Welcome to the cesspit of the universe, where evolution took a break and spat out this breed of useless slack-jawed yocals with less IQ than a glass of water, and told them to breed with their sisters over and over and over.
The general places of worship for these mutated gorillas are of course the Town Centre, the place of worship for the damned rapper wannabes in the traditional fake tracksuit and fake shoes, eg. “RockSport” “Turf 90” and the traditional blend of pound shop clearance sale goodies. Of course those who hang around McD’s throwing chips at “Nerds”, which amounts to anyone who has a higher IQ than 3 or anyone who can spell 3 letter words.
Anyone who even thinks of passing through Rochdale might be advised to take a safer route, eg. a rickety bridge over the Grand Canyon, or doing breaststroke through the river Styxx, or maybe an Al Quaieda training camp during a nuclear test. The highlight of the general conversations include who’s hardest, who you’re going to fancy “4eva” (For the next two weeks, and the chavettes seem to fancy anyone above regular intelligence, ie. someone who can easily organise a set of numbers mixed up 1-3).
Regular activities for the s**m of Rochdale include petty theft of naff objects, looking for cheap crap in pound shops, buying sovereign rings with a real pound coin in! terrorising old women and generally being self-obsessed tax-dodging twats.
The one good point you can take pleasure in knowing is that they generally like beating each other senseless, possibly in a futile attempt to destroy their own population, but to no avail. The sweet smell of diesel-created carbon monoxide fumes and the smell of a rank greasy kebab house, where you’d rather eat the fat sweaty owner than the food. We could go on for days.
You have a choice, visit Rochdale, or have your gonads beaten 800 times with a rusty sledgehammer wielded by a German bodybuilder… I’ll get the hammer.