Torquay: The English Chavopolis

Torquay: The English Chavopolis

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It would have been a lot better if Sergei Skripal lived in Torquay rather than Salisbury because at least the government spends money on things other than benefits and combating knife crime in the latter. But even then, I’m not sure the Novichok would have been enough to deter all the bargain loving chavs who have moved in recently.

After all, Poundland microwaveable onion rings (their meal of choice) are almost as toxic. Because of this, there are only two types of people in Torquay. Armani wearing Chavs and isolated pensioners who can barely afford the Hop 22 bus into the town centre, let alone a house in somewhere that doesn’t need a fancy slogan to persuade you to visit.

Furthermore, decent restaurants are few and far between. The existing ones have closed down faster than you can say Torquay is cr@p. This is because residents prefer to frequent the local McDonald’s, no wonder there is a [purely imaginary] one foot layer of grease separating your feet from the floor [in my imagination, as all McDonald’s restaurants in the Torbay area have 5 food hygiene ratings and therefore do not have any grease on the floor]. (That should stop the golden arches suing the piss out of us! -Ed].







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