When I look back at the achievements in my life, getting out of the despicable **** hole that is Boston will always rank as the highest. On my last visit after arriving, I decided to go for a bike ride, and after half an hour had received 3 death threats and been told to “come on then yer ****** hippie” by some random mongoloid, aww bless.
Situated in deepest, darkest Lincolnshire, and surrounded by such hideous ****** little villages as Kirton, Sibsey, Swineshead, Freeston, Fishtoft, Quadring and Donnington, we have Boston, a festering pus-filled boil on the face of England, and one of the country’s top **** hot spots.
The life of the Boston **** is roughly thus – born to benefit-scrounging parents on the Fenside estate, attend the notorius Haven High (sorry, ‘aven ‘igh) School, get an ASBO, and then pack vegetables in Tinsley’s or Geest’s for the rest of your life. Unless of course you’re one of Boston’s population of rapidly growing Portugese *****, in which case your life consists of getting smuggled to Boston in the back of a lorry, before spending the next 50 years packing fruit.
A quick walk around the market place will provide you with all your **** needs – wankerish clothing from JJB sports and New Look and tack from Poundstretcher…the “Maccy Dees” in the town centre has been closed down, so the **** now gets his fill of acne-inducing grease from Tate’s chippy, and from then it’s off to “Woolies” to annoy the long suffering bearded security guard, and then if he’s well ‘ard he’ll spend all afternoon on the benches outside Woolies trying to out-****** his cap-wearing cohorts.
A quick saunter from the market place leads you to Kwik Save, where you’ll see ***** trying to nick pork scratchings, or sitting in the “restaurant” making gestures to passers by. Situated next to Kwik Save, is some pathetic shop called WiseOwl, like an even more down market Poundstretcher, this is another ****-magnet, go shopping here and you can officially class yourself as a ****. From here you can take a quick walk to Boston’s other centre of chavness – West Street. Down West Street you will find the ***** thronging around the new cinema “complex” and the Regal Shopping Centre – a godforsaken dingey hell-hole full of scrotes trying to flog stolen clothes and mouldy fruit and vegetables. Take a walk across the road from here and you’ll find the Job Centre, full of *** ***** with pushchairs, and ****** country scrotes trying to get their dream job of cutting cabbages.
A quick mention must be made to the Boston vocabulary – the word “crying” does not exist here! If someone is crying, they’re not crying, they’re “roaring”. Roaring? What the ****, have they got so emotional the tears have turned them into a lion?! Expect any fight ending in tears to be accompanied by shouts of “huh huh, e’s roarin”. Talking of fights, if you want a black eye, go to the market place in the evening, and witness the ***** attacking anything with a pulse – after about 10pm there will be 3 police cars and 2 ambulances permanently there.
There’s a statue in the middle of market place of someone from Boston, who clearly did something worthy of having a statue of himself built in the middle of Boston. He looks miserable, and more than a little pissed off, having to stand in the middle of Boston for eternity, you can understand why.
