Perched on the Fylde coast line Fleetwood was once a thriving fishing port but following years of steady decline in the fish business it has sunk to new depths and now finds itself in the grip of the ****.
These social misfits have not consigned themselves to their estate roots but mercilessly infest every nook and cranny of the town with their appaling fashion sense and knucklehead repartee.
What was once a standout monument to Fleetwood ‘The Mount’ hill is awash with the tracksuit and kicker ensamble that has become so painfully familiar to this isle.
From this high vantage point they can peer down and abuse passers by. Not content with their own misery they must heap grief on their own citizens. Ofcourse their stella and cider fuelled evenings are not without conflict within their own ridiculous congregation, oh no. They often turn on reach other like savages should their huge misplaced egos be ruffled by a fellow ****.
The ‘Marine Gardens’ are adjacent to the mount and again the **** holds key ground here. The gardens are home to many shelters and boy are they right at home. Hidden in the shadows they are untouchable. How the group wallows itself on cheap ale and STD riddled conquests. Between tired alcohol fuelled banter and long bouts of grolling **** sputum they leg it from the rotating CCTV cop van.
Their elder ***** later spread their wings into the town centre which is almost entirely a long stretch of road called Lord Street. Its fair to say they have taken complete control of all public houses in this vicinity. Nationwide the Wetherspoon chain is a firm favourite of the ****. Cheap colourful drinks served in large jugs helps them forget their miserable existence. The reebok tracky bottom, the henry lloyd top, the skinhead with a fringe, the sovs, lord help us its here in abundance. How the ******** is smitten by them as she sips a blue beverage through a mighty long straw. Bog eyed and hardly able to stand the female dreams of finding her mate here amongst her own kind. She dreams of a back street scuttle between the spoons and the kings arms. Perhaps a knee trembler followed by a large portion of aggro at the taxi rank. A black eye, a busted nose, a torrent of verbal, physical mental abuse, how the Fleetwood ******** dreams of courtship. Her offspring at home sleeping.
The late night drinking at the kings arms, harlequins and the market tavern provides the **** with ample oppertunity for mischief. They do not dissapoint. Guaranteed kick off every weekend.
The Freeport shopping experience is also a haven for the **** look. Cheap sports gear on offer here. Its really a mecca to the **** brands.
You can also find a good helping of chavness in the betting offices. After a few cans they seem attracted to the gaming machines and gather round them in large poorly dressed groups. Ofcourse they are easily distracted and resort to childish play fighting amongst themselves which will no doubt spill over to a more agressive encounter later in the evening outside kentucky.
Summer attarctions here include ‘tram’ sorry ‘pram or **** sunday’. Its meant to be a transport exhibition but unfortunately its awash with **** menace. Shirts removed, tracky pants, kickers and a bargain booze bag full of stella they parade up and down Lord street unsettling locals and visitors alike. The long day predicatbly falls into an early evening brawl outside the kings or bug. I guess you could say its all in the name of tradition.
Perhaps a mass cull or cleansing could rid an otherwise decent seaside town of its **** menace but for now we must endure them.
The UK is under **** law and Fleetwood is no exeption.
