Sometimes life can be difficult. Consider the position of a **** inhabitant of Spalding, Lincolnshire. The town is essentially stuck at about 1953. It’s still a sleepy market town with social clubs, a civic (legitimised busybodies) society, Sainsbury’s, a flower festival, riverside walks and tearooms. In short, the **** is up against it. Those vast armies of ***** in nearby Peterborough (Pronounced ‘pee tar bra va’), Boston (Pronounced ‘Bust on’), and Wisbech (Pronounced ‘***** Central’) have it easy in comparison.
Despite these fearsome obstacles to the continuation of the lifestyle, the Spalding **** still clings to the land of his birth for three principle reasons :
1) Geest (a giant firm that processes most of the bananas in the UK) provides a variety of employment opportunities to fit in with the **** lifestyle of late nights. In addition the proximity to vast quantities of bananas is somehow strangely comforting for them.
2) A morbid fear of anything further than three miles from the McDonald’s drive through on the A16. This fear has a long history. In ancient times there is evidence of a war between the peoples of Spalding and Crowland (all of 10 miles away)
3) Family ties are still very strong (After we get married, can I still call you sis ?)
The Spalding **** thus has to concentrate on the chavisation of the town. Ambition is virtually unheard of amongst *****, and this gives us a clue to the odd breed that is the Splading **** – they just somehow fail to even achieve full chavdom.
For example the average **** will bedeck their wardrobe with various items Burberry or at least good fakes. The Spalding **** contents himself instead with a two-pound baseball cap from the discount shop ‘Scooby do’s’ clearly labelled ‘ BURBARRY’.
Another celebrated example is the occasion when a group of young ***** stole a car of a Friday evening. So far, so good, a ram-raid was planned, and ****-stardom beckoned. Then the whole effect was ruined by the choice of store – Poundstretcher, not even an attempt at Thresher, Halfords or Ernest Jones.
On the plus side, the town centre pubs can cater for the local *****. The Bass house and the Black horse will serve just about anybody. Local legend has it that the ‘Punchbowl’ (was ever a pub more aptly named) operates a system that is the reverse of a ride restriction test on a theme park ride. Namely anybody whose eyes reach above the level of the bar will be served. Allegedly.
One word of warning – the Spalding Flower parade attracts up to a quarter of a million people during the May day weekend. At this time the Spalding **** takes every opportunity to try and prove to the world what a dim-witted, in-breed, web-footed moron he or she is – and proud of it to. Becoming a proper **** would be move up the social hierarchy.