What is there to say about this small town situated in bumble-f*ck nowhere in the heart of North Devon? Not a lot to be realistic, from a town that once fought off Tesco’s (An “achievement” the still they are proud of 10 years down the line, especially now they’ve just fought off a Waitrose) but is more than happy to boast a Lidl. A quaint town filled with Secondary School children who hang on the benches in the town square, or down by “The Shambles” under the Town Hall smoking their poorly made roll ups all rolled by the same small incestuous hard-man c**v in his £2 Primark baseball cap and his dark blue rcaing-striped Lonsadale tracksuit trousers because none of them are old enough to know how and his older brother once tried to show them.
Of course the local Kebab shop brightens the mood, until it hits 7pm on the Mayfair weekend, when it’s filled with all the underage piss-heads who all congregate to re-fill their stomachs after a shaky ride on the Rhythm Dancer. The lovely commons are always a good place to go for a walk until you step in one of the millions of piles of dog craps left by the owners whom I can imagine striking a very similar resemblance to said feces. And the various attempts to bring the town together by a particular group of Torringtonians that usually involves watching a group of senior males embarrassing themselves in one shape or another. Although the youth culture tries to strive, they only succeed in obliviously making the elderly cross the road to avoid having to walk past them, and the all time past-time of being 15 in Torrington – Drinking ‘White Lightening’ under the Football Pitch stands because it’s Torrington and it usually rains.
The highlight of anyone living in Torringtons life is finding a way to get in to the abandoned Dairy at the bottom of Limers Hill. If you were lucky enough and that one friend who always freaks out and gets scared and runs home didn’t drag you out, then you may find a way onto the roof, where you spend 5 minutes hiding from cars incase they call the Police on you, to then not be able to remember your way back out, which becomes an increasingly desperate task as the sun starts to set. By which point if your friend who freaks out hasn’t, he will very soon and when you escape the torture you’ll probably never hear from him again anyway.
Taddiport flooding is always the highlight of the year laughing at the people that still choose to live there while you watch safely a mile away at the top of the hill where Torrington is actually situated!
Bless the town they tried, but nothing can help them now.