Emerging just centimetres from the cancerous smog of junction 17 on the M25, sits an old council estate going by the mind-bendingly imaginative name of Mill End. It nestles, like an infected yellow head, on the boarder of South West Herts and South Bucks, and breeds toothless simpletons, social disease and gonorrhoea like a scene out of 1300’s England.
Its one, singular parade of shops attract 13 year old pregnant girls more than shoppers, who hang around outside with spotty, thick lads, who are about 25 and drive Vauxhall Corsas. Out of its 2 remaining pubs, the most notorious, the Tree, is now closed down, left derelict and alone like a dementia sufferer who has no family, leaving the most popular destination for people to socialise in, The BP Garage.
Its plethora of fast food outlets add further to the “Syria-like” feel of desperation and decay. Fat bellied tw@ts in white, fan their fake tanned girlfriends sitting in the passenger seat of their car, glowing like a Wotsit, before staggering across the road on a Friday night to pick up their kebabs, farting uncontrollably as they go, with an erection.
The classier populous of Mill End like to call it South West Rickmansworth, but they’re just arseh*les.
