Sherborne, this hideous town and populace looks picture perfect to anyone visiting; beautiful buildings, clean and tidy public areas, a politeness that is unheard of in any large town. However if you see underneath the exterior there is a festering, filthy wound of bitterness and small town resentment for anyone whose ancestors haven’t plagued the town since the magna carta.
There is continual bitterness from the local inbreds to the admittedly privileged public school boys and girls…. unfortunately the local
tough boys are no match for the private [redacted] Boys school who, due to a lack of inbreeding, are about 6 inches taller and stronger than the goblins from the local [School we can’t mention by name].
After the locals leave school, there are a few choices:
- Work for Hunts or Valmyra Glass, the local
factory sweatshopsfine and upstanding employers.
- Become a rapidly ageing barmaid and have a number of kids by random, festival attending, degenerates.
- Leave the hell hole ASAP
- Remove yourself from the gene pool
- Marry your cousin.
The night life currently consists of going to one of the rapidly diminishing dives that allows you to drink after 11 pm. This includes the Half Moon, essentially a Wetherspoons without the half decent food. These [misguided business folk] spent £10k on a pizza oven that no one is [allegedly] interested in, and bizarrely offers ‘eclectic’ toppings such as pear and dolcelatte even though its customers have a less than sophisticated palate that is more used to roadkill. The pubs are closing down faster than coffee and charity shops are opening, amazingly.
The local police force seem to think they’re Robocops, even though they have the least dangerous beat possibly in the whole of the UK and [allegedly] have little to do except harass people they don’t like. The towns’ high street is basically filled with charity shops, estate agents and so many coffee shops that to turn a profit, Sherborne would have to consume enough coffee to fill an Olympic sized swimming pool… every day.
The yokels fill their empty existence by gossiping endlessly about everything and anything more interesting than their own minimum wage existence. These morons even have an expression for it: “Fart at the top of cheap street and by the time you get to the bottom, everyone will know you shat yourself.” Or something equally unfunny and cretinous. The other thing they do is get addicted to Ketamine. Which is unsurprising, given that the ultimate intention is to escape the town. Frankly though, the K heads are in a slot between the total losers who will never leave here and the ones brave enough to physically escape this hell hole.
The main pub is somewhere known as the Dingy Tip, aka the Digby Tap. True to its name, it’s [allegedly] a total dive whose existence is only sustained by extremely low rent proffered by the local robber barons [in the writer’s imagination, which is clearly a fantasy, we must add for legal reasons], sorry, aristocrats who own half the town due to the fact that 500 years ago they bullied a previous family of robber barons out of the area. That and the [fresh, quality and definitely not out-of-date] ales enables this [lovely place] to offer low prices. The landlord is a miserable, waxy-faced [lovely chap] who if he hadn’t [allegedly] been born to a rich family [would surely be doing something equally productive and definitely not highly libellous, despite his alleged and in the writer’s view alone] total lack of people skills or even a vague shudder of intelligence.
The customer base [allegedly] largely consists of people whose nasal cavities have lost their ability to respond to external stimuli and the surrounding smell of death, not to mention the alleged Colombian powder crammed up their noses, on a toilet that is comparable to the one in Trainspotting…. But dirtier [yet for legal reason is definitely not the toilets in the Digby Tap]. There exists a clique who feel they are the philosophers and the wise men of town, but whose real gravitas is simply generated by the fact that they have tragically been drinking there for 10 years or more, and have yet to be banned.
To live your life in this town is akin to being in purgatory… look up and you know life should be much better; look down and know that at least you don’t live in Yeovil…
The station should have a sign “abandon hope all ye who enter here.”