Hereford is best known for being a pretty, sleepy rural town steeped in history. Unbeknownst to the average tourist buying local postcards and jam, is the notion that they are stumbling upon one of the best kept secrets in ***** breeding ground history. High Town being the favourite, where various Pram Faces push around their filthy spawn, donning various fake Burberrys and wielding Argos gold from every available stretch of diseased flesh. You can find the alpha male ******* around outside chipshops usually, pulling on an Embassy and using the word ‘like’ as if it’s going to be taken out of the dictionary. The doomed Wetherspoon chain is also a classic example of a drongo hangout. Where the beer is as cheap as the tarts, is a surefire good night for the local scally.
Herefords picturesque town centre is, unfortunatley, sandwiched between about 4 council estates, each boasting liggers more **** than the one they preceeded. The hair carefully scraped forward and the rare pink Burberry hat are fixed into place before going down Tesco’s to just hang around and spoil other peoples days. Whether going round to see nan who lives on the same estate, or going down the Ritz (I **** you not) to shoot some pool or just sit in the window, displaying their jewellery and acne for everyone to see, the Herefordian **** is probably one of the best. We do have quite a thick west country lilt, which they embrace, and the lack of ability to keep their penis in their trousers, spreading their mucky generation throughout the area, are key factors in the Hereford ****. And when the fare comes around, by god, ***** line the street willy nilly, expecting a poke from the touring ****** in the passenger seat of their transit. Its also a common fact that these Carneys turn their sovreign rings around so that it looks like you’ve got an extra pound in your change. Oh, the life and ambition of the ****!!
