Grim doesn’t even come close to describing this insalubrious suburb tucked nicely inside Leeds’ **** sphincter. Dewsbury Road, the areas filthy main thoroughfare, cuts a sweeping arc through scenes of urban decay that wouldn’t look out of place in inner city Detroit. Dirty shellsuits and grubby underpants hang across streets of soot covered back to backs, while teenage tearaways aboard stolen Piaggios hare like crazed maniacs through sink estates and down trash strewn ten foots. Further up this depressing artery, the housing improves slightly but the hoardes of scowling, baseball capped locals still lurk feet deep on every corner.
It’s here in the southern reaches of this beastly neighbourhood, that you stumble upon Cross Flats Park. Reputably this is the most murderous park in West Yorkshire and you would be wise not to enter, not unless you enjoy being used for firework target practice by the numerous hooded scumrats littering this green oasis.
A short wheel spin away down in the more affluent end of Beeston lies that most venerable of Leeds institutions, The Tommy Wass public house. On any night of the week, you’re guaranteed to see the spectacle of 6 or so, hoopy ear-ringed teenaged trollops staked outside the main doors of the said bar or by the traffic lights on the corner of Old Lane. It’s in these locations that these fat arsed chlamydia ridden bints accost bewildered males on their way to the local Spar for a 6 pack. In this instance, refusal always offends and the male in question whether 17 or 70 will invariably be greeted with a blizzard of obscenities worthy of a whole platoon of troopers.
Inside this bastion of late night redneckery, witness the usual rabble of shaven headed Leeds United shirted cavemen and their heavily bruised lady folk. These are joined here and there by grimacing stripey jumpered underaged tosspots and sullen slappas comparing the size of the sovs they swiped earlier in the day from the White Rose Centre. Upon leaving the Tommy Wass, which quite frankly is advisable, and after negotiating the shellsuited tramps outside you’re now only blocks from the mecca of all things chavish, the White Rose Centre.
Before reaching the junk food emporiums of this horrid mall, the area takes another dive as you reach the evil looking Cardinal Estate. Overgrown gardens and alarmingly untethered Rottweilers are the order of the day in this delightful collection of cul-de-sacs. Fortunately this area is conveniently cut-off from the rest of humanity by the high speed railway line, presumably built to mow down kappa-clad ****** as they scurry like soldier ants across to the rich pickings in the private estate across the line. By this time you should be now face to face with the centre of Beestons **** universe, the White Rose. Packed to the rafters with cut-price sports stores, **** jewellers and burger bars this palace of low-brow consumerism has everything your average redneck **** and their adorable chavlings could wish for.
