“The Midlands was once known as the Black Country, this is because of the vast amounts of pollution from the many factories and mills in the area at the time. I choose to believe it is called the Black Country because of all the p****s, pretending to be black rappers.”
West Bromwich, for the uninitiated, sitting like a Wino, in the puke-filled, shop doorway that is Sandwell, is like a Paddock for C***s, where they can frolic and rut until it is time to be put down. There is plenty to keep the C**v mind active in West Bromwich, when Trisha has finished, causing them to venture out of their council housing, from hanging around the Mc Donalds car park by the Hospital, looking for underage girls, to sitting on the planter-walls in the town centre, spitting, West Brom has it all.
West Bromwich, seems to have been built with C***s in mind, with Mc Donalds, the teat at which all Townies long to suckle, being centrally located, right next to the newsagent, allowing them to eat their cheeseburgers, while harassing passers by into buying them “20 Benson and a botul of white lyt’nin”, within spitting distance of Argos, and Index, where they can piss away all their money (money which they probably got by suing the council with the help of the Accident Group after breaking their knuckles, punching a lampost, or dragging them along the floor, come to think of it…), on sovereign rings and Chunky gold chains that turn green when it rains, and a bunch of market stalls, selling all manner of knock off Burberry and Nike caps, as well as cigarette lighters and skin-tight T-shirts sporting a variety of American place names, none of which the average C******e will be able to read. Indeed, it is not just the males of the species, that West Bromwich caters for, far from it. Chavettes can enjoy standing in the indoor market, looking at bottles of Burberry fragrance, which “iz well nice init?”, to standing in First Sport, sucking on their clown pendant necklaces and trying to decide which pair of Reebok Classics to blow the next child-benefit cheque on. Yes, Chavettes with their offspring can enjoy the easy access that West Bromwich provides, from the double wide doors into Poundland, to ramming the pushchair into the legs of passers by, West Brom is just the place for Shaz to bring the Brood… Race hate crimes are always a source of entertainment for the C***s of West Bromwich and with the large ethnic makeup of West Bromwich, there is always someone around to beat up.
The Kings Square shopping centre is like Mecca, to which P****s from every Town in England are drawn like Burberry clad moths to a light bulb. There are numerous crappy knock off shops, where C***s and Chavettes alike can steal all the latest fashions, to keep them looking like Mike Skinner, Beyonce, or whoever these little doleies model themselves on… Possibly one of the most telling things about the amount of C***s who frequent West Bromwich is found in the Kings Square shopping centre toilet complex, where the cleaning staff felt it necessary to put up a sign saying “Please refrain from spitting in the sinks” (as God is my witness…). Outside the toilets, is a set of industrial scales, where C***s will try to increase their weight by straining and then brag to their scaly mates “I iz 15 stones, dat iz pretty good ya know, innit?” (I promise you, I am not making this up).
Another place of interest for the C**v of West Bromwich, is the bus station, where “Stoonie” and “Ramp-Ed” (I wish I was making these nicknames up…), can stand around smoking and discussing its merits “It iz aright, init?” while leaning against a ‘No-smoking sign’, standing with their hands down their pants, (presumably checking to see if the infection has cleared up or looking for some more hair to stick to their top lip) while chatting up ‘jail-bait’ teenage girls or mug people for money to buy an eight of blow.
But it is, as the sun goes down and the smell of fresh urine invades your nostrils “Propa nah, I’z fuckin’ pissed on me Reeboks, innit” that West Bromwich really comes alive. Like flies round the proverbial, the C**v contingent, flock into the various pubs which don’t have a dress code, (stepping over the guy who is permanently lying face down in a pool of blood), (The Crown and Anchor is particularly interesting, due to the fact that they have a door man, who lets anybody in and watches the street, while drunken idiots glass each other inside), where they can start fights in the toilets and try to cop a feel of one of the many local bikes. Up until last year when it was closed due to the constant violence, inside and outside, the Precinct nightclub was also a Chavie hotspot, where much amusement could be had, by getting wasted on cheap booze and then glassing someone.
Yes, West Bromwich is a town bursting with entertainment, for the Cro-Magnon subspecies which we refer to lovingly as the C**v.
If you have a fondness for your own teeth and the Constant sound of mobile phone ringtones seems less than appealing to you “Check it arrt, dis iz a wicked choon, innit?”, my advice is simple: Don’t bother f*****g coming…