Weston-super-Mare – a step back in time

Anthropologists will have a field day here ; Phrenologists will be in their element;
Criminologists will probably think they’ve died and gone to heaven, and arthropoligists won’t know which way to turn.

Welcome to Weston-super-Mare, where the ‘famous’ donkeys can outwit most of the dole scrounging, half-witted, flotsum who be-tracksuit the ‘High Street’. Having moved from the nearby cosmopolitan city of Bristol, meeting the residents of Weston is a painful and depressing shock. From the grease-stained pavements outside the pier, to the ****-rammed mobile phone shops, and endless ‘beauty’ parlours, Weston is a celebration of everything that is plebian, ignorant, self-serving, futile and worthless. Teenage mothers hurry through the streets, chugging on black market ****, fumigating the next generation of Kappa Twats while destroying their few remaining brain cells with endless, bloody endless, banal conversations on mobile phones. Jacked up Escorts and Astras tear along the local streets, in a rutting and courting ritual that impresses nobody – where do those ******* get the money to do up their cars?

By day the town is bad enough, but come nightfall and the nocturnal sub-class emerge to drink, grope, shout and bottle their way around the numerous bars and pubs. Check out any of the clubs for a genuinely frightening experience. I want to know where the decent folks of Weston go, because it’s extremely hard to find them. (They’re certainly don’t go to the Cro-Magnon palace of KFC… – right opposite ASDA, you can’t miss it… follow the blue underlit XR2s)

How grim is your Postcode?

And what makes this place so much worse is that it is a magnet for the lowest **** life in The Midlands and South Wales. You, quite literally, cannot hear a correct vowel sound for hours if you get trapped in Argos or Poundland when the heavens open. They flock, dawdle and scoff, oblivious to their surroundings. And they get in my way. And they stink (of ****, sweat, chip vinegar, acrid perfume and counterfeit aftershave)

I don’t want my daughter to grow up surrounded by these moronic plebs. I am sick of the hoard of mindless idiots who spoil what could be such a pleasant seaside town.
But moving won’t solve it – the sub-working class man is hear to stay. They can always find money, through the state, credit or criminal means. They have no morals and nothing positive to give. Let’s just hope that those huge gold hoop earings are acting as aerials and are focusing and concentrating the mobile phone energy and sterilising these cretins!

Next time – what Weston’s **** **** do on a Bank Holiday Monday.

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