A site has stormed the ramparts across the country by utilising the voices of locals and non locals. Dorset has not escaped as the following explodes.
Hard to argue?
Or
Hard to Agree?
Either way it surely musters a titter.
Over to you.
Shaftesbury: It’s Great if you are Old and Rich
Perched atop of the famous “Gold Hill” of the Ridley Scott Hovis advert, Shaftesbury has a high street of woe. A mixture of charity shops, coffee shops (last count 10 for a population of 5,000 odd) and gift shops for the grockles. If you need to buy something useful such as a paintbrush or a pair of socks, be prepared for a 45 minutes drive each way to the nearest proper shopping.
MARKET DAY
Thursday is market day in Shaftesbury. Revel in the heights of country living with a fish stall, a bread stall and a few sad plants among the hoards of living dead that Shaftesbury High Street brings out because the market is on.
NO BUSES IN DORSET
Car parking is in short supply and expensive. It would be nice to get public transport but alas the hill prevents a train station and there have never been any buses in Dorset.
For the young-uns, the highlight of the year for any 13 year old is the fair which visits around carnival time in September. Underage cider and chips on Park Walk followed by a vigorous shaking on a rickety “ride” that hooks to the back of a Landrover only ever has one result – yes its puke.
THE CARNIVAL
Adults aren’t much better. The Carnival is an excuse to go out and overdo the cider, get involved in a screaming match or a kicking with your ex and end up barred from every establishment until the next big occasion which will be Christmas Eve.
LOCAL POLITICS
If you are old and rich you may fancy dabbling in local politics. The town council is notorious for its bad tempered, self interested meetings and if you want to join in with the pig wrestle, you will be in for hours of fun. Just don’t go in with any ideas of actually wanting to help or do anything of constructive virtue.
Forget being able to buy a house as the property prices are high with the local wages being minimum. And if you are not white, be prepared for stares by the locals. They may even try and touch your hair if you are a kid.
On the whole, if you want to live to be old, the Enmore Green borough has one of the highest rates of longevity, but your average person may die from boredom and isolation long before then.
Portland: Where hope goes to die
Dangling from the ragged backside of the similarly abysmal Weymouth like something a good wipe failed to dislodge, is the isle of Portland.
I saw a post pointing out that locals talk about the island’s beauty when what they really mean is that the views AWAY from Portland, out to sea, are beautiful. Portland itself – not so much. Scarred by years of quarrying, Portland’s natural landscape is vaguely lunar. If the moon was covered with dogsh*t and populated by single, teenage mothers and people with pumpkin sized heads and teeth like tombstones in a bombed out graveyard – it would look very much like Portland.
DOG EGGS
Never in my life have I seen so much dogsh*t. It’s everywhere – all over the pavements, up the walls, dangling in every hedge or tree in a plastic bag; the traditional ‘Portland Bauble.’ And slugs – often crawling on the dogsh*t. And seagulls. I once went into work past a seagull and a crow fighting over a sh*tty nappy in the middle of the road and came out later to see the seagull eating a sh*tty nappy and a flat crow from the middle of the road. I thought there was some profound message about Portland for me in that simple, everyday scene.
RABBIT, RABBIT, RABBIT
Portland people are afraid of rabbits. If you say ‘the r word’ – people know what you’re talking about. You can say ‘the r word’ – just don’t say rabbit. You can also call them bunnies, or long eared mutton. Portland people are also afraid of working, leaving the island, talking to anybody not from Portland, foreigners (anybody not from Portland) and work capability assessments. Actually, the bits about working and WCAs don’t really apply to your native Portlander, who tends to be hardworking and conservative (but afraid of rabbits, leaving the island etc) – they apply more to the massive population of ne’er-do-wells and social refuseniks imported from sink estates in inner cities to prop up the local mephedrone and spice trade and keep the food bank busy.
Top Portland news stories in the local rag over the last few months have been the **** of a schoolgirl, a child *** abuse ring, the planned building of a waste incinerator and the ram raiding of the local Co-op. The most famous person living on Portland is Gary Glitter. What more can you say?
Turn 180 degrees and look at the grey houses, the grey people with baffled expressions when faced with anything more modern than the 19th Century. It’s a uniform grey blob tastefully picked out with litter accents as if decorated by a gifted designer whose brief was “remove the soul from all who live here”.
Perhaps it has now affected me and I too will join the ranks of the baffled, staring at road signs wondering what they are for.
