Stoke-on-trent, well, where do I begin? A run-down, deprived armpit with delusions of grandeur for starters – a dreary conurbation of 5 (or is it 6?) towns shovelled together & called a city.
The ‘crowning jewel’ of which is Hanley, the ‘shopping centre’ with a boring mall called INTU The Potteries Centre, umpteen empty shops a Wetherspoons inhabited by ex-miners (the pits were all closed by Thatcher) droning on about how wonderful Stoke was & the ubiquitous c**v hangout McDonalds. Throw in a few charity shops & that’s your lot.
As for the c***s, the women are all fat slobs clad in the ‘uniform’ of grey shapeless Primark t-shirt, black camel-toe-revealing leggings, Samsung phone and the essential accessory of a push-chair with a (totally ignored) screaming brat. Following these charming examples of womanhood is a pasty-faced skinny youth usually clad in fake Adidas and baseball cap. Conversation between the two is variations of ‘f**k you and f**k that’.
Stoke-on-trent, if you want to lose the will to live come here, if not stay away!
Oh, and the weather’s usually crap too!