All in all the locals, whilst obviously stark raving mad and having heads like dropped pies, are harmless enough. They largely prefer to stay indoors screaming at their televisions about how much they hate (in no particular order) foreigners (i.e. everyone not from Lincolnshire) city slickers from Lincoln, every fucker in Boston, them Wainfleet imbreds, most of the residents of Burgh, their neighbours, every member of their family and of course themselves. Indeed the real threat (if you discount the death traps that pass as fairground attractions and the monstrous, lecherous carnie/local crossbreeds that compliment your 12 year old daughter how fit she looks) is the hordes of fat toothless northerners that descend on the town for the summer. Like maggots crawling from a fetid corpse they stream out of their council flats from across the wider northern rust belt at the first sight of summer. Too poor and xenophobic to even consider a week on the costa del sol, they inch their way along the country lanes of rural Lincolnshire to experience the exoticism that Skeg has to offer. And what a treat the town has in store.
The town is one of the last outposts of white Britain, shielded from any cultured or cosmopolitan sensibilities. A place where they still talk about the time the first black man was seen in the town or the date of the opening of the first “Chinky” restaurant, Skegness provides chavs the safety and implicit reinforcement they so desperately seek. The promenade, in all its decaying 1950’s splendour is a monument to the least vibrant era in the history of the English people. Unspoilt by any attempt to ward off the corrosive power of the sea air or indeed the limitations of the lifespan of a neon light bulb, the front would look positively post-apocalyptic if it wasn’t for the teeming throng of chavs jostling to buy the most tasteless souvenir to take home to impress their mates with.
The Pier, a dilapidated and squalid Mecca for the chav, sits astride the pitiful excuse of a beach and just begs for an arsonists match to put it out of its misery. The North Sea in all its turgid brown glory, waves mockingly at the pasty-faced tourists who brave the water in a forlorn hope of some summer time frivolity. Flea bitten donkeys haw under the weight of grossly obese children who gormlessly inhale ice cream by the gallon.
And rising above it in all his manic glory prances the Jolly Fisherman. Like a mad King dancing while his kingdom burns, he beams down on all his s**t-stinking peasants. An angel of death silently screaming the town moniker “Skegness – it’s SOOOOO bracing!!” Obviously some wag’s attempt at understatement as bracing doesn’t begin to describe the shite weather regularly experienced there.
Most people who post on this site openly warn prospective visitors to avoid their particular shite-hole. I personally encourage anyone who can resist the urge to leave their car and enjoy the sea air steeped in the odour of brown vinegar and gangrene, to drive through this truely grim little town. To do so is to bare witness to the end game of the collapse of British civilisation. And who knows it might just inspire you to strive a little higher than our chav brothers and sisters.
“Skegness – it’s absolutely f*cked!!”