Haworth, home of the Brontes, the famous literary family. Japanese tourists flock here to see the Bronte Parsonage (ahhh Blontees). Other tourists flock here to visit the famous cobbled main street, with olde worlde tea shops, pubs and cottages, ride on the steam railway and take a scenic walk on the moors. Sounds nice doesn’t it! Don’t be mistaken.
Every day at dusk an amazing transformation occurs. Young C***s and Chavettes flock to the village from all over the valley. While the police are busy fighting with the older c***s in Keighley and Bradford, the younger end can enjoy themselves terrorising Haworth. Like a fleet of school buses, the valleys public buses arrive in haworth full of c***s from all over (special low floor buggy zone buses are used in the evening) the valley dropping them off like they were going to school (not that they ever do).
The village park with gardens and flowerbeds is their favourite haunt. The chavettes wails and cries will be herd reverbarating around the whole valley. bottles smash, fires burn, stereos play. And by the next morning the flower beds are no more and the attendant has to come and pick up the couple of hundred broken bottles from the grass to make it safe again.
But that isn’t their only haunt…
Early in the evening chavettes dressed in white 3/4 length trackies, blue striped tops (lacoste, fila etc) and trainers with no laces are seen loitering outside the spar shop like some prostitutes trying to get a job….only just out of sight of the counter inside. They spend an hour or two trying to get us normal people to buy them booze because they are too young. You cannot win… buy them booze and you risk the shop staff finding out and you being blacklisted. refusal results in a barrage of abuse, f words and threats – normally being called a “bloody poof” or some other such clever insults. When they tire of this, or when some unsuspecting fool buys them some, they scamper across to the park to drink it like there is no tomorrow.
Or you might find them trashing the local railway station (normally well after dark when they have drunk all the WKD). The station is on a tourist steam railway, and is lovingly maintained by volunteers. gardens, hanging baskets and gas lights adorn the well painted building. that is of course till every weekend comes along – when the flower tubs are used as toilets, the gas lamps are used for stone throwing practise and the hanging baskets are routinely pulled down. On a good night you will often find a plank of wood or brick put thorugh the window (cue alarm bells and police – but no c***s to be seen then)
And anyone who has foolishly parked their car in one of the badly lit lanes in the village (or even in the well lit car parks) is liable to find their stereo in cash convertors in keighley the next day.
And this is no normal C**v village… being in Yorkshire C***s here have land rovers… souped up landrovers with big exhausts, loud stereos and strange suspension – which they then try and get up to about 90mph in along station road.
So what other regular passtimes do these c***s have? Climbing onto the roof of the local pub and throwing the slates off? Yep. Throwing stones at trains? yes. Hurling abuse at anyone who is not dressed like them or acting like them (with that strange c**v like walk, like they have a brush up their a**e). Yep. The only thing they haven’t appeared to got around to round here is window scratching, so common everywhere else… but then perhaps that’s because the c***s here can’t actually read or write.
Haworth is a training ground. When old enough to get into the pubs, c***s here either go to the social club in the village and get slaughtered on lager before beating the crap out of each other in the road outside or head “down town” to Keighley to the big lights of the pubs and clubs there and fight down there instead.
So when in Yorkshire, visit haworth. take a scenic country day out during the day, and visit the c**v night life in an evening (you can even visit the edinburgh woolen mill in the village to get yourself a real burburry style hat (to expensive for the locals though))