Everything Greenman12 says is the truth, but not the ONLY truth, hence I feel Norwich deserves an alternative perspective. Norwich is a good enough town to provide considerable shelter from the chavalanche that holds undeniable presence here. Riverside is indeed the prinicipal magnet for tracksuited retards; it has a bowling alley – the ultimate participant sport for the white underclass (heavy objects, loud bangs, and rules a colobus monkey could follow – who could resist?). And after dark, the obligatory drinking hole for those whom evolution missed – Lloyd’s. I suggest avoiding this place by night unless arson is on your mind; in which case, please, let me give you a lift – I’ve got matches too. Ditto for the rest of the Riverside complex. Enter this place on a Saturday afternoon and you feel extremely out of place in untorn jeans and a politically-themed T shirt. C**v families come here for their once-a-year posh dinner. It’s that s**t. And don’t even get me started on Time. Just don’t.
Please be advised, however, that Norwich has plenty of places bereft of our quasi-human kappa enthusiast. At night, beyond Prince of Wales St, there are several places where murder by crazed stabbing does not cross your mind, and pink upcollared T shirts and pre-torn jeans are NOT everywhere you look. Many pubs cater for live bands (you won’t find c***s here, beyond semi-c**v students, who are a minor threat – that is to say, they can at least read a newspaper article that isn’t peppered with bold type and commissioned by Rebekah Wade). The history and art of this town is the supreme counter-balance to the s**t on our cultural shoe, and thus far has preserved it as an attractive place for Europeans, musos and other citizens of an alternative mind. The university presence is another saving grace.
Norwich is alright. It’s NOT Chelmsford. If you’re a c**v, there’s plenty to do, but you can find a 99p Big Mac, ten Mayfair and a park bench in any town. Of course, I am under no illusions, it will probably get worse. For now however, Basildon seems a hundred miles a way… at least. Just steer clear of Riverside if your gene count is anything approaching normal. There’s a severe shortage in that place. And I know. I f*****g work there.
Norwich was once an impressive City in East Anglia with a great agricultural and manufacturing history. One of the few pleasant towns that can successfully pull off a mix of new and old architecture, Norwich in recent years has succumbed to the devil spawn youth of New Labour: the C**v. Like nuns in a cucumber field, they stand out infamously with their state-of-the-art mobile phones permanently attached to their ear, “wipe clean” track-suit bottoms, vomit coloured caps, spotlessly blinding footwear and heavy jewellery that would get have had Liberace green with envy!
The cars driven by the c**v and c******e are often small hatchbacks that are more useful for pootling around town. They are given big exhausts that a noise that they would hope be mistaken for a Ford Mustang V8 and a set of oversized alloy wheels. They drive around town with their c**v passengers who bounce around to the beat like demented monkeys in a cage. In the evenings the cars congregate outside the Morrisons and Big W car parks in the Riverside area, tyres screeching and music blasting out to the annoyance of nearby residents. To win over the appreciation of their peers, c***s pull handbrake turns in the car parks…as if their cars are the only ones blessed with such a skill.
For the non-driving c**v and c******e in Riverside, they can sample the delights of Hollywood Bowl, the UCI cinema and bars such as Squares (a bit seedy) and Brannigans (for more upmarket c***s). When the bars close, the Time nightclub is very popular for the arrogant little tikes. Quite what the attraction is of an overcrowded dance floor, continuously repetitive music, continuously standing in queues and waiting for ages to get served at the bars, I do not know.
On the northern limits of the City Centre is Magdalen Street, where the c**v community can be found going about their daily business. Second-hand shops aplenty to keep them inspired with what tat to deck out their council flats with. Mobile phone shops have sprung up in recent years and the window displays keep the c***s amused in the same way as a peepshow. On this street next to the flyover is the epitome of 1960’s red brick architecture, the Anglia Square shopping centre, Here are the discount stores and the lifeblood for c**v incomes: Cash Converters. Here, you can “buy back” the stereo probably nicked from you a fortnight ago.
Walk further north along Magdalen Street and you will find a rather special television studio. Yes, Norwich should earn a special place in the heart of c***s and chavettes everywhere because it where “The Trisha Show” is recorded.
Norwich, capital of East Anglia, and medieval jewel of the broads… or so you would think. Upon entering the city on the A11 you are welcomed by a sign say “Welcome to Norwich, a fine city” This in it’s self proves that c***s can read, as they clearly think this is some kind of an invite to them.
With the majestic towers of the Mile Cross estate obscuring the view of the Norman cathedral, the C***s can rest assured that from their sateltite festooned ghetto, they may never need see a building made of anyhting other than breeze block again.
Of course should these vile pieces of provincal monkey toss wish to decorate the cockroach infested hovels that they call home, they can take a trip “up city” and visit the splendid Anglia square, the only shopping area in britain still to use the word precinct. Here can be found one of the 2 branches of QD that the city enjoys, wher nothing costs over £5, or indeed will last longer than 5 days.
For an eveings entertainment lets meet our Elizabeth Duke wearing chums, oops, sorry C***s outside TopShop in the Haymarket, before walking in a stinking, festering c**v convoy down to Yates en-route to the Riverside developement to have “a right gud farking nyte”. The handy thing about the Riverside is that as the name suggests it is by the River (many c***s are still to work this out), and as such, there is every chance that weighed down by Smirnoff ice and a kebab lovingly prepared by some hairy arsed Turk called Ozzy on Prince of Wales road, that several of them a year are lost. Their partially decomposed bodies are usually dreged out of the river 3 days later, half way to Great Yarmouth, the fleshn may rot, but the soverign rings and hoop earings strangly remain.