Take a classic small English market town in the London commuter belt. Bolt an enormous post-war pre-fab council estate onto the side and fill with s**m. That’s Princes Risborough.
This estate is so incredibly downmarket they actually had Sky television in the eighties before the dishes came out – it got pumped in by wire by some unscrupulous company. There are several prominent and extremely inbred c**v dynasties based there, though in fairness the last murder between them – involving a hatchet – happened back in the nineties. There is isn’t much to do in Risborough, choices for the discerning young yob are:
- Hang around in Budgens car park, letting down car tyres and intimidating any lone women.
- Barricade the library French-fisherman-style with their prams.
- Attempt to set fire to the skating half-pipe in Wades Park.
- Buy a donna-kebab and wipe kebab-fat across shop windows in the high street.
- Being fat and stupid. And ugly.
- Drinking in the local playground (across the road from Budgens carpark) and chucking bottles around.
- Cutting themselves.
Sadly they can’t hang around the local Spar any more because it shut. People with money were too afraid to go there.
The local thickos usually start their criminal records while at “Top School”, the local secondary modern cesspit (anyone who can read goes to a local grammar school or comprehensive instead). Upon leaving at the first opportunity they mostly become apprentices at Molins, a factory that makes cigarette-making machinery. After fifteen years sweeping the floors there they try a few weeks at the Esso garage before signing on. They generally die in their mid-to-late forties.
Hot-spots: the entire town centre, estate (on the north side of the town), petrol station and all public amenities. Nice people do live in the town, they just stay away from the town centre as much as possible. The shops are dying as a result and soon the town will resemble the wasteland in “Escape From LA”.
Should you find yourself there, just keep driving.