Towns don’t get much worse than Weymouth, at the wretched end of the UK. Assumed by many to be a beautiful part of Daarset (Dorset), it’s a white trash ghetto populated by single mothers. Judging by the ‘local beauties’, breeding from a very shallow gene pool has clearly been rife for some generations. Even the women have knuckles that scrape the floor.
Fashion and Culture
Fashion bypasses this town; style and culture are anomalies. I lived there for five years, working for a ‘fashion’ company – a contradiction in terms if ever there was one. The local plebeians generally object to a life of grind, opting instead for 16 years of free and easy income generated by 10 minutes of grind, thanks to the Child Maintenance Service (CMS). Yob gob girls with sophisticated names like ‘Tammy’ learn from their peers (who have all given it a go) that despite being severely slapped with the ugly stick you can still persuade a desperate teenager to sleep with you. Then, armed with a paternity test, they can get a subsidised house in Ch@ville. They can also get all the benefits they’ve long for plus anything between 15% and 30% of the poor sucker’s earnings for the rest of his adult life.
At the weekends, the locals can be found ******* around the plethora of smoky pubs with their various latchkey children. It is unusual for any siblings to have the same parents. They like to sit about, smoking whatever is available, drinking whatever is cheap and generally ignoring their whining, bored, soon to be ASBO offspring. A favourite trick of the ch@v indoors, is to lock the child in a room via a stairgate so that they can go upstairs and spawn the next generation at will, creating more burdens on the welfare state.
The Nightlife
The nightclubs, of which there are many (all equally appalling), could be kindly described as retro nightspots, the kind of places that play ‘It’s raining men’ on a weekly basis without the slightest irony. Blokes visit the seaside town to pull the local girls who have gained a well deserved reputation. They usually end up waiting until about 1.45am to make a move, which is that point where the beer goggles start to kick in, catalysing the urge to snog a ch@v, even though she would have made your skin crawl at the start of the evening, when you were sober.
When I moved there I thought Weymouth was just a culture shock to the senses – with the fishing nets ******* from the pub ceilings, the fat blokes with tied corner hankie hats on the beach – but the reality is it’s more of a toxic shock.
