The rotting tomato of the world that is Skem, most notably its ridiculously overchavved shopping centre.
Ah, Skem. How beautiful you look, your concrete attachments like an extra foot attached to the head of a rat. How delicate and sublime is your shopping centre. But wait: there’s something on your previously unblemished face:
The Chav, like a great scar, has always inhabited Skem. From its birth (if it may be born: I think a method of creation reminiscent of Mary Shelley springs to mind) it has had the disease of Chavness, compared to other towns who have only just been infected by sleeping around. It is a mini Liverpool. A bit further inland maybe, and no Mersey to go and drown yourself in a drunken and drugged stupor.
Pity I’ve never been there. It would be a laugh.