It may alarm you to discover that Hull’s chav infested Bransholme estate has a younger sister, well not so much sister as deformed runt that clearly should’ve been drowned at birth. That mutant sibling is the North Bransholme estate. Accessable by one road in and one out, this filthy dump was built in the late 70’s and has been in the process of demolision ever since. Firstly brick by brick by the smackhead inhabitants and then by Hull’s obscenely corrupt council. The sort of people who live here really have to be seen to be believed, as unfortunately I know all too well having been imprisoned in this wasteland for many of my formative years. As soon as you arrive here you can almost hear the sound of duelling banjos. Huge gangs of ferral children can be seen everywhere, some as young as 3 or 4, and all invariably carrying some kind of primitive weapon. Upon closer inspection many of these scruffy urchins can be seen to possess oversized heads, cross eyes and numerous other genetic defects. Obviously a consequence of the extremely small gene pool. You also see tribes of morbidly obese woman pushing prams containing more mutant webfooted offspring, and then tagging along several feet behind you stumble upon her dischevelled 6 stone smackhead husband. Should you get close enough you will always find the experience nicely furnished with a blizzard of foul language, screaming and a horrid odour of sweat, faeces and sputum. It’s often unclear whether the odour is from the bog-eyed chimera in the pushchair or from the adults themselves, but the aroma is nonetheless unforgettable. Aside from the poverty striken oiks, the estate is also feet deep in chavs and chavettes. Even these are rather pathetic specimens. The chavettes still wear attire that more discerning scallettes would have discarded many moons ago and usually look like they’ve had their make-up applied by Stevie Wonder. Strangely despite the overwhelming poverty, many of North Bransholme’s chavettes make Lisa Riley look positively anorexic. Goodness knows how you get so fat on a diet of Gregs pasties, tab ends and condemned economy burgers. Then of course you have yellow-toothed scroats by the shedload. Seemingly all of the estate chavs are smackheads as is evident by the rampant theiving, glazed expressions and dribbly chin. Make no mistake though, these skinny baseball capped tossers still possess a swagger and an attitude worth of Mike Tyson and even a casual glance remotely in their half of the same hemisphere will result in hilarious posturing and indecipherable abuse along the lines of ‘Ah’ll fuckin’ smack yer you daft c**t’. Another thing that should be noted about males in this area is the bizzare way they walk. It can only be described as the walk of a neandathal carrying a role of carpet under each arm who’s just s**t his pants. This amusing posture is excelled only by the dialect of these cloth-headed cretins. The F word is used liberally, between every word if possible and occassionally two times per word. i.e ‘wot’s that f*cker f*cking looking at, f*cking daft f*cking c*nt’. You get the idea. This applies to chavettes too. To hear these exact words you need do no more than walk into either of the two horrific looking bars that serve North Bransholme’s entire nightlife needs. The Pennine Rambler and Skippers. A hostile welcome is guaranteed just as surely as a Giros drop onto doormats in this insalubrious neighbourhood.