Driving along the quiet country lanes of North Somerset, cruising past fields of peaceful cows and taking in the beautiful scenery, you may suddenly become half choked to death by the acrid stench of the notorious ‘Cellophane factory’. This is your cue to hastily turn around, or delve head first into the **** cesspit known as Bridgwater.
Featuring more shops full of cheap tat than you can shake a stick at, an indoor market that smells of wet dogs, an annual 2 day piss-up/punch-up masquerading as a carnival (the biggest in Europe no less), sprawling council estates and more pubs per person than pretty much anywhere else in England, Bridgwater is a haven for the ***** and ********* of the West country.
Sporting the same kind of get-up as Vicky Pollard of Little Britain (and speaking almost identically) these ***** outnumber the normal folk by an estimated 50 to 1.
Favourite ‘Bridgy’ **** past-times include sitting on the town-centre statue of Admiral Blake drinking White Lightning, loitering in the McDonalds carpark (actual ownership of a car unimportant), ******* around phone boxes, drinking Bacardi Breezers in dirty ******** pubs like ‘Remedies’ (then smashing the bottle over their boyfriend/girlfriend/child/random person at the bar) and obviously, shoplifting.
Due to an incredibly long history of in-breeding, ***** have populated Bridgwater since long before the invention of the shell-suit and even before the technology that allowed mankind to gold-plate large curtain rings, making them the perfect ear adornment for ******** lay-deez. Chances are, if you are a resident of Bridgwater there will always be a distant relative within a 5 meter radius. Just like ****. The years of in-breeding have clearly taken their toll on Bridgwater, the gene pool now reduced to a shallow puddle. This means that not only do the ***** look alike in terms of fake bling and lurid tracksuits, they also have frighteningly similar genes. This does throw up the possibility of an army of perfect **** clones taking over the world, but they will probably all be wiped out by the local nuclear power station before things get that far. One can only hope.
Bridgwater, it’s got a bridge and some water, and not much else.
Driving along the quiet country lanes of North Somerset, cruising past fields of peaceful cows and taking in the beautiful scenery, you may suddenly become half choked to death by the acrid stench of the notorious ‘Cellophane factory’. This is your cue to hastiliy turn around, or delve head first into the **** cesspit known as Bridgwater.
Featuring more shops full of cheap tat than you can shake a stick at, an indoor market that smells of wet dogs, an anual 2 day piss-up/punch-up masquerading as a carnival (the biggest in Europe no less), sprawling council estates and more pubs per person than pretty much anywhere else in England, Bridgwater is a haven for the ***** and ********* of the West country.
Sporting the same kind of get-up as Vicky Pollard of Little Britain (and speaking almost identically) these ***** outnumber the normal folk by an estimated 50 to 1.
Favourite ‘Bridgy’ **** past-times include sitting on the town-centre statue of Admiral Blake drinking White Lightning, loitering in the McDonalds carpark (actual ownership of a car unimportant), ******* around phone boxes, drinking Bacardi Breezers in dirty ******** pubs like ‘Remedies’ (then smashing the bottle over their boyfirend/girlfriend/child/random person at the bar) and obviously, shoplifting.
Due to an incredibly long history of in-breeding, ***** have populated Bridgwater since long before the invention of the shell-suit and even before the technology that allowed mankind to gold-plate large curtain rings, making them the perfect ear adornment for ******** lay-deez. Chances are, if you are a resident of Bridgwater there will always be a distant relative within a 5 meter radius. Just like ****. The years of in-breeding have clearly taken their toll on Bridgwater, the gene pool now reduced to a shallow puddle. This means that not only do the ***** look alike in terms of fake bling and lurid tracksuits, they also have frightenigly similar genes. This does throw up the possibility of an army of perfect **** clones taking over the world, but they will probably all be wiped out by the local nuclear power station before things get that far. One can only hope.
Bridgwater, it’s got a bridge and some water, and not much else.
