If Slough and Gaza had a love child, Wycombe would be the end result. This is not a town; this is a crater of depression reminiscent of cancer. Literally, if you have considered committing suicide go to High Wycombe.
The gods blessed my family by allowing us to live on the outskirts of the district, situated near a fantastic area which goes by the name of Great Missenden. I am 21… I was not alive for the “golden days” and quite frankly the idea of High Wycombe ever having golden days is like saying Jimmy Saville was good with kids, which I guess in a way he was… they did like him after all.
Upon your arrival you’ll notice the standard architectural layout of most British towns. Nothing too bad, nothing too nice. Just a distinct lack of character that evokes such a lack of reaction that all your childhood dreams begin to decay. What never ceases to amaze me about this peculiar little town is that it is the complete epitome of sewage system. Surrounding High Wycombe you have some wonderful towns and villages; Marlow, Beaconsfield and Amersham to name a few and they really are worth a visit if you fancy being a right middle class twat like me. However I am almost certain when these towns all met for a glass of fine wine one day, they all decided that Wycombe would become the toilet of Bucks. All people surrounding the area venture into Wycombe relieved that they, if they needed to, could s**t everywhere and that would be absolutely fine.
The locals take one of two sides. You are either an everyday normal human being who wishes to take a step forward at a time in this wonderful thing known as life. Or you are on the other side, a complete and utter f**k head.
I wanted to take a course in how to be homeless and my first lesson consisted of a night out in Wycombe where I was followed by an older male, with salt and pepper coloured hair who insisted on pissing whilst walking AND asking for change. So they can multitask, it’s just they are also multi-retarded.
“But it’s not their fault”. It’s not, I appreciate that, but it doesn’t stop them from being terrible to look at.
There was a promising edition many years ago midway through the noughties that invited people to feel inspired and excited for the future Wycombe. The Eden Centre. “The city is ours” they cried. Sorry… its glitter on s**t. Enjoyable at times, some great restaurants, a cinema complex and all the latest shops for every prepubescent child wishing to wear the same “obey” top as their hooded counterparts… but sadly, for myself anyways, it makes me think “new place same people” and boy are those people a treat.
Need to learn a new language? Visit Wycombe, you’ll have a choice of broken English, retarded English, Polish, Punjabi, and the list goes on… in fact I’m fairly sure the locals have made their own language which requires three teeth to learn.
The hospital is on a par with day time television, whilst I’m fairly convinced there are better decorated slums than the scenic high street. Charity shops, phone shops with glitter cases, betting shops and pound shops, Wycombe has the lot. A “gang” known as Black Magic once ruled the lands there, until they realised that sitting on your car bonnet whilst kissing a girl, although a great way to assert your authority for competing males, does not constitute to being a fearsome gangster like Biggie – god bless his soul.
I’ve only begun to scratch the surface really. There are many places worse to live, Southampton Central or Bradford for that matter. But with regards to a town that makes your loving, giving, remorseful, human side evaporate, High Wycombe is the one.
Farewell, ciao and goodmorrow.