Skegness cannot easily be described to those who have not experienced its uniquely wrist-slashing bleakness and the true sense of hopelessness that hangs heavy in the air of this insipid little seaside hovel. From the moment you arrive until the time you flee this c**v-infested scab of a town, you are relentlessly stunned at what you are witnessing. You simply find it unbelievable that a place like this exists outside the pages of a Stephen King novel.
The local residents are, without doubt or exception, the ugliest collection of individuals on the face of the planet. In scenes resembling a Joseph Mengelola inspired vivisection experiment, the native inhabitants of “Skegvegas” roam the streets like the walking dead. Milling around the inappropriately named high street the directionless and decaying citizens occasionally bump into another local, groan the words ‘A’right me dook’ then shamble onward. The preferred means of locomotion for many of the residents over he age of 19 is the colloquially named “pavement porche”. The numbers of these devices on the streets of Skegness are staggering resulting in there being more purveyors of motorised scooters in the town than car dealerships. The more spritely of the locals are occasionally seen on a pair of crutches stolen from the nearest Boots. Every f****r over 12 smokes 40 duty-free a day and is the only reason the average age of the population remains stubbornly at 83.
Those who somehow manage to raise themselves out of the quagmire of the town flee for the big city lights of Lincoln. However most are condemned to continue the cycle of teen pregnancies, domestic violence and selling caps with the latest c**v catch-cry or diabetes inducing Skeg rock. Other local delicacies include chips in curry sauce that resembles what is excreted by pig with the squits and Batemans, a local pint that is only drunk by men born before the war.
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 f****r in Boston, them Wainfleet inbreds.