Ahhhh Luton, or as Easyjet would have you believe ‘London Luton’ – the fact that these two places are mentioned in the same sentence is staggering. London – a city of culture, history and a vibrant lifestyle. Then you have Luton – ******** of the South, a rancid breeding ground of chavness and a weeping sore of town.
I had the misfortune of living there for 3 years whilst studying at their ‘University’. Poor lad I hear you cry, but it did provide me with a hilarious insight into the towns youth. The town itself is not easy on the eye, it makes Slough comparable to the playboy tax exile haven of Monaco – and the ***** are the icing on the cake.
The best way to spend a Saturday in Luton would be to start with a morning stroll in the Arndale centre, here lies a circus of chavness. As with most
shopping centres in our great nation, Saturday is Chavday. Come marvel at scenes of glue sniffing, shop-lifting, inter-racial breeding and bad hair.
How will these perky young upstarts fare in later life? Is this the future of our great nation? Who cares. Let the little ******* rot, but rest assured
its their destiny to bleed the honest taxpayer dry one day.
The older **** will typically reside in the town’s Marsh Farm estate. Home of burglaries, drug raids, ***** and most notably the famous riots. The
estate boasts Bedfordshire’s finest ****-breeding high rise flats where a new generation of ***** are constantly being produced by Luton’s young
******* single mothers, whose vaginas are surely now of clowns pocket proportion.
Typically sporting a range of piss poor garish sovereign rings, these fascinating creatures will ‘hook up’ with fellow ***** and marvel at a range of **** vehicles fitted with ultra loud exhausts and tinted windows. Why is this the same with every ****? Your car looks ******* hideous mate and unless you are Royalty dont tint the sodding windows!
As night dawns upon us what prey tell does the this fine town have to offer this cultured mob? A dose of Opera? The Theatre? A relaxing meal? Sadly not, the **** is on a mission to get some skirt or in a nasty fight. Yates (suprise suprise) would be the focal point. Where cloned ***** in salmon pink ralph lauren shirts bump and grind against 15 year old Tracys, unaware that their Bacardi Breezers have been spiked with the latest date **** drug. If the male **** is unsucessful he may move on to the cattle market that is ‘The Beach’ located in the town’s armpit they call ‘Cheapside’ (The town planners got one thing right!).
Come and enjoy a beer and watch the local girls sandwiched between mens hard-ons whilst Beyonce blasts out of the speakers. This has been
the venue of many a **** fight, including one particular incident in which I recall the owners of a local kebab shop chasing Lutonian ***** down a street with knives, and who can blame them? Slit their throats I say!
