Most towns spawn Costa coffee shops. In Spalding, all empty properties are snapped up as Eastern European off-licences where they sell knocked-off ciggies and bootleg liquor which often sends you blind. The population is now neatly divided between disgruntled and elderly Daily Mail-reading gimmers and a younger generation of Poles/Lithuanians/Latvians/Russians – you can easily tell them from their high cheekbones and slim figures, as they are not yet like that increasingly rare creature, the Greggs-fed home-grown ****.
Most of the Ians are nice people, but the other 99 per cent spend their benefits on frighteningly strong Polish lager which they throw up outside Aldi or Lidl. The most popular place in Spalding is the bus station (outward bound vehicles), adjacent to the Sainsburys car park where wannabe Lewis Hamiltons tear around after closing time in vehicles closely resembling cars. The only pastimes here are reproduction with others of the six-fingered persuasion and intermittent warfare with the even more ****** inhabitants of Crowland, whose genetic pool was saved from total collapse in WW2 by an amorous native American serviceman on a bike.