Must get out… before …too late.
Weymouth: Every Day is Like Sunday
“Every day is like Sunday”, warbled famous songster Morrissey, in his tale of a bleak, broken seaside town. He was clearly visiting Weymouth when he wrote it. But let’s take you through a guided tour of the stunning sights “the **** of Dorset” has to offer the unwitting tourist.
The Beach
Undoubtedly a stunning vista, were it not packed with drunken, fighting Bristolians every summer. This beautiful sandy beach, packed with tourists, children happily playing in the shallows, can change in a moment when Big Sharon spots “that *******” giving “looks” to her Wayne. Cue a can of Stella flying through the air, followed quickly by Big Sharon. All 18 stone of her. Fears for the children present, soon fade however, as her brood of 12 quickly wade into the fight along with Wayne, who has no fears about getting his teeth knocked out, as he hasn’t got any.
Weymouth beach is also a good place for spotting Television celebrities, although if you don’t watch The Jeremy Kyle Show, Crimewatch or Neighbours From Hell, you are unlikely to know they are in your midst.
HISTORY
Weymouth has a long and interesting history, and it’s known as the place where the bubonic plague entered Britain. Looking at the horrific ***** kicking off outside McDonalds most nights, it’s clear that it hasn’t really gone away either. Watching them kicking off is somewhat of a spectator sport these days, with drunken crowds encouraging the young tearaways to disgrace themselves further. As you can gather, there’s not a lot for kids to do around here, but at least when they get up to something, they know that they’re not going to be caught for it. The police [allegedly] gave up on the place years ago.
History is never far away in Weymouth, and should the fancy take you, simply make your way to the back of the derelict Council offices on the picturesque harbour, fight your way through the junkies who are dealing and shooting up, remove the cardboard boxes, sopping wet sleeping bags and carrier bags of the homeless, and below the abandoned shopping trolley, strewn with hypodermic needles are stone steps dating back to the time of the crusades. Weymouth knows how to preserve its heritage. Should you wish to go further back in time, it’s only a short bus ride to Portland, where you can marvel at families dating back to the Neolithic period.
Chavtowns don’t get much more ****** than Weymouth, at the wretched end of the UK. Assumed by many to be a beautiful part of Daarset, it’s a white trash ghetto populated by CSA ******. Judging by the ‘local beauties’ ********** has clearly been rife for some generations, even the women have knuckles that scrape the floor. 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 CSA. 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 get a subsidised house in Chaville, all the benefits a **** longs for and anything between 15% and 30% of the poor suckers earnings for the best years of his adult life.
At the weekends the local ***** 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. The ***** 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 **** indoors is to lock the child in a room via a stairgate, so that they can go upstairs and ******* at will, creating more burdens on the welfare state.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 for being easy. 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 a ****, 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.
ENTERTAINMENT
If watching ***** fighting isn’t your thing, Fear not. There are a host of things to entertain you in Weymouth. There’s the bowling alley, where some of the lanes often work, and Weymouth jewel in the crown, the shops. Make no mistake, this is a true shoppers delight. Chipboard, MDF, plywood, it’s all here, boarding up more shops than you can shake a big stick at. Indeed, Weymouth is so keen to preserve its semi derelict status, that when a local tattoo shop was repainted, making it stand out from its dilapidated neighbours, Council Planning were soon called in.
And the pubs, let’s not forget the pubs. Weymouth is the undisputed stag and hen capital of the South Coast. So much so, that on a random Saturday night, you would think you were caught in the middle of a “fattest bride” or “drunken w4nker competition”.
I could go on, and I may yet.
All I can say is, welcome to Weymouth!
SHERBORNE: A HIDEOUSLY DERANGED TOWN THAT LOOKS GREAT FROM AFAR
Sherborne, this hideous town and populace looks picture perfect to anyone visiting; beautiful buildings, clean and tidy public areas, a politeness that is unheard of in any large town. However if you see underneath the exterior there is a festering, filthy wound of bitterness and small town resentment for anyone whose ancestors haven’t plagued the town since the magna carta.
There is continual bitterness from the local ******* to the admittedly privileged public school boys and girls…. unfortunately the local
tough boys are no match for the private [redacted] Boys school who, due to a lack of **********, are about 6 inches taller and stronger than the goblins from the local [School we can’t mention by name].
