Written by Anonymous Visitor and posted in United Kingdom, West Midlands

Brierley Hill is epicentre of dole life where shell suite clad obese women of the night parade their back and bum cleavave whilest swapping their milk tokens for weed & amber leaf tobacco.

When not dressed in tracksuits the local female populace favour bras 3 cups too small peeping out of fat oozing boob tubes and denim miniskirts

Barneys playbarn is the local drop in centre for anyone active enough to leave their ps3 alone for 1/2 an hour.

Overcrowding and inbreeding is prevelant where threesomes with your cousin is the norm.

The Wannabe Chav element (they are not even fully fledged chavs) flock here like ants around jam, whence they proceed to revel in their own s**t while decorating their overgrown gardens with dirty nappies.

Jeremy Kyle could not afford to run a programme here as the DNA test list of perspective fathers for the ADHD aflicted, ritilin dosed brood is just too widespread often venturing as far as Pensnett.

The local diet consist of iceland pasties, deep fried nuggets and on dole day Mcdonnalds happy meals all washed down with Frosty Jack cider or panda pop for the kiddies.

90% of these people will live and die within a quarter of a mile of where they were born.

This towns local cash in hand jobs consists of paper rounds, drug running or standing on street corners (right next to the police station)

The queue outside the Venerial Disease clinic to rid yourself of custard D**k is only just shorter than the post office queue on pension day

Where if you have nt Sh****D your mates missus it means there must be a viagra shortage.

Untaxed, uninsured shag vans carrying matresses are the least of your worries here as none of the drivers of them actually possess a driving licence.

On summary, any decent person posessing any moral substance should stay the F**k away or risk horrific flashbacks of this downtrodden community.

  • Rod

    Brierley Hill is ‘twinned’ with Dudley.
    Dudley, of course, is that far away place Brierleyites sometimes venture out to, beyond the margins of the interstellar boundary that seperates the two. One can observe the ‘average’ Mom as she slouches along the high streets of both forgotton towns in search of ever richer ‘fast food’ joints… (or just joints). Nearby you will find her erront off-spring running wild and free as she calls them to her side in the familiar screech of an anxious mother similar in nature to what one can find in the local zoo. Responding with zealous disinterest, they furtively cackle as she repeatedly calls their names of ‘Gerr-ere-yow’, ‘Oi’ and ‘Yowmgonnagerrit!’
    Looking coldly down at this scene is an ancient monument to a local town father who can only gaze in blank wonder how the former historic medieval market town could have been so degraded by its useless local council.

  • Rob

    So true, and they all have to come into Stourbridge to sign on and insist on hanging around terrorising it’s inhabitants.

  • Brian

    Sounds fun – I would love to meet a girl from there!