Like any man, I make mistakes. Driven by the yearning of my loins, I like to put my **** in things – indeed potentially a troublesome occupation – but is not variety the spice of life? However, these mistakes tend to be made as a result of selected actions based on irrationality or ill informed choice. Hence, something that I am solemnly grateful for is that I, as a whole, am not a mistake. I was not conceived through, and hence born a mistake, and my life has purpose – or so I like to believe. In light of this, it seems unfathomable that an entire person can in fact be a living mistake. I refer not just an individual, oh no, but an entire people – The ****.

Cast aside the mutually agreeable notion of symbiosis and think of a ******** unrelentingly sucking the life marrow from its host. Yet what if there is no host, merely a concentration of scavengers? Could one ever be expected to inwardly digest the concept of a collection of such parasitic beings achieving sustained existence en mass?

Unbelievably this environment has been created within a small pocket of English Hertfordshire. Luton is perhaps the most dreadful place into which I have ever had the displeasure to venture. Ok, to be fair to ***** they cannot be held solely responsible for imposing such detriment to polite society in this no-go zone populated by all manner of freaks and ner’dowells, but they certainly contribute enormously.

How grim is your Postcode?

The hair on the back of your neck stands rigidly on end and you are in a state of utmost fear, this is indicative of the experience one might incur whilst negotiating Luton high street after hours. Not only is one at risk of injury or death heartily levied by *****, urchins and bums (possibly one and the same thing), there exists the added discomfiture imposed by the various terror factions whom are free to operate at will.

Enter Yates’ Wine Lodge to witness a sea of eyes, few of them free from at least one fist-induced blackening, boring into your defenceless soul. Racks of tooth-lightened jaw lines with concrete set grimaces gurn menacingly at you as they ineffectively sieve the impurities from slop-tray Stella jars. Horrid horrid horrid! Have you ever seen such a bunch?! Could all this be due to a community-wide hormonal imbalance, or something in the water perhaps? I don’t know, but one thing I do know is you should avoid visiting this place – especially during the festive season, as you will undoubtedly be relieved of your money as well as your presents in exchange for a beating, if you are even lucky enough to get a chance to buy them first, that is.

If there can be said to be an abundance of a ‘worst’ kind of **** in one particular place, Luton is no exception, you will find their plague to be prevalent here, conjuring the rhetoric question; ****, what is the point of YOU?

Top 50 worst places to live in England 2022 as voted for by you