Grockles; good for North Devon business but terribly bad for the digestion and the nerves. October never comes soon enough.
First, the boring stuff: North Devon, England, is mainly rural seaside, with its district council sitting (or lounging about) in Barnstaple. North Devon District towns and villages include Westward Ho!, Braunton, Combe Martin, Ilfracombe, Instow, South Molton, and stuck-up poncey Lynton and Lynmouth. All of them bone idle and greedy. What this basically means is loads of idiots on holiday, idiots who live here, dog poo, addicts, and drunks, all year round. Grockles come here for the beer, but some of them are alright. In summer at least the local businesses get to rub their hands and stick their prices up. The rest of us either move out or suffer six months of sheer hell.
North Devon is a beautiful, historic area with mountains, high sea cliffs and coastal walks. And grockels in summer, who’ve no intention of seeing the coastal paths, beaches or cliffs; they’ve just looked up the best Wetherspoons in Devon for their holidays. The numerous Cafes and Pubs aren’t very good in general and none of them can cook, but there are some little gems. And there are grockels, who usually leave their brains at home. Every summer we get the Simpsons, the Munsters and the Dingles; fat families with three dogs; stupid families with no dogs and ugly families with noisy kids. The men usually wear silly hats and the women wear anything that might fit them. It’s amazing what’s in other parts of the country, unseen, but North Devon sees it every summer.
North Devon locals plan for the holidays as well, they move out for the duration. Most grockles can’t see, or at least they can’t go anywhere without a dog, and in the holidays the rural bus service – such as it is – provides rundown old charabancs for hordes of ******** aliens. They push in and forget they’re supposed to pay while asking interminable stupid questions they could have sorted out before they left the holiday camp. Or read something, if only they could read.
When they get to whichever poor town has to suffer them, or if they get there and the charabanc hasn’t broken down again, they head straight for Wetherspoons, then go out and climb all over the local monuments or wander up and down like gormless zombies getting under everybody’s feet. They can’t use our useless Cafes because they all shut at three, and after all, nobody ever needs their tea. Good job too. Think they go to the beach? No fear, too old, too fat or too ugly. And dogs are banned from beaches in summer so that’s most of them screwed. There aren’t more than a couple of beaches, and anyway they’re usually full of ‘surfers’ and posers. Grockels usually go back to the Pub, get leathered til 2 AM and then shout and scream down the High Streets.
If you’re a grockle, we’re not sorry we wrote this at all.
