Bulwell isn’t a bad town.
It is the metropolitan equivalent of a distant gulag in Siberia – reserved only for the vilest and most capitalistic kulaks.
Masses of black and blue tracksuits, penned in by dismal alleyways and busy roads, prowl the cold grey streets. Streets. Streets that are barely illuminated by the synthetic glare of sterile supermarkets and squalid pubs… The settlement oozes a sense of depression. Cold dark depression barely drowned out by drink and suffocated by bitter tobacco.
The last train of the evening leaves. They go back to their dying. Children wail and crawl like feral dogs. Fighting over scraps and wistful glances. Every man here seems to talk with his fists. Every woman with the wide hole between her legs. The streets are overrun with muck and litter so thick you can’t even see the cobbled pavement.
