Yes, I know Salford has been done twice already, but it really is unspeakabally vile that nobody could ever hope to do it justice. But what the hell, I thought I’d give it a go anyway.

Salford’s biggest claim to fame, of course, is being the birthplace of the highly overrated artist L. S. Lowry, immortalized in song for drawing “Matchstick men and matchstick cats and dogs”. Of course if he were alive today, Mr Lowry would have plenty of Matchstick Chavs to draw, as very few of the younger members of Salford society are under 6 feet tall and they’re all skinny as rakes. This is in no small part due to their diet which consists almost entirely of Burger King and MacDonalds burgers, leaving them malnurished and overgrown thanks to their massive injestion of bovine growth hormone.

Mr. Lowry wouldn’t get much painting done today however, because within 5 minutes of setting his easel up some chav schoolkid who couldn’t be arsed showing up at one of the local low-security prisons that are euphamistically referred to as “schools” will have turned up trying to bum a fag. If no tabacco is forthcoming then the little freak would have no doubt set fire to the poor sod’s canvas, saving the art world from another one of his dire little scrawlings but doing nothing for his need to express himself creatively. Indeed, creativity is something that is slapped down at every opportunity by the locals, as is such outlandish notions as having a work-ethic or not wanting to stink like a filthy pesant who hasn’t bathed in a month.

Charles Darwin would have had a field day here, as Salford not merely proves the theory of evolution but actually allows a casual observer to witness the process in reverse. The long arms with their dragging knuckles, low sloping foreheads and incoherant grunts that seem to be some kind of language are truely something to behold. In another hundred years, the good people of Salford will have lost their opposable thumbs (which will b a blo c0s u n33d 1 2 txt ur m8s) and will be swinging from the lamp posts by their newly-acquired prehensile tails. Again, the bovine growth hormone may be a factor here, as may the vast carbon monoxide cloud that clings to the city like the rain cloud that is permanently overhead drizzling a miserable cold half-arsed kind of rain down on the place seemingly almost constantly.

The Salford Shoplifting City, a nasty little precinct that serves as the hub of what we’ll call, for want of a better term, Salford society, truely is Chav Mecca, as has been pointed out already. There are buggies every 20 feet or so, filled with some pasty looking Chav baby in a little miniature tracky and adoreable little white trainers (Aww, he looks so grown up!) just waiting to mow you down as the little bastard’s 14 year old mother pushes them along with no regard to their surroundings as they’re too preoccupied txting away on their tacky cheap Pay As You Go mobile shoplifted from Woolworths. If you’re lucky, you’ll get an apoligy should you be nailed by one of these wheeled menaces, the traditional apoligy taking the form of “Oy, wot your fukin problem?” or “Oy, u fukin blind?” or something along those lines. Should you be foolish enough to wonder into the outdoor market area on a day when there is no market on, you run the risk of being accosted by filthy-looking sexually frustrated old men who aren’t too concerned about your gender and will go for some hot tongue achun even if you also happen to be male (No, I’m not making this up, I actually did have this happen to me. I kicked the guy in the nuts and ran like f**k, but then again running like f**k is definately a skill that will serve you well in this hell hole).

If you know anything about fitting windows then you’ll never be out of work in Salford, bricks seem to be gravationally defiant in this place and will come sailing through any window pane that is foolish enough to be on the ground floor of your dwelling. In fact, if you’re a student and living in university accomodation, go for one of the high rise flats near the Shoplifting Centre, the higher the floor you’re on the better. The lift may be always full or broken and you’ll have a metric shitload of stairs to climb every day you’re brave/dumb enough to wonder outside, but at least the flying debris wont get high enough to put your window through.

To sum up, Salford is quite possibly the worst place on the face of the planet outside of downtown Bhagdad. If someone decided to nuke this miserable little town I’d shake their hand for the service they’ll be doing to the gene pool.



Top 10 worst places to live in England 2018