Hemel Hempstead……My Story

East AngliaHerefordshire

Oh Dear, i, (perhaps alone) have the ignomy of spending most of my memorable life in two gutter-**** towns such as Hemel Hempstead and Dunstable. Surprisingly, the latter has escaped some long overdue rubbishing, being as it is, smack bang in the middle of the Herts, Beds and Bucks hotbed of **** talent.
I have lived in Dunstable since i was two, and was schooled in nearby Lewsey Farm until i was 10. Anyone who has heard of the place must be confused as to why i am apparently still alive. Anyway, after Junior school, it was onto middle school. My parents quite wisely chose John. F Kennedy in Hemel Hempstead, as this was the very best available for me and my older sisters.
Coming into this world of ****** ***** was certainly an eye-opener. But the fun didn’t really start untill yr10, or when i was 14. Until then i mostly stayed with the friends i’d caried over from junior school, in time, gaining friends from Luton who shared the same buses. In year 10 the year was really mixed up, as before there were no sets in lessons, now there were Hemelers, Lutonians and Berko kids all in one room. Horror of Horrors, i fell in love with a girl from Woodhall Farm, Hemel. That should have been it for me, my charmed existence, free from bullying, bad taste, bad friends and good drugs must surely be in jeopardy?
Oh no, thanks to being niether here nor there, i was saved from the end most in JFK came too. As we were only 14/15, we had to be inventive when it came to going out with ‘the lads’. This consisted usually of a house party, with or without the girlfriend. These were not so much parties as excuses for those who fancied each other to pull, ******* or have *** with each other. Needless to say, i know of a girl who at one of these parties had *** with 4 boys, sucked the ***** of a further 4 or 5, and somewhere amid the chaos and bodily fluids met her future husband and (Probably) father of her child.
When we had some facial hair, we’d let it grow, then head off to the Leinster, a truly wonderful place. Pints were less than £2, there were expensive cars, pool tables, karaoke machines and underage girls all over the place. This is where we drank when were 15. Ahh yes. Heaven. My girlfriend left me for a guy 3 years older with shorter hair, a red kev’d escort and a job in tescos. No sooner had he crashed trying to impress her when they were both drunk, she’d puked all over the footwell, and realised that he was actually really **** in bed. She’d dumped him, and came back crying. I humoured her. (stupid *******………what a waste)
All my friends went out weekly, daily sometimes to the usual hemel haunts, the fully, hogshead, jax, visage. I usually stayed home. Thankfully, since sixth form i’ve been able to choose my friends and associates more carefully, as a result, we can see good bands, drink in uber-trendy wine bars and (our one concession to ****-dom) smoke drugs in safe and secluded places, away from the hackett mob. All the while, reminiscing of the people we left behind in the gutter. But sometimes, we feel we need to get in touch with the real world, and we get pissed in watford. I feel i have let myself down telling you this.

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