Preston, a town with a fine history. The place of the Guild Festival. The birthplace of such luminaries as John ‘I’m Free’ Inman and Nick ‘Wallace and Gromit’ Park. Set in the heart of beautiful Lancashire it is a place surrounded by green hills and sparkling rivers.
But what’s this? Glancing through my C**v-O-Scope I spy the unmistakable stink signatures of myriad C**v and Chavettes, greasing their way along this North West town’s highways and byways and as the hours of the day pass into night the glow given off by their chunky gold jewellery begins to interfere with the delicate instruments aboard the Hubble Space Telescope. Houston, we have a problem, a C**v problem, and it appears to be getting worse.
MacDonalds on Market Street is to C***s like a magnet to iron filings (remember those from chemistry at school? C***s don’t because they do all of their learnin’ on the mean streets!). Many a C**v has met his future birth partners here. Don’t be fooled though – if there are none outside all it means is that they’re inside, usually upstairs, throwing food and abuse at all the good looking healthy types that the MacDonalds television adverts assure us now eat in there (though not being a regular at ‘Maccy D’s’ as the colloquialism goes, I couldn’t possibly comment).
And don’t think that by steering clear of the Clown’s House of Flattened Meat you will be able to avoid the C**v menace, oh no, because they can often be found wandering around inside St George’s ‘mall’ like extras in a George A Romero movie, bouncing along in a gaggle like the groups of blinged up primates that they are.
Various areas of Preston act as spawning grounds for these satanic human stains – places like Ingol, Ashton, Holme Slack and Brookfield. Oh yes, stay away from the Field of the Brook, for ’tis a mighty brave or foolhardy soul who ventures there without Jet Li and Chow Yun Fat for company. In these parts they tell of a Super C**v made entirely of gold and Burberry . . .
It’s too late, the needle of my Chavometer is nudging off the scale. The life force beacons of the ordinary citizens of this place are dimming, dimming, dimming . . .
We’re. All. Doomed.