This town is situated in south west Manchester. It bears all the hallmarks of chavdom one would hope to avoid: Parades of murky fast food takeaway joints; tatty money laundering businesses masquerading as sunbed hire tanning shops and minicab firms; crumbling terraced houses and decaying 1970’s council-owned maisonettes. The streets are lined with dog s**t and not gold. The local lunatics have taken to spraying the s**t fluorescent colour’s so other road users spot the giant smart price dog food ladled faeces and don’t ruined their jumbo cord carpet.
This miserable landscape cowers in the shadow of an enormous gasometer. Ugly Tower blocks pierce the grey lifeless sky, from which rain of an inferior quality falls forever. The chemtrails are as clear as day which only goes to prove the local skunks are an experiment gone truly wrong.
The inhabitants of Stretford are natural born c***s they model their latest look on Snowy, Vanilla ice and Tupac . The Arndale shopping centre (a monstrous orange tiled building next to a multi-story carpark which resembles a giant electric fan heater) is awash with PoundEmpires’, Kwik Saves, and Gabbots Farm – a revolting butchers shop where the stench of rotting flesh actually brings tears to the eyes. The c***s get the tail ends of the days Meat for 20p and throw it in the deep fat fryer with chips beans and gravy. It’s then served up to the family and Satan the dog within 39 seconds they’re all on the s*****r squabbling about who used the last roll of s**t paper with that they usually pick Satan the dog up and wipe their a**e with the brindle s**t stained red nose Staffie cross eyed low hip score dog. The dogs sounds like it’s got kennel cough, whooping cough and a roll up habit.
The local pub attached to the shopping centre is where the local inbred piss heads congregate drinking skoll super and complaining about there benefit sanctions. They then commence to go back into the mall pissed up to buy a pile of pound bakery sausage rolls and pay bright house 90 pound from their ESA because they ruined their credit rating buying nike tn trainers from very.
The litter infested walkways are haunted by gangs of sneering teenage boys with the obligatory shaved head and Lambert & Butler cigarette tucked behind the lightly-studded ears. Their pockets are lined with the latest skunk weed which smells like cat piss. The local felines follow the males spraying their tn trainers and trackies with ball juice. The scent of piss floats through the air like the smell of apple pie. skwarking 12 year-old girls with the words ‘Income Support’ and ‘Child Benefit’ tattooed across their exposed flabby midriffs, pushing trollies and prams stuffed with babies and stolen bottles of cider and packs of fish fingers. Their tattoos usually consist of kids names which will ensure the smelly little twats won’t ever get a job such as kyle, reece and Rhianna.
The older c***s have the latest accessory the shitty staffie they walk around like they’re from Cali with a blue bandana in their back pocket a dog called Satan which is wild and probably high from the stench of the weed plants they’re growing in the loft of their council den. They then run around the streets selling bags of s**t weed like their Tony Montana’s evil twin. Their gangster moll girlfriend has usually fried herself on the sunbed till she’s the colour of Satan’s s**t she also sports the latest straw coloured hair curly from.the box of hair perm she stole from Super drug.
Scruffy bewildered pensioners shuffle about at the bus stop, smiling with stained egalitarian dentures. The elders also come with the fragrance of stale piss, roll up fags and the top note of special brew the old farts think they’re gangster with their scooters and basket full of pinched food from heron. Rolling round the mall giving you s**t if you even walk around the centre. All the shops have closed up and fucked off they even lost wilkos. Although tj Hughes cAmelias back to sell cheap orange eyeshadow for a quid to the local trollop that has cornrows in their hair and think st Moritz is the same as St tropez but only cheaper. There usually riddled with streaked tan lines and stretch marks from the eleven twats they’ve had so the job centre doesn’t make them work.
Stretford is a place where even the pigeons and smashed telephone kiosks are on Prozac. It is rightly proud to be part of the Chavston Conurbation. And has the government grants to prove it.