Residing on the banks of the Dee Estuary, which marks the extent to which its pseudo-scouse populace could swim, Holywell is an eclectic mix of sub cultures. Its hub is an interbred community from the Strand estate, who would claim that their roots stem back to the ancient Druids. The truth is that their ‘four-fathers’ were able to make it that extra mile from the Liverpool overspills such as Birkenhead and Ellesmere Port.
This explains their strange dialect. Combined with its local mining heritage (which was the last time Holywell’s inhabitants did any hard work), the inhabitants of the troglodytic sub culture from the hills above Pantasaph, Rhes-y-cae et al, made the migration south to breed. This can be seen each evening after dark, as torches are lit and voices in doorways hush to a whisper. The overriding rule in Holywell is- ‘Don’t look at anyone wrong and you’ll survive the night’.
The local Holywell High school has [allegedly] served for many years as a dating agency for hill-dwellers and ch4vs alike, resulting in a less-than-satisfactory experiment in human relations. Those who received a ‘C’ grade and above in their GCSE’s were able to make it into one of various industrial units scattered along the coastline, begrudgingly close to the English border. Others weren’t so lucky, being relegated to farming; never to be seen again.
There is only ONE sport in Holywell -Thai boxing, which the town has embraced with open arms and webbed fingers. Fiercely competitive, the town’s inhabitants would maintain the assertion that Thai boxing did in fact start in Wales, mainly due to the fact that all the inhabitants know the one instructor in town and at some point in the past, they; their big brother; their little brother or some other inbred member of their family took a lesson.
The single street smear of a town centre is punctuated by estate agents displaying the same houses that have been over-priced and out of reach for generations, which sit conveniently out of town and serve only to fill the populace with despondency and to give them a reason to live, in the vain hope that when they retire from British Aerospace, or with a lottery win, they too could raise themselves from the pit of despair. Combined with the charity shops and the hair-dressing salons, it is the whole reason that Holywell closes on a Saturday and witnesses a migration to civilisation.
By night, Holywell becomes a positive plethora of violence, drunkenness and crime, to rival any other major town. The local pubs have an inclusion policy of, ‘If you’re local and your face fits, we may serve you…’. The punters however, are somewhat more discerning and unless you’ve been to work with their father, ore ARE their father, you better drink up fast, or pick a window…cos you’re leaving!
Modern culture has been embraced by the local inhabitants, who now enjoy a Wetherspoons ‘restaurant’ in town. The safest time to convene would be during daylight hours and probably lunchtime, if you want to hold a conversation in English. Otherwise, spice up your night by strolling in casually and ordering in a loud English voice. This is bound to have an effect as, despite the inhabitants having dropped Welsh lessons in high school, in favour of basic car mechanics, they stick staunchly to their Wild West Wales image and each and every woolly-back/plastic scouser in the place will gladly loosen a few teeth for you for looking at them wrongly.
The highlight of the Holywell week of course, is a trip to the ‘Vic’ hotel, at the top of the high street. There are [allegedly] more lifeforms in there than Mos Eisely cantina, in Star Wars. If you look carefully, you will see that there are two main types- those in wellies and those without. All the local Pubwatch and ASBO celebrities are [not] there; the boys with freshly shaven heads and sporting their best jeans, comparing electronic tags. Similarly, with fewer shaven heads but with numerous boxers’ noses, the girls gather in the shortest skirts, barely disguising the puppy fat and cellulite, dancing round their knock-off handbags and eyeing up the opposition, in a bid to catch the eye of anyone who they haven’t already shagged in the bus stop/smoking area outside, or anyone who they’re not already related to. By day, these beauties can be found working in the plethora of hairdressing salons in town, which is useful as, by night, they can be found bitching about each other and tearing each other’s hair out.
Those unlucky few who are, as yet, too pre-pubescent to enter the Octagon of this dating circle, can skulk menacingly across the road by the Spar shop, glaring at passers-by, or feel free to fail embarrassingly easy tricks on their stolen JD Bug scooters in the nearby Lidl car park; dreaming that one day, when they are released from prison, they can join the rest of their inbred family indoors.
As a treat to round off the night, it’s a precarious stroll down to the other end of the high street; the women in towering heels, which don’t work after midnight. The men following at a respectful distance, to avoid and misconceptions about gentlemanly conduct, or sentiment. The goal is the one greasy kebab house which hasn’t been investigated by the HSE and still serves late at night despite the threat to its windows and abuse on its staff. Despite appearances, the Greeks staffing the shop are in fact spray-tanned plastic scousers who, as well as not speaking Welsh, also don’t speak Greek. Taxi’s home are a rarity, especially if you order in English and your name isn’t Dai. Luckily, if you’ve ordered your kebab loudly with an English accent, you are assured a lift in an emergency vehicle to the nearby Glan Clwyd hospital.