Leicester, land of chicken bone covered pavements, dog *****, wobbly jawed accents, ch@vtastic fashion *cough* and miserable lined faces. This place is landlocked and joyless, with no redeeming features. The soulless shopping trolley filled canal that runs through the west-end has the odd duck and swan, lost en-route to sunnier climes, dodging the errant barges of frightened looking holiday makers who are looking for the way out.
In the city centre, roadmen wannabes with their weed drenched man bags jostle with chicken boxes and skinny glass eyed drug users who want to beg another pound to buy a bag, or put towards their train ticket to Northampton and freedom. It is definitely not recommended as a holiday destination. I know, I lived here for years and escaped to the beautiful North West soon as I could.
Nowhere else is so slack on celebrating and curating its history, letting beautiful old buildings and features fall to ruin or graffiti or dog piss. Nowhere else are they so drowned by their lack of specialness that they jump on the bandwagon of other cities that has **** all to do with them – prime example, their beef with Man United, Man City, Liverpool and Chelsea because well, Leicester City won the league that one time and it means they’re on a parr. We know they’re not, but this kind of delusion is common place in Leicester.
It has potential, but my god has it got problems. Avoid! Save your shoes and your sanity and go to Birmingham instead.
