If you can survive the only road that makes Bolivia’s “Death Road” look like a walk in the park: the B1188, then you will stumble into Digby. Digby is a quaint little sanctuary where, and I mean this in every sense of the word, nothing happens. Nothing. No Post Office, a [allegedly] ****** pub and a population roughly the size of Wuhan’s streets after the coronavirus outbreak.
Digby offers jack sh*t to England except a hole of ne’do-wells, council houses and drugs. I’ve lived in Digby all my life, and although it holds a very special place in my heart, it pains me to say it is a pile of steaming s**t.
Digby is surrounded by what I can only describe as an eternal void. Miles of empty space, inhabited by neanderthals and webbed-feet, limited gene pool idiots. Don’t come to Digby if you have any self-worth. Please, just let us rot.