After the locals leave school, there are a few choices:
- Work for Hunts or Valmyra Glass, the local factory sweatshops fine and upstanding employers.
- Become a rapidly ageing barmaid and have a number of kids by random, festival attending, degenerates.
- Leave the hell hole ASAP
- Remove yourself from the gene pool
- Marry your cousin.
The night life currently consists of going to one of the rapidly diminishing dives that allows you to drink after 11 pm. This includes the Half Moon, essentially a Wetherspoons without the half decent food. These [misguided business folk] spent £10k on a pizza oven that no one is [allegedly] interested in, and bizarrely offers ‘eclectic’ toppings such as pear and dolcelatte even though its customers have a less than sophisticated palate that is more used to roadkill. The pubs are closing down faster than coffee and charity shops are opening, amazingly.
The local police force seem to think they’re Robocops, even though they have the least dangerous **** possibly in the whole of the UK and [allegedly] have little to do except harass people they don’t like. The towns’ high street is basically filled with charity shops, estate agents and so many coffee shops that to turn a profit, Sherborne would have to consume enough coffee to fill an Olympic sized swimming pool… every day.
The yokels fill their empty existence by gossiping endlessly about everything and anything more interesting than their own minimum wage existence. These morons even have an expression for it: “Fart at the top of cheap street and by the time you get to the bottom, everyone will know you shat yourself.” Or something equally unfunny and cretinous. The other thing they do is get addicted to Ketamine. Which is unsurprising, given that the ultimate intention is to escape the town. Frankly though, the K heads are in a slot between the total losers who will never leave here and the ones brave enough to physically escape this hell hole.
The main pub is somewhere known as the Dingy Tip, aka the Digby Tap. True to its name, it’s [allegedly] a total dive whose existence is only sustained by extremely low rent proffered by the local robber barons [in the writer’s imagination, which is clearly a fantasy, we must add for legal reasons], sorry, aristocrats who own half the town due to the fact that 500 years ago they bullied a previous family of robber barons out of the area. That and the [fresh, quality and definitely not out-of-date] ales enables this [lovely place] to offer low prices. The landlord is a miserable, waxy-faced [lovely chap] who if he hadn’t [allegedly] been born to a rich family [would surely be doing something equally productive and definitely not highly libellous, despite his alleged and in the writer’s view alone] total lack of people skills or even a vague shudder of intelligence.
The customer base [allegedly] largely consists of people whose nasal cavities have lost their ability to respond to external stimuli and the surrounding smell of death, not to mention the alleged Colombian powder crammed up their noses, on a toilet that is comparable to the one in Trainspotting…. But dirtier [yet for legal reason is definitely not the toilets in the Digby Tap]. There exists a clique who feel they are the philosophers and the wise men of town, but whose real gravitas is simply generated by the fact that they have tragically been drinking there for 10 years or more, and have yet to be banned.
To live your life in this town is akin to being in purgatory… look up and you know life should be much better; look down and know that at least you don’t live in Yeovil…
The station should have a sign “abandon hope all ye who enter here.”
Bournemouth: Quite possible the biggest lie ever conceived
When you think of Bournemouth, you think of a nice, happy place with nice views and sandy beaches, with nice weather. I’ll admit, having come from Dagenham, and with family all across East London and Essex, nothing could **** those sh*tholes, but alas, an unlikely contender reared its ugly head, and typically, it happened to be the one bloody place on planet earth that I had moved to. ********.
I’m lucky enough to live in Southbourne, one of the few good areas of Bournemouth, which contains quite possibly the only estate of council houses in the world where there isn’t 12 year old ***** bragging about how many 21 year old men they’ve slept with, or mothers with six kids that all smoke and look like they’ve all done some sort of Class A drug at some point in their young lives.
Now that I’ve mentioned one of the few good things about this hellhole, it’s time for the bad. First of all, the weather is ****. Seriously, if you expect to come down from anywhere inland, expecting a pleasant, sunny day at the beach, then you’re a fool. Plus, on the odd occasion that you do come across the beach on a good day, expect the beach to be full of foreign students and whiny kids who start screaming and crying when you don’t get them an ice cream. There’s also the chance that your beach hut will be broken into and burgled, even if the only thing left is a bunch of mouldy biscuits which went out of date five years ago. Gotta love it.
