C***s are like little green men or the yeti… they have to be seen to be believed sometimes. For fine examples of this sub-human species (that’s spreading like Black Death in the 14th Century) visit Lincoln….
Well what can I say and where to even start? I have lived here nearly all of my life. Sometimes I think it’s a nice enough place to live, the majority of people are had working and pleasant. Then you spot one of them……. No that’s a lie, you hear them coming first. They are given away by the clanking and scraping of sovereign rings dragging along the ground, thusly protecting their knuckles from the dirt and dog s**t that their pitbulls have left earlier on in the day. The calls of this increasingly common v****n ring through the streets, “an’ I fookin’ told im’, if yo’ don’t lay of me bitch, I’ll cut yo’ fookin’ face off”. They will happily be swigging from a can of Special Brew, smoking a ‘faaag’ at 10am and beating little Levi who should have been in school an hour ago (who are we kidding ‘little Levi’ hasn’t been in school ever! The little sod doesn’t stand a chance!) the best area for seeing the fat f***s is the indoor market place and the streets that surround it. Inside c***s can marvel at the stalls, groaning under plies of knock-off Nike, Burberry and other shitty tat (“ere, Chantelle. They got white stillies! only a faiver!”). In fact the c**v is spoilt for choice, surrounding the market you have Wilkinson’s and pound shops a plenty. For breakfast/lunch/dinner/snacks in between they have two chippies and of course, c**v heaven, a ‘MaccyD’s’.
However, if a few of these c***s decide they have a couple of quid left over from the giro or they feel the need to go “liftin’”, they will venture out onto the High Street and head for St. Marks. Here a small c**v enclave has formed (funnily enough right opposite the magistrates court), St Marks caters for the more discerning c**v (is there such a thing?). Here they can begin their shopping/shop-lifting in Argos with a few more bits of 9ct crap. Then its on to New Look so that the lardy c******e can cram herself into something 3 sizes too small while the current (and we mean the bloke who shagged her at the bus stop in the wee small hours last nite when she was off her skull on white lightning) c**v hangs around outside the changing rooms stuffing the finest threads into his puffer jacket. By this point a c**v may have decided that that their fat reserves may need topping up as they haven’t stuffed their ugly mush with crap in the last hour. A short ‘monkey walk’ away is Burger King. After this they can begin afresh their thieving as they return to the Sports Soccer and the JJB ‘mega store’.
If shopping is too much like hard work the fat w*****s head back up the High Street for one of the many bars and pubs. Yates, LN2 and the Weatherspoons (we have 3 in Lincoln). This give them the opportunity to get tanked up and then try their luck in the job centre/dole office for more free cash remembering to limp on the way for the disability allowance their getting.
If this is getting a little too much even for the most hard ended c**v-spotter, you might consider heading for the local cinema. My advice is don’t, especially on a weekend. This is another upcoming c**v mecca. Its is a cast iron guarantee that you will get at least two c***s in the same film as you and that they will swear, talk, show their mates the mobile they stole from some kid in the toilets and throw what ever isn’t nailed down at you/other people/the screen. At this point you may be silently pleading that the staff to throw the little puss-filled t*****s out, you would be wrong. As ever these arseholes are always read to quote “me rights” and nearly always refuse to move when confronted with a terrified media student from the university trying to earn a few quid.
As you exit the cinema it is now dusk and you are about to experience a town centre full of ‘loaded’ c***s and chavettes. These morons will be wearing fully throttle c**v regalia. Having arrived in their “fookin’ beast” of a Nova/Corsa/ any old s**t heap they stole 20 mins ago, they pile out onto the High Street. Armed with Burberry bags and shirts, 10 Richmond ‘faaggs’ and other chemical aids they charge to Weatherspoons ready to play who can drink the most wife beater. As the evening wears on fights become common, the male c**v will be seen offering to “kick yer fookin’ a**e”. The chavettes will be offering a similar service to anyone “lookin’ for some” or “eyein’ up me man are yer?”. Don’t think staring at the floor will save you, that’s also counts as looking at them to the cross-eyed freaks.
If you decide to leave now you’re going to be missing a further treat. Follow them (and their foul stench of cheap aftershave/not washing for a good few weeks) to the delights of Jumping Jacks, Ritzy and Pulse. The middle aged c**v hauls their pissed arses to Jumping Jacks to dance like an epileptic on fire to ‘choons’ of yesteryear. The other little scrotes head upstairs to stand round eyeballing any unfortunate soul who wandered in to what they thought was the only club in Lincoln.
*sigh* what more can I add? A typical day in Lincoln really….. God save us all from these w*****s