Wigan, to be blunt, has become a c**v-infested sh*thole. Having spent 29 years (too long, I’m currently looking for a place elsewhere, but I digress…) in this dump of a town I can safely say that in the last five years or so things have gone downhill here at a terrifying speed. The town centre is a c**v magnet at weekends as hordes of badly-dressed scrotes descend upon the town to annoy all of those members of society who are unable to visit during the week because of that inconvenient thing called work, something that is a total mystery to the c***s and chavettes of the town.
It could be argued that the town was indeed asking for trouble simply because of the shops that are located there… all of their clothing that a c**v could ever need (fake Burberry caps and knockoff Nike and Reebok gear) is conveniently available at the market, which just happens to be one of the places where the c**v population is particularly dense in more ways than one. Just above the market is an Argos Superstore with an Elizabeth Duke, a mecca for the c**v jewellery enthusiast if ever there was one. The c***s are also spoiled for choice when it comes to “quality” eating establishments as there is a Greggs, a McDonalds, and for those c***s who have been really careful with their JSA that week, a KFC, all within 100 yards of the market. It is probably not a coincidence that there is a lack of decent bookstores in the town.
The nightlife in Wigan is also c**v-oriented, with a selection of garish theme bars and clubs all ready to cater to anyone with chavvish tendencies. The hub of the pissed-up activity at the weekend is King Street, a place where (to nobody’s surprise) there seems to be a murder once every couple of years. The road is closed to traffic every Friday and Saturday night, giving the drunken oafs the freedom to lurch around trying to find the taxis that aren’t allowed to drive down that road, or the takeaways that apparently aren’t allowed to serve anything that won’t make you ill for a couple of days. Despite the heavy police presence in King Street and the surrounding area some c***s just can’t seem to take a hint, and anyone wishing to see a couple of moronic c***s flailing drunkenly in an attempt to “fuckin’ knock him the f**k out, the f****r!” won’t be disappointed, especially if they are firm believers in equality, as the screeching chavettes that infest the area (wearing, as you would expect, clothes that wouldn’t be able to prevent pneumonia on a tropical beach, let alone in a rainy, miserable sh*thole like Wigan… yes, even the obese ones, ugh…) aren’t above trying to tear each other’s hair out if one of them happens to blink in an offensive manner or happen to look at another c******e’s knuckle-dragging halfwit or c**v of a boyfriend.
As for actual c**v encounters, it goes without saying that what they lack in intelligence and wit they more than make up for in aggression and self-delusion. It’s hard to take them seriously when they threaten to “kick the f*ck out of you” when they are about half your size, and they tend to get stuck around the point where you laugh at them and tell them that nothing would please you more than to put him and his little friends in hospital if they are stupid enough to take a swing at you. You’ll be able to spot the smart one in the group, you’ll be able to hear him loudly telling his underlings that he’s got 3 GCSEs and “almost got an NVQ once”. While it’s better to avoid them, sometimes encounters with the little mutants are unavoidable, especially if you parked your car at the top of The Galleries (another place where c***s gather in huge numbers) as there is a good chance that your final encounter with them during your short visit (trust me, it will be short, you won’t want to hang around for long!) will be with a small group of them rolling joints on the stairs leading up to the car park… the best way to get past them is to just go storming through the middle of the group and “accidentally” step on anything that they have left in your way. If you look pissed off enough then they usually won’t try to retaliate or protest the fact that you’ve stomped their last bit of weed into the ground. Personally I try to hold my breath as I pass them, because like the majority of c***s personal hygiene isn’t exactly at the top of their list of priorities… in fact, let me put it this way: if the economy was as strong as the smell coming from the local c***s then we’d all be extremely well off… except for the c***s themselves who would probably do a “Michael Carroll” and piss the lot up the wall on drugs, the finest “bling” that Argos has to offer, three Bargain Buckets a day and their countless outstanding court fines.
All in all avoid the place like the plague… especially since it’s only a matter of time before the unhygienic little bastards develop one of their own, wiping out the remaining decent people in the town in the same way that rats decimated London with the Black Death.