East AngliaHerefordshire

From a sweet little town where I grew up, Ware has become a sort of hiding place for the ***** getting ready to invade other local towns. During the day the only evidence of the **** *********** is the occasional broken bottle/windscreen around the highstreet (and the newly arrived “townies out” graffiti) but it is around 8:30 that the locals have to retreat into their homes and wait for the danger to pass.

Slowly the high street, home of many, many pubs, gets filled with a steady stream of *****, all heading towards Hertford. Some peel off into threshers to pick up handy bottles of white lightning or into the Punch House or Waterfront to attempt to get a head start on their mates. Most of the crowd however, are flowing towards the train station, ready to sneak onto the train to Hertford East without a ticket and mock any tired commuters unlucky enough to still be in the carriage. Gradually the stragglers (who by now have been encouraged to leave the pubs due to their inability to piss in the right direction) follow their friends and the streets become relatively safe.

…until 11:30 when they all come back again.

How grim is your Postcode?

Unable to grasp the fact that it is not incredibly funny to have puke running down ones chin, the ***** decide to entertain themselves further by making that pretty little smashing noise which follows the breaking of glass bottles, windows and bones. Eventually once that activity has lost its charm, the **** (and newly pulled *********) stagger back to the estate to sleep off the snakebites and pick up their benefits the next day.

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