The Civic, Kebab shops and Chippies on Palatine Road.
Dear Comrades,
I must sadly nominate the area I come from which is full of the biggest ***** I have ever seen, and not in a literal meaning too, the number of ***** I’ve seen doing thier larger than life impressions of the Michelin Man, or Mr Blobby in trackies in Benchill has to be seen to be believed.
Now I have to confess here, I like the scally way of dressing, you know, as a sort of integrating with the wild side of our streets, a bit like when you wake up in the morning and announce to your significant other that you’re going to have a Vasectomy, I might wear the trackies, have the bling bling, but I sure as hell don’t act like some of them do here.
Wythenshawe, in South Manchester, is famous for being the largest council estate in Europe, and naturally the hardest council estate ever seen, just because the name is notorious, ‘innit bruv’. The names Benchill and Sharston will strike fear into them gunrunners from Moss Side’s hearts, it will, but actually Wythenshawe is not a bad area to live in, if it wasn’t for one major problem… the fact that the two busiest parts of Wythenshawe are the Civic Centre on Market days, and the JobCentre near Simon House. Of course, that gives you an idea of the quality of lives these people lead.
And the curse of Wythenshawe has spread itself to the areas lying just outside. Places like Northenden, nice middle class places to live you would think, but no, the nice houses are deceptive. Northenden has a vicious underbelly of Alcopop fuelled, McKenzie worshippers.
They congretate outside the late shop, and talk to the Asian ‘stunna’ who works there. Now this ‘stunna’ is a nice bloke really, but hes in his late 20’s, drives a Honda Civic (that ***** white car you see parked outside it… look for it) and dresses like a **** all the time. Its like a light to a moth, ‘one of our own done good, innit?’ they bleat, mouths full of greasy KFC two doors down, if they can afford some that is. They all crowd into the late shop and chat to the bloke, sitting on the counter, eyeing up any ‘fit in’t he?’ customers who have the mispleasure to walk in. I realised my mistake, one day, coming home from work, I weaved around a barren and dangerous oasis of upturned BMX bikes left strewn outside the front door, got in to get my customary drink, walked up to pay, and this ******** tried the eye contact thing on me, you know, to show she was interested in me. It was a really surreal moment, here was a bulbeous frog, illuminated by a purple and green lecoqsportif jacket, eyes bulging and goggling my way, one pudgy finger twirling with her blonde and extended highlighted hair, in a supposedly senseous maneouver, and me. I stood no hope dear website. 🙁
Dresswear amongst these Northenden peasents consist of gold, gold, a trackie in winter, revealing top exposing thier flat ****, or bulging kebab-inflated bellies’, and the guys in hoodies, looking ‘moody’ on thier bikes with no brakes. Just the same as thier poorer cousins in Wythenshawe, but they actually live in the same place as me.
I see them too when heading to town on a nightout. Walking to the bus-stop they hang around the Chippies near Church road, on bikes and with the moody hoodie look. Its like thier own nightclub before they actually manage to get into 21s in town (Which I freqeuent… but only because I like the music) . They all congretate on the steps outside the Clay Oven, shrill voiced and Alpha male esque, except for the fact that they qualify as pond life specimens, not highly desireable males.
I could go on and on about what the curse of Wythenshawe has done to the town where I was born and raised, but I’ll leave you with these words.
‘I’m moving as soon as I get a job’
Says it all, doesn’t it really?
