My work entails a lot of travelling around the country and I have the pleasure of spotting ***** in a variety of locations. I would have to say though that Stockport really is the pinnacle.
The bloody place exudes awfulness, I first realised this about five years ago on a Friday afternoon visit. The sheer number of unemployables was mind blowing. I was uncomfortably aware that I was wearing a suit and hadn’t attempted to disguise my car as a Ferrari – they probably thought I was a copper although if the old bill have any sense they’ll infiltrate Stockport’s criminal class by dressing in nicked Lacoste sweaters over white tracksuit pants tucked into oversized Rockports.
Take a trip along Merseyway, in a triumph of 1960’s planning Stockport council concreted over the Mersey and the resulting precinct is a study in provincial English ****, here you can mingle with the local ****** population. Curiously, Stockport actually has some rather pleasant outlying towns and it is as though the town centre is a giant plughole, drawing in all the ****.
The average Stopfordian seems to roll out of his bed around eleven, take a 192 – or better still a deathtrap Corsa with a stolen stereo more powerful than it’s engine – down to sign on and then simply hangs around in the town. They aren’t even entertaining like the drunks in Manchester they’re just, well… ****!
The women seem to spend their days dragging their numerous snot-nosed offspring around the dismal shops pausing only to hurl obscenities at little Britney or Rooney if one of them should show any displeasure or ask ‘is that my daddy?’ of any of the layabouts mummy might meet on her travels.
But Stockport by night is an altogether different prospect, think Wild West meets Fallujah on a bad day. Mindless, Stella fuelled fights are the norm and it’s really bad when the blokes start. Visiting aliens would think ‘are you looking at my bird?’ was a standard greeting. If you can walk from one end of town to the other of an evening without feeling apprehensive then you have either taken leave of your senses or are a prop forward in the SAS rugby team. Tony Blair needn’t worry about hospitals not coping in the event of a terror attack, Stepping Hill hospital has it’s own well practised mass casualty unit, just pray bin Laden’s boys don’t show up on a Friday or Saturday night.
Oh and one more thing – with a stunning lack of geographical knowledge Lamborghini have started flogging cars there, how any prospective buyers can get past the ranks of burberry capped arseholes leaning against the windows remains a mystery.
Stockport, what a hole. The local council have apparently been up in arms over content on this website. Sand and ostriches springs to mind.
Manchester: The Inconvenient Truth About Britain’s Second City
Reddish: The Ghetto of Greater Manchester
Brinnington, Stockport, aka Brinny
Macclesfield: for a lass born and bred in Stockport, this place is odd
Levenshulme: The Great Scally-Hipster War
Reddish, Stockport: The Ghetto of Greater Manchester – Part 2
Smacklesfield… I mean Macclesfield
Wilmslow – Hollywood of the North
Edgeley: The Land of Hopes and Dreams