Stoke-on -Trent. My home city. As I gaze wistfully across green Cornish pastures to the remote little cove next to my home, I am forever grateful for the opportunity that came my family’s way that enabled us to escape from this terminally depressed and squalid excuse for a City.
The Potteries folk are by and large a friendly bunch (lets not talk too much about the git who charged my Mother £300 for one replacement bath tap or the brothel who’s sex worker was nicknamed “Killer” after enthusiastically servicing a client). The people are as I say quite cheery, but if you spend any time there you’ll soon discover that the inhabitants are caught in a time warp circa 1970. It’s all Mungo Jerry this and Woolworths Pick’n’Mix that. Sit in any lino floored end terrace pub and you’ll hear about the good old days when the bottle shaped ovens fired up on a Friday and Monday saw a plethora of plates, mugs and teapots being delivered to the four corners of the earth. That was over 60 years ago you sad f*ckers. It’s gone forever. Get over it. The air was black with smoke then you stupid, stupid imbeciles.
What’s that? The great music we made? Oh yes the guy who sang “Isn’t she lovely” is from Stoke. F**k me. At least that rock bass player with the warts had the sense to leave. Potteries folk will bore you sick with the “6 towns” shite. Drone drone drone. We KNOW Arnold Bennett wrote a book called Anna of the Five Towns. It is a work of fiction. Nobody is interested in the geography and boundaries of these insignificant filthy towns, so shut your boring faces up because no one is listening.
What exactly HAVE you given to the world Stoke-on-Trent? Cups and saucers, Jackie Trent (technically not a Stokie but from over the border in Newcastle-under-Lyme) and Oatcakes. Jesus. You don’t even have a serial killer to boast about Stoke – you boring dying rectal fissure so just zip your dimwitted mouths and go and live in Rhyl or whatever other sh*tty place you holiday in and eat Arctic Roll.