Huntingdon, a corner of Cambridgeshire that is forever chavland. This town, regails itself in its history of being Oliver Cromwells home town and if you listen carefully as the bottles fly in the market square on a Friday night you can hear the sound of his bones creak as he spins in his grave.
On a Saturday afternoon as I walk through the town centre I play a game of spot the Oxmoron just to calm myself that the inbreeding has held true in the town and the genes are not diluting too much to the surrounding population. There they are, cheap tracksuits dodging into Argos. The guy with the pit-bull and bad skin going into Peacocks with his fat tattooed missus. The fog of smoke around the exit to Sainsbury’s as the Oxmoor lifers thank f**k they don’t have to suffer anymore clean air that they struggle through when doing the half hour shopping without a cancer stick. I smile at the shop security guard as he tries to hold back the sea of theft with a two-way radio and a dodgy uniform.