Whilst I admire greatly the efforts of my forebears, in whose writings on this website on Yarmouth and its equally ugly sister, Lowestoft, contain a great deal of truth and a good helping of humour, it seems to me that a new assessment be made of this poor wretch of a town.
Some ten years ago I moved from London to a small village outside of Yarmouth named Scratby. I rather fondly renamed it ‘scrapheap’ due to it having issues of a very different kind than those we are about to delve into. Leaving the villages aside however and turning our attention to Yarmouth we may begin to realise that very little has changed from the harsh truths found in those heroic speeches of the comrades who came before me in posting on this site their pitiful plea for the rest of the world to sit up and notice the sheer horror of the Yarco slum. Therefore my need is not so much about the town of ten years back when I first began to encounter it, but the pre or post apocalypse(however one chooses to see it) of today, mid 2013.
The word c**v has now become synonymous with the Adidas wearing, unemployed hooligan or slob. But if I may, for the case of Yarmouth, I would like to extend upon that somewhat in saying that in Yarmouth it is not simply the unemployed who can easily meet the attributes of the c**v, but indeed the employed also. By this I mean the vast number of perfectly law abiding, working people in the town who are in fact c***s no less than their aforementioned counterparts. The town is awash with people who have very bad taste in clothing, in jewellery, in style, in speech, in behaviour, in their eating and drinking habits. A walk around the marketplace will cause one to suffer a visual bombardment of the very worst kind. There will be droves of mostly overweight men and women and multitudes of children, nearly all of whom will be in cheap, tacky looking clothes from Burton or New Look, pushchairs will be scattered amongst the patrons who sit on the benches eating cheesy or gravy coated chips from one of the 150 chip stalls that litter the marketplace. There will be the blend of the two types of c**v which I identified, with some tracksuit clad types walking in a hurry, most probably to the jobcentre just around the corner from the marketplace, to those who can take life in their stride, no hurry to be any place, just time to chill out in the marketplace and stare at underaged c**v girls. Yet this is only the beginning of the visual ordeal that worsens with every street one ventures down.
Outside McDonald’s young c***s run amok. Screaming and shouting, gathering outside on the pavement to swallow whole cheeseburgers and stand around with a cup of coke like it’s a fashion accessory. Next door is KFC, opposite, at an elevated position, is Burger King, these three form a sort of invisible triangular force which draws all the mindless s**m to refuel for another day of bumming around the town – it could also be seen as the sort of epicenter of the spread of the virus which seems to only be on the increase in Yarmouth.
I have a friend, who due to a divorce has had to take up ‘digs’ in a large house on the terrible St Peter’s Road, which is sort of at the end of the equally dreadful King Street. I assure you, my fellow sufferers in saying that there is nothing saintly about this street. In essence it is a street of about 150 yards in length, running onto the God awful seafront, or ‘Golden Mile’ as some great comedian once termed it. It is a street with no hope, no soul and no goal. It is a mix of super low cost B&Bs, crappy KFC like takeaways, junk-selling convenience stores, pubs that look like the condemned buildings from a no-go zone and amongst it all is a mix of every kind of lowlife. Groups of ‘yoots’ stand around, kids run free like wild horses, playing with the passing cars, over-filled wheelie bins emit a foul odour of decay and disease. I do not exaggerate my friends, this is documented and real. Believe me.
At risk of going on without end I will leave you this mere snippet of Yarmouth to ponder over. This is but a tiny glimpse at the town of Yarmouth, to discuss all of it and to depict every avenue and every street, would, I dare say, be an undertaking of the highest order. One would need to dedicate one’s life for at very least six months to produce a work, probably in excess of 10,000 pages. Therefore, I humbly ask you to join me, with my small contribution to the cause in naming and shaming Yarmouth as one of the (drag) Queens of the Chavtown Aristocracy. Please visit at your own risk if you don’t believe me. Thank you for your time.