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« on: Tuesday, May 1, 2007, 13:51:05 » |
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Bristol is the gateway to Britains very own third world.
Not so much a City as a mortuary. Industry has long departed, leaving the residents to shuffle round it's shite meagre consumer options like zombies in a George A Romero movie - while hundreds of seagulls shit on them.
The place itself is like some kind of inhospitable wild west ghost town and it remains a dusty, hollow shell, trading on days of past slavery glories.
In Bristol, the bones of children do not grow properly. A typical teenager will appear to have rickets and something odd about the skull. Often the dome of the head will appear to be missing completely, and the jaw is extended toward the ground.
The Rovers half of the city is characterised by lots of angry men all produced from the same mould. Think of the thick-set, no necked, plodding Neanderthal type 'being' from all those ‘development of early man’ charts you used to see on biology/history class walls. Then add a Burberry shirt, a couple of tattoos, and a shaved head.
Packs of these early men roam around after the traditional 10 pints of cider, looking for a fight. The Sunday morning streets look like Baghdad.
On non match days typical Rovers fans are like dirty, damaged vultures. They converge at awful jumble sales. They rummage and fight for socks and underpants that have been torn from the stiff corpses of their previous drug riddled occupiers. Then its off to Somerfield to buy Tizer and Superkings. If they speak to each other, nobody knows what the fuck they say.
The Bristol female is usually in a boob tube/black mini-skirt/addidas trouser combo three sizes too small with white stilleto's and will wear this right up until she reaches 67 or comes off the game. These Kappa-Slappers (gold pram optional) are very skilled at applying orange foundation with the cleanest tide mark I’ve ever seen - so in line with the cheek that their pasty necks can still proudly show the litter of trophy love bites.
This Bristol community is seclusive and inward where gossip is rife with tales of debauchery, blaggers, smugglers, smackheads, yardies, crooked farmers, bigots and the insane and the inbred abound while the entire place is underpinned by drug addiction, prostituion and alcoholism on a phenomenal scale, as it runs along like some weird Archers parady.
Outsiders attain a kind of novelty status. They get the same kind of reception Western explorers received when they first encountered tribes in Africa and the Amazon.
The place is only of interest to Hollywood producers looking for a set for the remake of ‘The Land That Time Forgot’, or anthropologists with a well defined sense of the absurd.
Bristol, the spiritual home of facial scarring, is a stinking cesspool of social failure. If I had a nuclear capability I would happily be rid of Bristol. Fuck em all !
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