South East

Sidcup – Hell On Earth
I can’t claim to have ever lived in Sidcup (Thank God), but I did have the extreme displeasure of spending an hour and a half in quite possibly the pikiest (sic) place in Britain.

Being an extremely foolish individual, I took the extraordinary step of applying to this dismal dive for a two year job. The interview was most forthcoming (I now suspect this was because I was one of only half a dozen individuals in the country with both the ignorance and the abject lack of a sixth sense to send them my CV).

After a non-descript three hour taxi/train/tube journey, I arrived at what the locals quaintly refer to as a ‘train station’. Escher at his most abstract would never have dreamed of even drawing a place like this, never mind actually building it. Every timber of this ludicrous structure was clearly placed at random by a blind, drunken, stoned Irish builder with vertigo and a strong desire to win the Turner prize.

How grim is your Postcode?

Needless to say, a taxi rank was not forthcoming. Instead, I discovered I had to head down a near-vertical flight of faux-concrete stairs to a dusty wild-west-esque dirt track populated by several 9 carat gold chain adorned ***** with something approaching a full set of teeth between them.

At this point, I must point out that I was wearing a rather nice suit, and thought making a quick exit to the taxi office to get away from the ravening hordes was a potentially life-saving action. Oh, how very foolish I was. I can’t remember the name of the company (I have since been told that regressive hypnotherapy might be able to help, but that recalling the events of that day would likely rip any residual sanity from my traumatised mind). Needless to say it was some ****’s name – Tracy’s, Dawn’s, Sharon’s or the like.

Figuring I was past the point of no return, I entered a hovel tastefully decked out in third-world shanty-town décor, and talked to the aforementioned **** owner-ess.

“Perchance may I trouble you for the hire of a taxi-cab”, I intoned.

“Taen minits, autside”, spat the 20 year old, acne-ridden, chewing gum toting ****, as her four children ran screaming around the ‘office’.

With a quick prayer to the Lord for either my salvation, or a massive ‘accidental’ pre-emptive nuclear strike from our dear cousins over the Atlantic, I headed out into the battleground of *****-**** street one again, and awaited my inevitable demise.

Luckily, a few minutes later, as the ***** were massing on the horizon, a maroon Mercedes appeared, and whisked me away. The driver of this conspicuously middle class vehicle tore through the gears, and I breathed easy once again.

My joy, unfortunately was short lived. No sooner had we turned a corner, than the not-very young cabbie began regaling me with stories of his sexual exploits. Whips and chains were the predominant topic, and his 50-year old girlfriend was the allegedly not-unwilling recipient of said attention. I sang loudly and out of tune in a vain attempt to drown him out, but the hint was not taken and his profane tales of elderly bondage continued until I was deposited at my destination. He offered me a lift after the interview, but I politely informed him that I would rather eat my own testicles while sawing off my head with a plastic spoon than suffer his company a second time.

Post-interview, I insanely decided to take the bus back. An ****** family of forty ***** awaited me, squatting in their ‘mobile home’, and while no excrement was actually in evidence, the stench suggested that the ’50 pence per bag’ manure collectors were soon to make a killing. I managed to hold my breath for nearly three minutes before throwing myself forcibly from the bus, much to the amusement of the local ****. Fortunately, the shared brain cell of the local townies was high on half a bottle of poppers they had stolen from the local Ann Summers, and I was able to make good my escape.

I could go on for hours more about my journey back to the station, but my therapist has just left the room, screaming and clawing out his eyes. Needless to say, my 90 minutes in Sidcup will likely haunt me for the rest of my life. I write this only in the hope that my words will stop any other innocents falling prey to the hell that I have just been through.

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