Wigston, South Wigston, Braunstone, New Parks and all those places, you know where!
Living in Leicester all my life (17 years so far), I have lived in Braunstone to the q. ”fuckin’ posh wankaah!” Oadby. Unfortunately there’s some c***s. Well, ‘some’ is somewhat of an understatement, it’s more like a plague, a black death throughout the city. Saturday afternoons in the summertime, in and around the centre of town – the Clock Tower – used to be sunny happy casual affairs where one might meet some friends and shop and have laaarnch.
Sadly, c***s are out every day, but Saturday especially, is when the C***s are kicked out of their s**t hole houses while the Council steam-clean them with bleach. Standing at the Clock Tower and breathing in; your lungs lurch at the stench of BO and cheap ”designer” perfume that smells like the inside of a turkish brothel. Burberry, once the clad of Royals, is commonplace, and has now degenerated into a £4 market status symbol by which ”hardness” is derived.
A common sight is the 19 year old nob, either bald or wearing a cap, a fake ‘diamond’ stud in one ear, chewing gum visible, and several teeth if they are lucky. The Schott hoody or Fred Perry top is like a uniform complete with stolen / fake Nike trainers. The girlfriend is a four-foot 13 year old with clad similarly, but with the addition of an orange face in a shade not known to nature, 4” hoop earrings, and hair badly dyed and scraped back so as to give an expression of permanent surprise.
If they are lucky, they will have a little Burberry baby, called Chardonnay, Mercedes, BeeEm-Dabbalyew, and any name that does not require the caller to close their mouth after calling, e.g. Calleh, Emileh, Amandah, Shaqillah, and so forth. Pushing a Burberry pram, or trying to hold back an inbred pitbull-staffy cross that’s whining to go and maul some children is a common accessory.
Sadly, these epitomes of the S**m world reside in the sh*ttiest council estates in Leicester, the worst being either the St Matthews or New Parks estates. There, a barbecue is seen as 6 people standing round a car on fire, sipping Special Brew, while Christmas Cheer is when the Giro arrives and they bedeck the house in hideous illuminations, seemingly to compete with more wattage than other houses.
I’m sure other Leicester residents agree with me, that creatures such as this should be led round the back of a shed and shot like a dog, but this only works in individual cases (…and not in reality! -Editor). I suggest they are laid back to the nuclear waste they emerged from with a swift, colossal nuclear attack, leaving the nice areas of Leicester untouched, and the s**t areas a mass of nuclear waste, Elisabeth Duke at Argos melted jewellery, and a solitary smouldering Nike cap.