farmfoods, had a fieldday offering the newly sprouted c***s of the area frozen products galore, at low, low prices. Endless news stories of poor unfortunate paperboys who’d had their bike twoked whilst ramming a nottingham evening post through the door of some raging c**v became the norm. Almost everyday this tiny town was mentioned in the papers or on the news, my particular favourite was the hilarious changing of the road sign on the way to Eastwood town, sporting the words “welcome to brown town”, this front page coverage set the destruction ball a-rolling, for what was once a pretty, quaint little town.
This was the end for Eastwood, which was soon labelled proudly by outsiders and inhabitants alike as “brown town” due to the herion use, affecting more newborn babies than anywhere else in the entire country- and that’s a fact!
There are council estates aplenty, Prince’s Street being the fave, it’s like the Bronx of Eastwood, with boarded up windows, stinking of beirut-style chic. Most inhabitants fall into the same category, dole s**m, or maybe old people. The’re all spongers though, if truth be told- i mean if they’re not getting a pension or the dole, then they’re all robbing the NHS.
Some residents can be seen in blacked out beemers, or those with a touch more class, top of the range mercs or audis. I don’t know why, but i suspect that they might be making ends meet by other means than just signing on- although i would never suggest that they have been selling uppers to kids of the locel comp out of the back of a dodgy ice-cream van, that would simply be out of order to suggest!
Luckily, the Safeway on Derby road provides a great meeting point, where the c***s and chavettes (dripping in Elizabeth Duke specials) can stock up on savers meat slices and bargains from the bakery five minutes before closing time.
The carpark provides a lovely circuit for the 17-24 year olds, where they can show off their monsterous spoilers and UV lights. Usually this takes place after 9pm, as the forgiving lighting means that the clear crow-bar marks in the drivers door cannot be so easily spotted, from the breaking and entering that was required to stal it from its previous last owner. There is often a bevvy of “beauties” accompanying the cap-wearing acne-ridden males. In Eastwood, the younger the better is their motto, with barely-legal girls joining the throng dolled up to the nines in lyca goods, orange foundation and the obligatory creoles. Sometimes a haze hangs over the carpark from the clouds of smoke (of the post coital ciggies), and from the heady scent of replica tommy girl perfumes, and CKone that any c**v worth his/her salt, would not leave the house without!
Naturally, loud music is the order of the day, whether in the carpark, pulling 360’s or simply cruising the streets. Mario Winan can be heard inside most houses as the chavwagons are passing, as well as 2pac and DRE, even when it is raining and the windows cannot be rolled down for maximum impact. Not even Eastenders on a reasonable volume can quell it!
As for public houses, Eastwood has more than you can shake a stick at, however, The Man in Space, at Hilltop has transformed from a decent establishment to a c***s mecca. After the closing of the Lord Nelson things have never been the same, the inebriated fights over baby Chelsea or who’s been knobbing who, have had to relocate to places such as the Old Wine Vaults or The Sun or the aforemention MIS.
I love Eastwood, it makes even the most working class person feel almost posh!