Along the sunny Devon coast lies a nest of such dense chavviness it taints the name of an otherwise Perfect County (well if you forget, as we all should, the existence of Plymouth). For dangerously close together lie Exmouth and its rancid neon clad sister (through incest)
I shall not bring myself to discuss Dawlish in any depth here as its Sunday, I’m of fragile stomach and the memories are all too painful. I shall stick to what I know best and  describe to you the delights of a town where there are 2 pizza shops to every family, where  parole officers are invited to the wedding receptions of their criminal counterparts (in the
Banqueting suite) where a legitimate reason for a taxi rank brawl is who took the last of  the chilli sauce in Munchies, Mr Munchies or Mrs Munchies, and where (and this is fact) a 16 year old girl got married in her school lunch break to an illegal immigrant and her tutor (guardian of her virtue) signed the paperwork as her witness then paid for a reception in chameleons cafe.
I finished my sentence in Exmouth some four years ago (and no I was not a student) like Frodo shielding his ring I scurried out of the mordor
That is Exmouth town centre clinging onto the tatters of my self respect. For three years I  inhabited that hole so loved by tourists for its beautiful sandy beach peppered with  syringes and condoms disgarded in the throws of passion during post-sams (nightclub) “dunes” action with marines commandos.
During my stay in Exmouth I fully immersed myself (unknowingly at the time) in the **** culture. working in a town centre bar meant I was literally on the front line of the **** bombardment that has the town bursting at the seems on a weekend. I was often concussed by
the overwhelming stench of Charlie Red and Tommy Hilfiger as Ben Sherman clad ******* would  thrust a fiver at me and ask for an Iron Brew “Wicked”.
I even went to the lengths of dating a **** in order to fit in as with my plummy accent I  stuck out like a Genuine Louis Vuitton handbag in the Exmouth Indoor Market. For four months  it was an endless blissful rollercoaster of rides in escorts with lowered suspension,
endless KFC suppers and visits to the RD and E (Exeter Hospital) nursing many a broken  cheekbone, nose, eyebrow.

I once shared the dream that many Exmothians harbour that one day
I too might be one of those mums in Peacocks scratching for coppers to buy my seven kids  school uniforms as my husband slurps 6X in the Heavitree. My ex even got down on one knee in Sams and arranged for the fairground compere DJ to pop the question to which at one stage in my life and despite absence of ring and a promise of a trip to Elizabeth Duke (@ ARGOS!) I  was actually flattered!

Eventually though despite all the wonderful encounters listed above I decided to leave the  stench of take aways (how many?!) and people of the ********* order I have ever encountered  (and I have lived in Bristol, London and Plymouth – I know my *****) and I made a run for
it. I remember thinking as the sun hit the singular platform at Exmouth Train Station that  if I look back I might even miss this place so daringly I took a glance in the general town  direction and instead of a farewell banner, a couple canoodling beside the arcades, a happy
pensioner being helped through the subway by a group of young males, instead I saw a Subaru  Impreza being marvelled at through the KFC window not by individual ***** but **** families  holding it up as something to aspire to while tucking into an Exmouth sunday lunch (Bargain Bucket). I got the **** out of there and never looked back.

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