On the surface, Chelmsford looks like any large market town. In someways, it is even better bearing in mind it’s proximity to London. It doesn’t for example have the oppressive stench of Reading, nor the endless sense of impending violence of Woking, but nonetheless, it is a breeding ground for social ******. Basically it’s for the Essex boy / girl too terrified of missing the 75% off sale at Soccer Sport to get as far as Lakeside. Ever since the council moved the benches outside of McDonalds to prevent the whole vicinity becoming awash with phlegm, Lambert and Butler butts and takeaway cartons (I’d say used condoms too, but judging by the frightening levels of teenage pregnancy, I think that is distinctly unlikely), the problem has become worse. Essentially, those benches served an excellent purpose to contain and restrict said ******** from overly proliferating. Now, with nowhere to congregate, they are forced to roam the streets in search of old people to laugh at, bus shelters to graffitti and dark corners to have hurried unprotected *** whist swigging from a recently half-inched bottle of 20/20.
However, it is at night when Chelmsford really comes into it’s own. Back in 2001, some bright spark redeveloped the wasteland around the canal and gave the premises rights to about 300 pubs. These, however, are not pubs. They are playgrounds for fuckwits who’s idea of a good time is drinking so much Hooch / Bacardi Breezer that their eyes start to bulge. The shear volume of sugar and stimulants in these drinks also causes massive levels of hyperactivity. This is particularly alarming when you consider your average Essex boy’s delight at the thought of bashing someone’s head in. What I find even more rediculous is these bars pretent to be ‘classier’ than the local boozer, and thus enforce a dresscode. Basically, if you’re not dressed like an identikit clone of Dean Gaffney or Danniella Westbrook, you’re not allowed in. Fine by me.
Admittedly, there is not the same level of cheap gold that you’d get having an underage, unprotected ******** in the park every night and you won’t find one of those terrifying gold clowns with diamante inserts, but you’ll find more Burberry and **** in Edwards than you would in the home fans end of a Millwall FC game.
Girls seem to have been through a series of ‘Sheep Style’ dips before venturing out; the first a vat of peroxide to detract from any sence of individuality, the second being some form of creosote to give that orange hue to the skin, and the third being a heady mixture of CK One, foundation cream and glitter. The end result looks something like a cross between Jordan and an Oompa Lumpa. There are, of course those that can’t pull off a short skirt with the same ‘undercarriage flapping in the wind’ effect. These biffers tend to emenate aggression and resemble Mo Mowlen squeezed sickeningly into an all in one, cutt off just below the third tier of buttock cat suit.
Chelmsford is a terrible place. It wouldn’t surprise me if the local schools have Heat Magazine as a course text. An entire generation of 16 – 24 yearolds seem to live this listless, self-absorbed existance puntuated biannually by auditions for Big Brother and Pop Idol, the rest of the time seems to be spent self-grooming watching football and binge drinking. Avoid at all costs.
