Although I have read a few other submissions on Bolton, I feel that none of them really pay tribute to what a **** hole it really has become over the last few years.
For me, it’s the “Bouncy/Scouse House” **** bags who pull out their stripey Lacoste sweaters at the weekend, adorn their Elizabeth Duke gold jewelery and Nike Air Council-house baseball cap (too small for their pea heads of course and balanced on their crown with a gelled fringe scraped forward.)
None of these male species would be complete without one of the baby machine, orange faced, benefit expert female species. Tired of pushing their prams back and forth to B&M Bargains in Farnworth through the week and reading letters from their kids fathers who are currently housed courtesy of Her Majesty, the female species can’t wait to put on their latest illuminous outfit straight off the market, neck a load of speed and pills and drop their multi coloured swap shop brood of dilinquent kids with the local over suntanned, mid 40’s, Berkeley smoking, bleach blonde, flip flop and baggy legging wearing old trout (every street on a council estate has one!).
The male and female ready, it is time to go to the Mecca of **** **** – Bank Street, Bolton. Second only to Wigan Pier, this is where the under class of society gather from council estates around the Bolton area and compare notes on stripey jumpers, benefits, Jeremy Kyle and whether their “Tyrone” is ‘**** of the School.’ The music of choice in the bars along Bank Street, I can only describe as horrendous. It is 300 decibel repetative beating of a kick drum with someone playing music from various cheap childrens toys over the top. Added to this, a pillar of the **** society, known by a name beginning with the letters MC – such as MC Blaze/MC IFailedInLife or other such nonsense, will rap at 300 miles an hour without a top on and with a thin gold chain. Heard of 50 Cent, think more like 50 pence.
Once in their bar of choise, male species will bounce left to right, from foot to foot, in tune with the music and his hands making shapes – kind of ironic really as his last school lesson at the age of 6 was about making shapes! His face will frown and take the pose of an angry man of twice his size and his lips will pucker like he is sucking lemons. This is a face and show of bravery for the benefit of the female species, as he waits for a weaker, lone male to look at him wrong or bump into him, at which point he will puff out his chest and set about the male (with his friends of course) and stamp all over his head/stab him several times!
The female, stood close by, will group together will equally as illuminous council fodder and compare love bites whilst chewing gum and drinking cheap “Bacardi Breezer” imitations that leave a sugar glaze around their mouths. In between deciding which lucky male is going to have the honour of ******* their cap on her bedpost at the end of the night, the female will occasionally nip to the piss ridden toilets to slap on cheap orange foundation bought from Home Bargains and also have a dab of whizz from her purse, before returning to her dancing spot – so long as no one has been glassed there of course.
The end of the night comes at around 6am and the now paranoid wide eyed **** set off back to their council holes, only to surface on dole day the next week or in between for a ‘bit of graft,” or a court date.
