There are, like most places, two sides to this area of the Chilterns. The difference being, however, that they are actually physically separated by an almost steryotypical structure. The motorway bridge.
Though being a collection of villages rather than a town, Lane End and its surrounding Areas show just the sort of contrast and filthy overspill that seems rife in this country today.
My place of residence, just outside of Lane End is a lovely, quiet and thoroughly peaceful place, boasting two commons and some fine scenery. However, come with me on a walk through one of these commons and witness for yourself the reason why I have seen it fit to post an article here.
Wandering past the Chequers pub, where you will no doubt see a gang of obese, acne-ridden teenage mothers blowing smoke in their offsprings faces, you will see in front of you a bridge. It extends over a flaming river of hot lava, guarded by harpies with hair-cuts that look like a blonde badger has taken it upon itself to stand on its hind legs, grow thumbs and dress itself in sports clothing. To cross this bridge into Lane End is a daunting process, usually passing a cut-price hooded grim reaper on a s**t bike and recieveing copious amounts of abuse from said party. after making it over to the other side, see the yellowing grass, graffiti’d road signs and the rusted hulk of the electricity box peeking its ugly head from behind some brick-wheeled cars. turn left now and come closer to the gates of hell. “congregation corner” is up next, opposite the quite frankly appalling “cans” off license, where you can bear witness to such jolly advertisement campaigns as “Wine, 3 bottles £5” and “VODKA, £2.50”. This is where most muggings occur, as well as the occasional light-hearted setting someone on fire. I s**t you not. An endless stream of cars come out of the estate to park in the lay-by to drop their staggering cargo into the offie for a refill. As many as fifty chavs can gather on the corner outside the estate, smashing car windows and doing “doughnuts” on their hairdryers, bawling any number of badly structured insults at anyone who isn’t standing right next to them, right at that moment.
I could continue into the estate at this point but, fearing for my life, I return home, only to find a crate’s worth of empty white star cans on my front lawn, and the same volume of stella cans on the grass verge. to make matters worse, I’ve been f*****g burgled. That’s right, from time to time the estate residents like to branch off from their festering, inbred spawning grounds and cause mayhem in otherwise nice areas. The other week a gang of p****s started squatting in a pub that had been closed down. Shortly after the news that they had moved in, there were of course a speight of robberies. Add this to the fact the local area of outstanding natural beauty has been turned into a make-shift mini dirtbike racing circuit and handy fly-tipping site and you’ve got yourself a corker of a place, don’t you agree?