More special than Special Brew, Mansfield is the place to be when it comes to c**v spotting. Tarted-up Novas, Sierras and Escorts are de rigueur round and about the town of Mansfield. The handy location of the cinema complex, within a stone’s throw of both a Maccas and a KFC drive-thru ensures that the c***s and chavettes never get hungry, whilst tearing around the Gala bingo car park, or catching such cinematic classics as 2fast2furious or the more high-brow, Scarymovie3. The Safeway directly opposite also serves as a great stop off point, for post-coital fags and rolling papers and is an ideal place to ‘tank up’ ready for a hard night on the ‘circuit’ with your lady friend. Before actually hitting the c**v Mecca of the town centre, there are many hotspots along the way, which should not be overlooked.
All c**v overlords’, and wannabe gangstas are familiar with the Halfords car park located on the main road, it seems a natural arena for eager Ben Sherman sporting ruffians to deck out their chavwagons at cut-prices, and show off their rims and spoilers to each other before hitting the bright lights that the town centre provides. For the more discerning lady c***s this time can be spent either treating themselves to a manicure or sun bed in the nearby shops, or can be passed simply sitting on the surrounding wall in skin-tight white ¾ length tracksuits, smoking and texting their acquaintances, or hollering at ‘bitches’ to ‘keep their filthy hands off their man innit?’ For those with a touch more time on their hands a light snack or beverage can be obtained at one of the three nearby public houses, or for the bolder c******e, a quick trip to the clap clinic for the morning after pill can be achieved with little effort, in this timespan.
The four seasons shopping centre is an ideal c**v hangout, boasting a wide range of c**v shops, and handily leads directly to the bus station, where the younger chavlings are often to be found eating batter bits and supping 20/20 waiting for the 737 into Nottingham. For young c**v mothers there is the obligatory lift, for accessibility, and for beating their c**v offspring away from prying eyes. When actually inside the shopping mall, is it impossible to avoid c***s of all ages and sizes. Their presence is like a yeast infection- incredibly annoying, and multiplying by the minute. The baby Britney’s and Wayne’s of the world will be found in top-to-toe Adidas, throwing tantrums directly outside, hotly tailed by the obligatory overweight, smoking, 19 year old gutter-mouthed mother, sporting the latest in council estate chic.
For five-fingered discounts, the scumsters have a wide variety of outlets, with the boys hitting HMV or Discount Sports and girls favouring Superdrug and Claire’s Accessories, where they can easily lift garish hair colours, false nails and hoopy earrings by slipping them into the folds of their puffa jackets or their stomachs. The Tesco in the town centre is also targeted by phat-farm clad wigga-youths,
As for nightlife, come to Mansfield and you are guaranteed a night you will never forget. You will quite literally be scarred for life, if not by the glassing you may receive, then by the wrongness that will never leave you as long as you live. The Swan, Liquid and The Banque are where wall to wall Burberry will be witnessed and underage chavettes decked out in more gold than Mister T prove that when it comes to clothing, less is most definitely not more. It’s a special, special town, where the peasant underclass really does rule the roost, knocking back faux-Smirnoff Ices and blue WKD’s; the c***s bask in their own little paradise. Be sure not to miss the fights and brawls at kicking out time (generally over the parentage of some chavling or another), which really are something to behold. Any c**v worth their Fubu, will be proud to admit that, as the BBC documentary proved, Mansfield really does provide the most violent night out in the British Isles!
Mansfield could not be Mansfield without the constant blaring of sirens, car alarms and badly fitted nova exhausts. The blinding brightness of Reebok Classics or Lacosts, the clink, clink of bling bling, and the foul mouthed token fat slags on the busses into and out of c**v central. Lycra was made for the women of Mansfield, as were STD tests and sterilisation. Without c***s Mansfield would be a ghost town. There would be no one to club the elderly to death for a chip and pea supper, to keep Argos, the knock-off Next, or Barratt’s Shoes open or to finance Maccas, Bay Trading or Intersport. Come to Mansfield, you’ll never leave (at least not without contracting syphilis first.)