To those of you that have never had the displeasure of visiting the **** ***** stain of humanity called ‘Beddau’ situated a bus ride from the other **** hellhole known as Pontypridd (translates as Sh1tdump on the Taff), I bid you a warm welcome to the carbuncle of **** known as the place what I, unfortunately, reside in. One translation from Taffylingo (Welsh, innit boyo?) is literally ‘Graveyard’. Beddau sure is that – a depressing pile of ***** crapped out of the Devil’s ****.
Journey up Parish Road Hill and gawp in amazement at the never ending procession of teen mums and their spotty, hoody, white-cider drinking waste of sperm boyfriend/shag for the week. The girls here are know as Yorkites (not to be confused with Yorkdale, which we will come across later – but in homage to The Grand Old Duke Of York whom, like these girls, had 10,000 men).
At the top of Parish Road is a roundabout with three directions in which to choose (but all leading to further eyesores – you will want to put bleach in your eyes to end the pain and suffering!) Left leads to the main shopping area which looks as if it’s been air-lifted from some Communist backwater and dropped in a great hole. One ‘improvement’ has been the erection (sadly not mine up Katherine J’s love gusset) of fencing atop the chippy (nice chips to be fair, but the staff there would not know English if it kicked them in the ****) in order to stop the local yobs from dropping bottles into the hairdresser’s gutter (no euphemism there!) and to stop them pilfering from Fulgoni’s via jumping across the gap and smashing the back open. If there was an Olympic event for this, these lads would take gold – sadly there isn’t and these miscreants should be tied to a railway line and let the 09.25 to Paddington do it’s British duty!
One shop that is pretty decent is the Spar – new interior and food is quite edible (apart from the sausage rolls that are always out of date, and of which consumption would cause you to excrete a replica of the place on your Armitage Shanks). The old lady at the counter is quite nice, despite throat problems caused by sucking on 100 **** a day like it was the paperboy’s wiener, however the younger fat **** festively plump lady on the till will bite your head off for even farting. When she’s not slamming change into your palm like mad, she’s most likely [in my imagination only] showing her fat saggy **** on **** sites to half-baked 50 year old pot heads who ********** on their computers and live in Mummy’s basement eating mouldy cheesy pasta (from the Spar) whilst listening to Pink Floyd’s ‘Great Gig In The Sky’ all day, every day, non-stop.
The estate adjacent to the Spar was, until 1988, called Auschwitz (which is pretty ironic considering that Poles now live on that estate) and despite some modifications it still looks like one giant concrete ****. The pub on the estate has been open and shut more times than a *****’s ******, and there is street after street of empty grey nothingness. You will think that a holiday in Bognor Regis is heaven in comparison! The red sky at night is not shepherds delight, but probably the Cwm Coking Works on fire.
The only nice part is Carn Celyn (but they never associate themselves with Beddau – oh no darlings it’s Gwine Misskyn!)
Local schools include Brincankellog’s (rough as an Arab’s butt-crack, but still got some decent talent there – also Neil Jenkins went there so it ain’t too bad like!) and for the Caffolicks there’s Cardinal Newman (sorry, [warning alt-right conspiratardation ahead – Admin] the Marxist Common Purpose Brainwashing Training Facility – where kids are show how to vote Labour, worship Lenin and Marx and say YES to all things European).
So, if you fancy a visit to this Godfersaken hellhole, please be my guest – heck you can rent my place, for free – JUST GET ME THE HECK OUTTA HERE!!!!
