Ely – known as the ship of the Fens: a bleak desolate flat wasteland that was reclaimed from swamps. Ely rises above this primordial filth like a swollen haemorrhoid on the anus of East Anglia. The locals are a unique product of this marshy, flat purgatory having developed features to cope with it, like webbed toes and extra fingers. Because of its remoteness, most modern advances in civilisation seem to have bypassed Ely such as hygiene, intelligible English and fresh DNA in the form of new residents – even the Eastern Europeans avoid the place. Its sole interesting feature is a huge cathedral, where you are charged a considerable sum of money to get in. So basically a huge grey stone edifice where the locals would still be burning witches if you gave them the chance.
I have the misfortune to call this pathetic attempt of a city my hometown and spent 6 horrific years at school there. The (allegedly) well-respected school appealed to wealthy farmers to send their mouth-breathing offspring in the forlorn hope that they might learn to speak passable English and count to more than 12 without removing their shoes. A complete waste of their money and effort because by the time these amphibian knuckle-draggers reached breeding age, they were in an agricultural job, either molesting vegetables or having bum-sex with the livestock.
Drab and miserable, Ely strives to reach the nirvana of mediocrity and fails to achieve it. Notice I’m using long words here, why do you think it’s called Ely? Easier for the locals to spell. It now thankfully has a bypass, sparing travellers the necessity of actually entering the place, which lessens the fun of watching the locals licking windows, pointing at cars and attiring themselves in garments covered in animal sh1t.
Ely is served well by transport links, god knows why, it has absolutely nothing to offer the worldly traveller – stay on the train and shut your eyes if you find yourself unlucky enough to be on the Eastern line, that is if the dull featureless countryside, driving rain & howling winds haven’t made you already slit your wrists once you are north of Cambridge. Even its once shining example of technology and main employer – the sugar beet factory – has long since closed, sparing this vile little burg the stench of its effluent pouring into the river. At least the roads, railway and river give the slightly more intelligent residents the opportunity to flee.
The locals communicate in a mixture of grunts, twitching limbs and drooling. Should you dare to stop and sightsee, you will leave with a serious neck injury due to the eye-hurting, fascinating hideousness of the populace. Your sight will be blighted and you will have recurring nightmares. Avoid, and bless Cambridgeshire County Council for building the bypass around this seeping boil of a town. Ely is a dire nasty little place with no aspirations to advance or even claw their way into the 17th century, the residents are inbred, dim and ignorant. Ely – where your family tree does not fork.