Now then. I have read all the reports on the **** culture breeding in and around the cess pools of Nuneaton, yet I feel certain things have been missed.
Firstly, nestled deep in the heart of Stockingford (or ‘the ford’ as it is affectionately and originally known), is The Nuneaton Academy, formerly known as Alderman Smith – or ‘Alderman Spliff’ to give it its true **** name. I will not go as far as to say that this school is the only **** school in Nuneaton as this is certainly not the case — Manor Park (‘Spanner Park’) is most definitely in contention. The Nuneaton Academy, however, is where a large majority of local ***** are spawned.
On any given weekday afternoon the older ***** take a break from stealing crates of Stella from the local off-licence, jump into their Vauxhall Corsas complete with dump valves, spoilers, spinning wheel-trims, chrome windscreen wipers and, of course, the neon-blue under-chassis light to complete the picture. Off they roar across ‘The Ford’ until they reach the huge metal gates of ‘Alderman Spliff’, to collect their fourteen year old girlfriends from their daily incarceration. At 3:25 the gates are opened and the animals released, free to finish their Sovereign cigarette which they’re sharing with six of their friends and clamber into their boyfriend’s cars.
In a smokey, burberry, Joop-scented haze the cars disperse and their occupants are free to go home and prepare for a ‘heavy night’ down the park –or ‘the rec’ if you’re interested in the **** terminology–.
At around half-past five a large majority of the fourteen year old girls receive a phone call from the day-care centre, reminding them that once again they have forgotten to pick up their kids. In a huff of obscenities they trample their way to the centre and then proceed to drag the kids round to ‘Nan’s house’ for tea –the Nan who turned 26 earlier this year–. A hearty meal of spaghetti hoops on toast later and they’re ready to head down the park, if they’re really lucky by the time they come home they might be pregnant again which would mean more benefits, therefore more Lambrini, MD20/20 and Sovereigns.
I have however, appeared to focus solely on the school-age generation of ***** in Nuneaton. It would be wrong to not mention the hoards of post-sixteen ***** who have, as yet, failed to get themselves a job as factory fodder at the Coventry Peugeot plant or down the sandwich factory.
A walk through Nuneaton town centre will reveal a **** mecca. The Maddies car-park has already been commented on numerous times, so I will leave that for now. Instead, I will talk about the extensive **** presence on a weekend night-out. A great place to see some real **** action is the Pen and Wig, or Reflex as it is now known. After its recent refurbishment, it was widely believed that the Pen and Wig would hold a higher class of clientele, yet a couple of months later and its still full of the same knuckle-draggers as before. Despite looking slightly better than it did, I ask you to remember that this was the pub which sold cans of Breaker as its lager.
There you have it, Nuneaton. I live in hope that one day I may return home and find that all reference of the town’s existence will have been wiped from all maps and records, leaving the ***** to fight amongst themselves until no more remain. As yet my dream has not become reality.
