If for whatever reason you should visit this rotting corpse of a harbour town – presumably for the go kart tracks or the aquarium – you should know that any poor soul who strays into the feral residential areas is presumed dead until seen again.
During your visit should be able to enjoy the cobbled streets of the town centre and the beautiful Solway sunset for a whole three seconds before a Vauxhall Corsa roars by pulling a wheelspin, booming the latest Clubland CD, and polluting the air with a huge cloud of Co2 as the passenger leans out and hurls a McFlurry at the first unfortunate individual they clap eyes on.
You’ve probably heard of the C**v. It is argued that Maryport is the C**v Capital of West Cumbria; But don’t openly voice that opinion in the nearby cheap shopping bazaar of Workington or you may incur the rage of the ‘Wuk’itun Massiive’ C**v tribe, and they’ll drag you down an alley and “smash ya face in liiiike” for undermining their claim to unsurpassable degeneracy.
If you get the urge to explore, try not to linger too long on the same council estate as the local C***s may suspect you of contesting their territory, and will therefore proceed to issue you a verbal warning which sounds something like: “Wot ya fink yer doin eyyyyyyyy!”
The local C***s take great pride in their seemingly-destitute estates; don’t let the broken brick walls, filthy rubbish-filled gardens and pavements carpeted in dog muck lead you to think otherwise!
The further you venture from the town centre is the further you venture from civilised society, and eventually you will stumble into areas so abominable even the services daren’t enter. They seem to become more and more aggressive as you explore deeper. Hang around these estates long enough and you may even encounter a merry band of unemployed tracksuited C***s; it is at this point you may very well perish, be asked for a lighter, receive verbal abuse or be completely ignored.
For your own personal safety please refrain from entering any bushes as you will end up with a nasty case of Cactus Leg from all the needles that’ll be sticking out of you.
The buses of Maryport lead the world in entertainment and comfort, as the C***s are only too happy to bring their domestics onto the bus for all to witness; but make sure you beat your fellow audience members to the luxury seats towards the back which are conditioned with fresh Stella Artois and cushioned with chewing gum. If you’d prefer to go for a walk you can stroll along the lovely green areas and admire the quad bike tracks filled with rainwater and dog excrement.
The C***s of Maryport have battled the Polish C***s over control of the estates for decades, resulting in rampant vandalism, child gangs, and the council shamelessly abandoning such estates to their terminal decline.
Sadly for the Maryport ones, their reign of terror is being challenged by a far more anti-social breed of delinquents from as far as Preston, who have been evicted from their previous thirty accommodations for engaging in every flavour of sordid anti-social behaviour known to man. These include, but are not limited to: Regular assault; Indecent exposure; Playing music at full volume 16 hours per day; Drunk and disorderly; Public drug use; Theft. Maryport seems to be the end of the line for these brazen offenders, and in some cases these such individuals have taken over entire neighbourhoods, which are marked with twice – sometimes even thrice – the amount of dog muck of a regular Maryport estate, which to the C**v species is a crystal-clear sign of incontestable dominance.
Unfortunately it was too late to demolish the entire town when the docks and mines closed for business, so now we have a mere zombie of a town filled with charity shops, cheap supermarkets and a slew of closed independent shops which, as we’ve learned from the nearby town of Whitehaven, is a clear sign of irreversible decay.
The Maryportians only have the annual Blues Festival to look forward to, which the C***s attend with only drinking and pugilism in mind. Other than this, C***s will travel to Workington to engage in their daily feast in McDonald’s carpark where they will worship their salt-ridden-rubbish providers by blasting tunes from their Corsa.
Despite their record-breaking levels of debt, perpetual unemployment and soul-crushing depression, the C***s of Maryport tend to be a merry folk who throw house parties almost every night, despite having nothing to actually celebrate.
If you are considering a move to Maryport but have outgrown your Chavdom, fear not; you will be accepted into the walking-stick crew who have mastered the art of scrounging PIP in modern Britain and spend their days pole-vaulting between the betting shop and the pub.
The ‘other people’ who have enough sense to avoid these lifestyles altogether live as recluses who complete their business in the town with maximum haste before barring the door and jamming the earplugs in. If you fit into this category and still fancy the move, make sure you’re as close to the town centre as possible, because the moment you venture uphill, it’s all downhill from there; with the infamous ‘Bangla’ estate sitting on the very peak of that hill like a rotten cherry on a decrepit cake.