The McCain factory looms over Scarborough like a potato Auschwitz

Living in Scarborough, North Yorkshire
Living in Scarborough, North Yorkshire

Back in 2013, there was a spate of murders among the druggie community in Scarborough. Most of the real problem ***** have been brought over from the North West by the council to fulfil some kind of grant for looking after heroin addicts, and for a while **** got serious in the bedsits around town. Don’t get me wrong, no one was particularly bothered about rising crime rates or the plight of some hopeless junkie with a knife in his chest. No, the tipping point came when the local shopkeepers realised this would hurt their profits in tourist season: Enough is Enough! They screamed in the local news. Then the police acted, put away the drug dealers, and the murders ceased.

That episode sums up all that is wrong with Scarborough for me. While many articles on ****, small towns rant about their local populace of *****, Scarborough’s chief ****-hole makers are the middle class. Legion upon legion of middle-aged, mouth-breathing, sandal-wearing, Ukip-voting morons who have given up on life for so long they wouldn’t pass a Turing test.

Everyone has the same look about them. The men here are wiry, shaven-headed, and have tattoos and a haunted look as if they’ve spent some hard time in the forces and then prison. They stoop menacingly to hawk up phlegm, which they cough out onto the pavement in glutinous brown wads. The women uniformly wear glasses with their hair dyed blond and short, and they’re so perpetually angry and unhealthy that their jowls wobble with each step.

How grim is your Postcode?

The McCain factory looms over the town like a potato Auschwitz, and a red pall of doom shrouds the area, as if the whole community is on the precipice of a diabolical disaster. Driving here is terrible – people have been known to die of misery waiting for a let out of a right hand turn. Crashing deliberately for a whiplash claim is the town’s foremost economic activity.

I would describe the night-life, or the council estates in greater detail, but that would require practical research I am unprepared to risk. Suffice to say I pity the few good people still stuck in this hellhole. For those few, I beg you, flee to the villages and hope the town slips beneath the sea, taking its buy-to-let, Daily Mail brigade down with it.

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