So, I have finally decided to let you into the secret land of roundabouts that is Skelmersdale, also known to the local **** as “Skem”. I know you will have read all about the phenomenon that is the **** in the tracksuit, or the ******** with the leggings and winnie the pooh socks…well, Skelmersdale seems to have classified itself into a completely different league than any other town I have seen.
Once you hit Skelmersdale – which is even referred to as “Skem” on signs on the M58 (cringe) – you will first start to notice our beautiful “art sculptures” which are basically twisted heaps of concrete, metal and fairy lights – a complete waste of taxpayers money. The funniest sculpture happened to be a ring of illuminated pictures of people, they called it “The Faces Of Skelmersdale”. It was all so wonderful for everyone to laugh at when two weeks later, the council discovered one of the faces of Skelmersdale was actually an ex convict (sums the place up in a nutshell). The picture was rapidly taken down (faster than they can put back up the street lights that keep randomly “falling down” around here) and replaced with some old dear.
Once you have got past our “modern art”, there are hundreds of roundabouts and subways, home to pyromaniac scousers. I will honestly never see the attraction of ******* around subways at 9pm on a Friday night drinking bottles of cider and setting off fireworks/setting a fire under there.
Our prettiest council houses are white sheds, the majority of which are boarded up (still with these things living inside). If you are lucky, you might get to walk past there without some disgusting group of five year olds yelling “oi your well fit give us a shag” – obviously well learned from not much older brothers/sisters. There are constantly bags of toys and rubbish laying around having been ripped open by some seemingly homeless children, I presume they just want my rubbish because whatever it is, its got to be better than anything they have at home.
As usual, the **** from Skelmersdale in its drunken and drugged state is generally no different regarding fighting and foul language than any other **** you may find in Britain. They hang around in groups of fifty, which consist of mostly lads, then there are the obligatory two females to be shared around the group after they have each had half a litre of White Lightening, which would have been downed in a local park/under a subway.
Anyway, I will take you onto the main feature of my little town, the ever so stunning great big grey building, THE CONCOURSE. Now, if you are ever so stupid enough to come to Skelmersdale via public transport, please do NOT get on a bus and ask for the concourse. You will end up being looked at in disgust or confusion, as our locals call this beautiful place “the connie”. Similarily, if you happen to be going to the local supermarket, it is wise to ask for “The Asda”, not just “Asda”. Once you have happened upon the centre of our little dump, you will notice strange people who seem to have forgotten to get dressed.
This is where our random **** phenomenon comes in. Skemites seem to think that the whole trackies/leggings/winnie the pooh socks thing has now gone completely out of fashion and its time for them to set a new one. Now, I can understand walking to and from a neighbours house in pyjamas at 9pm at night when you may just fancy a chat to a mate, but oh no Skemites go one better.
The day in the life of a random Skemite consists of waking up in pyjamas with bed hair and makeup smeared across their faces – classy. Whereas a normal human would get up, shower and redo their makeup before getting dressed in something like say, jeans and a tshirt, our ********* get up, shower, plaster a bit more makeup on over the top of whatever they already had on, and yes, you guessed it, they get changed into a fresh set of pyjamas and head out for a day of walking – not shopping – around the concourse.
It is the custom to also borrow (or have given birth to) a child to stick in a pram – again in nightwear – and walk around the concourse with. Shoes are no longer an issue for our Skemites, some clever person invented slippers with rubber soles so there is now no need to look like you ever left your house.
When I was working in the concourse (at least I know which workplace to sue if I ever develop any type of cancer), I would see the same group of 14 year olds pushing prams at 9am as I would before I left to go home at 5:40pm at night (schooling seems to be an option rather than the law in Skelmersdale). They would be there all day, occasionally going into Home & Bargin to buy some out of date chocolate or crisps, and if they were feeling daring, nipping into Wilkinsons, (the classy expensive shop) to rob stuff that they can’t afford.
Basically, out of the concourse, there is absolutely jack all to do, the council have put up playgrounds and basketball courts only to find them graffittied and full of human excrement the next day. Mind you, in the life of a child of a common ******** Skemite, its quite probably healthier living there than it is sleeping at home in their own beds.
Viva La Skem.
The diseased heart of darkness that is Mawdesley
Mawdesley. Home to every boss you hated.
Skelmersdale: like a ripped bin bag dumped on a pristine bowling green
Enter Skelmersdale Alive… Leave With A Posthumous Medal Of Bravery
Burscough’s Bad Breeding
Lathom: A tale of sheep, fields and banging your own siblings
All in all Blackpool is a bit ****.
Bolton is a dump
Burscough: Scraping the Bottom of the Barrel