Apparently there are only about 70 licensed *** shops in the UK. Well, at least three of them are along the Wellingborough (or “Welly”) Road in Northampton, which may explain why the ***** breed so fast there.
There aren’t any interesting jobs in Northampton; most people work for Barclaycard or other boring service companies. Therefore a good range of pubs and bars has sprung up so that call centre drones can drink themselves into oblivion as soon as they fight their way through the traffic jams. Again, the Welly Road is the epicentre of Northampton’s drinking culture, with pubs you’re best advised not even to walk past for fear of being stabbed and others which are more benignly ****** like the SPP (Sir Pickering Phipps). On Friday night the Welly Road is the main cruising strip for clapped-out XR3s and Novas with big stereos, underage passengers and spotty **** drivers. Thoughtfully the council have built a one-way loop at the town centre end and the Abington Park end so ***** can easily change direction without having to negotiate tight roundabouts in their spliffed-up state. The serious-drinking ***** can hang out in St Giles’ churchyard, although there’s a slight risk of bumping into the resident goths who can still buy black lacy clothes from The Black Rose (although goodness knows where they get the patchouli oil these days).
The spiritual home of the Northampton **** is the Weston Favell shopping centre, which despite already having an enormous Tesco Extra has also attracted a new Lidl just outside, like a fly to a bucket of *****. Look for the stylish plastic “tubes” across Lumbertubs Way – probably constructed to discourage ***** dropping bricks on passing cars – and marvel at the crazy escalators designed for trolleys as well as pedestrians. The whole place smells of **** and joss-sticks, a bit like a student bedroom, and there’s a car accessory shop in the basement where you can **** up your Nova.
How grim is your Postcode?
Ultimately though, Northampton isn’t that bad in absolute terms. It’s not far from Milton Keynes, Corby or Luton, and the chavitational forces created by those circles of hell help to attract a goodly proportion of the Three Counties ***** away from Northampton.
Northampton, a once-proud market town with its own identity and a long, distinguished history of boot and shoe manufacturing has now fallen victim to the Burbonic plague. Some blame this on the close proximity of Corby (AKA “Little Scotland”, the place with the lowest life expectancy levels in the whole of England), whilst others blame it on the fact that Northampton (or “Norfam’un”) became a London overspill town in the late 1970s. Whatever the reason, Northampton is now as ****** a town as you’re ever likely to find. Abington Street in particular is a **** magnet, though the sight of all the “goffs” and “grungers” ******* about is enough to make any lone **** quicken his swagger by about fifty percent for fear of one of “them weirdos” trying to bum him. Wellingborough Road is fine for the advanced **** spotter, as it is virtually impossible to walk from Abington Square to Abington Park without being accosted by some zit-faced, trakkie-clad ******* asking for “30p so I can phone me mum” or offering to buy a cigarette from you. The fearless may wish to check out the Grosvenor Centre and the Weston Favell Centre, both of which are hideously ugly feats of “don’t give a ****” mid-seventies architecture and therefore attract the aesthetically ignorant charvers in their hundreds. Here, the gangs of chinless, gimlet-eyed, shifty louts congregate outside Tesco Extra and HMV, daring each other to gob on old folk or clobber disabled / mentally defective shoppers “for a laugh”. ****** hangouts include virtually every nightclub and bar, in particular those on Bridge Street, whilst the “family ****” may be located in Aldi, Lidl or Netto – we’ve got them all. The **** demographic is spread far and wide, but most of the hardened ****** and benefit cheats live in what is locally known as “the Eastern District”, a densely-packed clutch of incredibly rough estates with inviting names like Ecton Brook, Lumbertubs, Goldings, Lings, Blackthorn and Rectory Farm. Local postal workers have been known to change these names to “Rectum Brook”, “Scumbertubs” and “Smackthorn”, as many an innocent postie has been verbally and / or physically abused by the residents of these districts on his rounds. Police investigation usually results in an oft-repeated claim that “I ent dun nuffink”. Days out for the **** family usually take in the annual balloon festival, the annual street fair in the town centre, or trips to Sol Central or the Sixfields multiplex.
The ***** harrass the mini moshers at the top of Abington Street and in the graveyard nearby. Usually found around the ends of streets in St James and Semilong, or masturbating over their cars in the Argos car park late at night.
The uniform is a white Eminem style cap and blue tracksuits, tucked into socks, of course!