On the face of it, Huntingdon seemed like the ideal place for the wife and I to settle down. We listed our requirements as a train station for the daily commute to London, a Waitrose, a good restaurant and a little local history with a smattering of architectural merit. We thought Huntingdon had it all and decided to make the move.
As decisions go, I’d have been better advised to change my name to ‘Mustapha Gander’ before launching a career as a peeping tom in Saudi Arabia – which would probably have been safer. The train station out of Huntingdon is the best thing about the entire town. Hot, salty tears of sweet joy stain my face each morning when leaving, only to be replaced by cold, stinking, fear upon return. As monstrous carbuncles go, Huntingdon is to beauty what Jimmy Saville was to the sweet dreams of infants. It invades your every sensibility with a dehumanising loss of nobility.
As for the local Waitrose, it’s the only Waitrose (ever, anywhere) in which I’ve actually seen a grown man soil himself so hard, that it stained through his underpants and jeans, yet continued to complete his weekly shop as if this was an acceptable situation. As for the one good local restaurant, occasionally a **** either plucks up the courage to frequent said establishment in an attempt to pipe his muck into the ‘Belle Du Jour’ of his amorous, clammy, benefit generator or has simply imbibed such a heady cocktail of alcohol and drugs that he has simply mistaken the place for Narnia. More often than not though, it’s frequented by new money ***** that have recently converted more gold into cash than a Liverpudlian footballer who’s just won the Golden Boot.
Having spawned two notable individuals in its one thousand year history, it’s as if all the achievement of the entire gene pool for a thousand years was concentrated into Oliver Cromwell and John Major. The remaining population of Huntingdon is so aggressive and dense that I need only provide four facts for it to cement its place in history as **** Capital:
- It was on the cover of **** Town’s as *THE* cover shot.
- Whilst walking to the post office I’ve overheard one youth exclaim that’s he’s so hard he could punch a Cyclops between the eyes.
- I’ve actually witnessed a grown man attempt to slam a revolving door in the local courthouse.
- The local market sells track suits as ‘Snack Suits’ – let’s face it, the only tracks they’re going to experience proximity with are on Sharon’s burgeoning minge.
The only recent architecture of note is the courthouse in which so many ***** are given ASBOs that they’ve had to build a colossal 100ft high monument to society’s failure (with our hard won taxes) only topped by a council office building so large that they could just have easily built a giant middle finger salute with a twenty foot golden fingernail engraved with ‘**** OFF, I’M SHOPPING FOR MY CAR INSURANCE ON YOUR TIME – BUT YOUR PARKING PERMIT HAS GONE UP 3,000%’. And there you have it, had the council possessed more foresight than a one eyed mole in an eye poking contest, then they would have ensured that Oxmoor wasn’t built shortly before the train station lost its fast train to London service.
Therefore Huntingdon has only one hope, that the gene pool becomes so defective it vomits out a creature so freakishly mutant that it actually evolves humanity along the lines of X-men. Perhaps more likely a Siamese twin that wins the 100m sprint in the Paralympics (back to back gold’s of course). And, I think I know where the medal would end up. Cash Convertors on Huntingdon High (aptly named) Street would be my bet. In fact it’s the only shop doing any trade, perhaps its tagline should be “Cash Converters – Because You Can’t Eat Electricals”.
