Shaw, trapped between Oldham & Rochdale like a fart between bum cheeks

I would like to begin by doffing my cap to the outstanding wordsmiths who have inspired me to post a review of the Shaw. On entering Shaw, slotted firmly between the cultural hotbeds of Oldham and Rochdale (Somewhat like a stifled farted trapped between the **** cheeks of a skinny jeans wearing Emo), one is presented with the Duke of York pub. It is a merry place of drink and chat, an establishment where a stranger can enter from the cold night’s air and have his teeth kicked in by the first gaggle of track suit wearing inbreeds that he meets.

Shaw is without a doubt the worst place I have ever had to live! It is unfriendly, poor, plagued by drugs, single mothers and work-shy white trash in knock off Paul and Shark sweaters and tracksuit bottoms. As you wonder down the high street you will reach a bar/nightclub called Coolers. When the pubs have shut up shop and wiped away the last pools of blood from their floors, the local pond life stagger down to this hip and happening nightclub to break bottles over each others heads, fracture each others jaws and **** each others wives and girlfriend in the piss stinking toilets.

The women all seem to have too many tattoos and no enough teeth! They all like to exclusively date other ‘Gorby’ men (Gorby being the term that all from Shaw are known by), it is not uncommon for one Shaw woman to have ****** an entire generation of townsfolk over a two to three year period. The spawn they produce all graduate from the local high school with first class ASBOs and commemorative ankle tags, provided by the local magistrate in conjunction with GMP.

As these bottom feeders stretch their wings and take flight into the wider world they are faced with a choice, labouring on a building site for a local **** head with his own construction set-up, or dealing cocaine cut so thin with glucose and baking power that you would have more of a buzz from downing two cans of Red Bull and a packet of Jelly Tots!

Our friend in Shaw fear change. They have an aversion to leaving the village limits, a trip to neighbouring Royton is like a trip to the moon for this **** hats. Once in Royton they like to boast about how much better Shaw is and how much ‘harder’ then lads in Shaw are. After a few fists have been thrown and a few pint glasses have been shoved into each other’s faces, the Gorbies hop into a taxi and head back to their mother ship for last orders and a trip to Coolers for a final fight.

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