If the world had piles, they’d be in Combe Martin, North Devon. I live here, but you can’t call it life. The good old British transport network, the seaside, shopping, and clothes, are old hat and cliché. You don’t need these things and Combe Martin hasn’t got them. What you need is people from Birmingham, every day’s an adventure. Find out who they’re talking about with up to the minute scandals. If the Post Office has gone bust again, and who’s curtain twitching who. See which poor ******* is getting crucified on Facebook.
Combe Martin is the ideal alternative to the seaside and the cure for happiness. When you move here, you must have been homeless or in jail, and you can’t possibly be a useful person. If you’re just on the run, weed is available from the beach car park every morning at four o’clock. Farmers and caravan dwellers will especially feel at home in this ideal retreat for anyone tired of life and sick of civilisation.
The village is a popular destination for the nouveau blue ribbon brigade: builders-turned-chefs. Also popular with manic depressives and wife beaters seeking the dark, the miserable and the boring (marriage and the village). Many are successful and remain unhappily married, often to their sister.
