Pontypool, a once proud town, was built on the blood, sweat and tears of our ancestors. They worked tirelessly in the mines and Ironworks to forge a community to be proud of. They gave us work men’s halls, libraries, schools and hospitals. Unfortunately things didn’t quite pan out as they planned. Thatcher ripped the industry from the valleys, leaving very few jobs in the area.
Pontypool council, ever fearful of being trumped by Thatcher, decided to finish the job that she started by systematically ripping the town apart. They knocked down the hospitals, built by our fore fathers, and shut down the schools that educate our children. They charge extortionate business rates to make sure that the town centre stays empty with no opportunity for improvement or jobs.
All these factors have made Pontypool a perfect breeding environment for ‘The C**v’. Having observed these creatures for the last 40 years or so, I consider myself somewhat of an expert on these ‘life forms’. The first thing you will notice about the C**v is the strict dress code they adhere to. Usually clad in the latest designs from ‘Sports Direct’, or if it’s a really special occasion (Birthday, Funeral, Court appearance) possibly something from ‘Newlook’ or ‘George’ at ‘Asda’.
The female C**v can sometimes be spotted at the school gate adorned in her pyjamas and slippers. Typically with a cigarette hanging from her mouth as she shrieks at little ‘Jaiden-Jordan-Paighton-Lee-Monella’ to stop being such a poff or she’ll come and batter them. Female C***s have many partners and most C**v offspring will have at least 6-7 fathers in their lifetime, along with a swarm of half brothers & sisters.
C***s favour large litters of children with a seemingly unshakable belief that they are best left to roam the streets as soon as they are able to walk. Indeed when most of the drug dealers and low-lifes in the area frequent your house I imagine that that the streets are by far the safer option. C***s of Pontypool, prefer to settle in Trevethin, but as their numbers have increased they can often be observed in other areas. They enjoy meeting up in their free time (when they aren’t at the probation office or stealing) in local car parks in their pimped up rides or if its giro day a trip to Weatherspoons helps to break up the week.
Older C***s have usually left their criminal ways behind them and settled down into a life on disability. They can be spotted easily as their disability cars are tripped out with spoilers and body kits. They often tell others of how they worked tirelessly in their youth, but on closer inspection this usually means they worked for a week in Woolworths in 1983 whilst on probation. C***s seem particularly vulnerable to back problems and other medical illness which are hard to cure (or prove). Probably from a life time spent crawling into other people’s garages and carry heavy loads of stolen goods. Astoundingly these illnesses do not in any way impede on other aspects of the C***s social life or activities.
Pontypool C***s are particularly aggressive and easy to anger. They often exhibit this aggression when confronted. Cries of ‘Wha tha f*k yo lookin at’ and ‘I’m gonna f*k yo right up!’ Seem to be a favourite. These are frequently aimed at persons smaller or more vulnerable than the C**v, unless they are in a pack.
The code of the C**v seems quite simplistic. Number 1) Hate the police (or Po Po as they like to call them) and number 2) don’t be a grass. This code is subject to change on any given day. Apart from that anything seems to be acceptable. Want to shag your brothers mrs? That’s fine. Don’t feel like bringing up your own kids? Totally optional. Seen your neighbour with something that you want? Go ahead and steal it, that’s absolutely fine. Who the f**k do they think they are anyway?
In essence Pontypool used to be an illustrious town, set in a picturesque South Wales Valley. It is now largely populated by marauding, brain dead C***s. The decent people of the town are being pushed out and diluted by this sickness. There is no hope. Do not come.