Bromyard, known by the locals as “bumrod”, is a quaint town Almost exclusively populated by the silver surfers with its numerous rustic (holes in the roof, if it’s wet, don’t leave the house) and quaint (a code word for the queens’ dance floor occupying a 2 square meter space) pubs ensure this as a retirement hotspot for the old, I’ll, obese and lazy.
The local youth (pronounced yout or youf) can be witnessed doing **** laps round the one way system in [agricultural suppliers we can’t name for legal reasons] tractors, with most scuffles occurring between the rival agricultural contracting gangs about the price they charge for spreading the copious amounts of cow manure from the recreational dairy farms in the surrounding countryside.
These farms most certainly cannon be described as of commercial merit as the consensus in the rose and lion, is that none ever make any money, or at least will not admit to, but as the chauffeur comes to take them home every night leaves the regular “townies” in disbelief.
The star attraction of Bromyard is still the Christmas lights erected by farmers with no licences, electricians with no qualifications and machinery with no business being removed from the scrap yard.
