As someone with the misfortune to have been born and bred in this 1950’s experiment on the consequences of inbreeding, I feel more qualified than most to nominate Hull for the title of Britain’s most c**v infested shitheap.
C***s here are as numerous as bacteria on dog s**t and even more repulsive. After a few weeks hold out behind shuttered windows you quickly begin to realise how eastern europeans felt when confronted by the Mongol Hoardes. It’s a shame as contrary to popular opinion, Hull is actually not a bad city and it’s beseiged non-c**v residents are friendly to a fault. Unfortunately for them, life is made about as tollerable as an armless man with an itchy a**e. Everyday they’re subject to the sort of horrors you expect from the most crime ridden Chicago housing project. Blizzards of obscenities follow you down every street from the hoardes of ugly shellsuited fat slags staked out on every street corner. At every turn drug addled, pock-faced s******s pursue you like rats following the pied piper, trying to cadge money for their next fix. Meanwhile legions of tattoed cavemen and their black-eyed spouses stand outside DSS offices in queues reminiscent of Soviet Russia. Yes, welcome to Hull. If Hull was a country, it’d be war-torn Liberia. In fact watching some of the spawn of Satan, otherwise known as children, on one of their regular wrecking sprees, does indeed invoke images of child soldiers in downtown Monrovia. Think Chucky of trashy horror fame and you’re getting close to an idea of what Hull’s children are like. These tracksuited hoardes of Jordan’s, Rooney’s (Yes F*ckin’ Rooney!!), Chardonnay’s, Cinzella’s and f*cking Lambrini’s are like Soldier Ants on the Jungle Floor. Anything movable is moved, anything immovable is smashed to f*ck. If you want any proof of Hull’s all pervasive Chavishness just look at the league tables in pretty much anything. I guarantee you’ll find it firmly rooted to the bottom by the dirty, theiving, shellsuited chavscum oozing out of every gutter.