One sadly missing place on this fantastic database in good old Goole.
Now Goole is a serious ********. When I have finished “thisisreallyhull.co.uk” then I am onto “this isreallygoole.co.uk”. Goole, for those who don’t know lies on the edge of the M62 – about 50 miles from Hull – “The **** Mecca, the birthplace of all that is ****”.
Cut in two by a railway line which takes you to Doncaster (Donnie) when posh Goole folk want a night out – and to shag someone who hasn’t got Hep C. Doncaster however once had the highest AIDS rate in the UK, but ***** don’t care about that as “you can’t catch it unless you are a puff”.
How grim is your Postcode?
Goole is a dross hole. As an ex-Hull man – I got a job so I was asked to leave – my work has taken me to Goole a few times and I must say it is a mini version of Hull in process of development.
Baseball caps abound, superdrug make up glued onto 14 year old pregnant lasses, tracksuits (no brand as yet as they are seriously skint) and MK2 Fiestas squeal around the small town.
Old Goole, as some call it is the bowels of this area. Don’t get me wrong, “new Goole” is *****, apart from Argos (for cheapo Jewellry), Netto “**** Sainsburys” does a bomb in the usual **** requisites – 7p beans for the “baynes” on 9p stale in 12 hours bread will keep the little uns happy whilst **** mam supps the Diamond Blast or whatever cheap but strong **** Netto do that week on offer. Pregnant **** mam smokes the 4th pack of **** – getting ready for the just out of jail bloke to bring in the nights heroin bag whilst the kids watch.
Never have you seen a more dirty looking town with dirty looking people. No dress code as far as brands is concerned – there are no decent shops to rob in Goole you see – so they make do with whatever they can nick in Doncaster.
The local jails – Leeds and Everthorpe do a roaring trade in drug dealing *****.
Goole has the reputation as the Drug Dealing capital of the world and local drug workers estimate that it has the highest percentage of Hep C – the smack heads disease.
Whilst not in Hulls league – Goole deserves some credit in its work towards Chavdom.
Sounding like a 1970’s Steven King horror novel, this appropriately named port in bleakest East Yorkshire holds numerous delights for any hapless tourists and travellers who mistakenly disembark here. Ghoulish indeed. For this sinister town has the unenviable distinction of being the herroin capital of the United Kingdom, which is some feat for a place too small to swing a dead cat.
Travelling on the train through scenery that makes the Russian Arctic look inviting, this town manifests on the horizon like a biblical storm. Rusting cranes, cooling towers and chemical laden death ships languish by the filthy dockside within airgun firing distance of the optimistically named ‘town centre’. In reality the centre is little more than a gaggle of pound shops and rather hostile looking public houses. Surrounding this homage to soviet style consumption, lies a grim mish-mash of soot covered terraced houses and dreary council slums the gardens of which are nicely furnished with ramshakle pigeon lofts and windowless mark 2 Cortinas. Goole’s educated, well-to-do population fled into the hinterland decades ago leaving a rotten core of unfettered chavdom. In the evenings the kappa-clad masses decend on the train station car park or wait troll-like at the pedestrian footbridge which ferries passengers into the desolation of the town centre. It is in these locations that the slack jawed locals harrass bewildered commuters or engage in a bit of light hearted stone throwing as the train hurtles mad-max like through the hail of missiles. Back in the centre, local men and what seemingly pass for women in these parts, trawl in and out of the semi-derelict bars, occassionally handing out a good kicking to some poor sod who just happened to glance in the direction of their pint. Occassionally, if you’re particularly lucky, upon arrival at Goole station you may be greeted to the sight of 10 or so shellsuited gents, admiring eachothers chavmobiles in the car park. Sometimes these are joined by the odd burberry capped cretin on his stolen Piaggio. If you remain on the train, always a sensible choice; at this point it may be wise to fix your gaze in the opposite direction lest you bare the brunt of a bizzard of obscenities or the odd brick.
How grim is your Postcode?