Secondly, the people are ****. The younger kids all go out together to the park in their Nike AirMax which looks like it was handed down to them from their older sister who probably already has four kids, so they can film their ****** diss tracks and call themselves musicians. If they aren’t there, they’re normally asking homeless people to buy them alcohol, mouthing off to people who actually have some decency, and ******* around street corners and McDonalds, chatting **** to anyone who isn’t part of their group.
The older lads are basically like this as well, except their behaviour is even more c*ntish, even more devious, and have probably just about got the maturity to tell jokes about banging someone’s mother, but instead banging someone’s sister. These people are not to be feared though, as they are wannabe roadmen, all talk, nothing to back it up. If you see one, do not be alarmed.
The parents aren’t much better ever, and will deliberately ignore anyone who tries to point out any flaws about their children, even if this statement is about as obvious as water being wet, the sky being blue and Donald Trump being a Sacha Baron Cohen character which was a “joke gone a little too far”. They also have a tendency to believe that the Polish people are stealing their jobs, despite the fact that an immigrant is not stealing your jobs if you have 2 GCSE’s and an STI.
Some areas, such as Southbourne (My area) are okay, but you have some places where you wish that Bournemouth would be hit by a giant ******* asteroid and sent back to a time when ***** didn’t exist, 10 year olds sold lollipops and not LSD, and when you could actually walk down an alley in Boscombe without having to worry about drug dealers, getting stabbed or encountering Gazza completely off his head, saying that he’s a friend of Raoul Moat again.
Until that day comes, I will wait for the time when a wannabe roadman actually stops talking **** and gets in a fight with someone, however I doubt that day will ever happen, so here I am, stuck in the biggest lie since sliced bread.
Bridport: Historic **** town
Bridport the historic **** town (it really says it on the sign on the way in) a town that has a bigger cover up rate than area 51. so it may be it says its a historic market town and the people are welcoming like a certain tv series on cbs reality called underbelly bridport has a underbelly a real dark one crime rate is higher than glasgow. and the famous curse of the **** is alive and kicking here.
You’ll need a **** translator, as all you hear is “bruv bruv innit mush like bruv u wat fam wat u chattin mush”. We have three types of ****, first the common or garden ****, a pain in the *** for society for over a decade and start on you for no reason ‘cuz der bored bruv’. The turf for these little s**ts, is the bus station, skilling and Dr Roberts Close aka druggy boulevard. Then you have the bit more money chino *****, who wear yankees flat peaks, jumpers that were knitted by their nans, smoke skunk and think they are better than you. The last **** is the agrichav or farmer ***** who turf up the countryside and are loved by the Dorset Wildlife Trust and environment agency for greenlaning, dumping cow s**t into streams and burning tyres and bragg on about who has the best tractor oooooo arrrrrrr.
Next is the night life, come visit the world famous no.10, where you can get the friday night special of punch and a pint with the ***** starting on you with their 14 year old girl friend, swimming in the the vomit because half a pint is too much. Next we move over to H block, the famous drug den of this cesspool where fine herbs and hallucinogenics can be purchased with your hard earned job seekers or income support.
If you are looking to purchase clothing you’ll need the internet as all there is, are charity shops which you can get a saville row suit that someone died in or peacocks as a last resort. Cuisine is expensive and undercooked so bring a packed lunch if you are desperate. The town has nothing, businesses are closing down due to extortionate council rates. Venture 1 mile out of the town and you have the grotty sleazy wannbe skegness west bay, where the potent smell of chips & burgers from various food sheds (kiosks) that sell food you could get from iceland and the northern exposure appear in the summer months to park dean which is normally flooded and the owner [allegedly] needs to see a therapist.
Then you have jenson button wannabes in there crappy little 1.0l saxos thinking they are in fast and the furious, doing donuts on a mini roundabout and race in a car park that closes at 10 so they piss of to the the nearest business park and have nothing better to do than to raise insurance prices. Crime is rife, stabbings, *****, suicides, my mate was beaten up for no reason, dropping off some stuff to a mates house and the police do nothing as everything to them is a civil matter, or they can’t be bother to do the paperwork.
However they can scoff kebabs and arrest the wrong people. Like the mazda gt advert there is no alive in this town. I cannot wait to leave this hellhole and hope our estate agent gets us out far out of here and feel sorry for the people that move in.
Poole: It’s a beautiful place. Yeah right
Poole… “it’s a beautiful place” my ****! Whoever used that quote for Poole must have a white stick. The place is a state and is probably one of the chaviest towns i have ever had to live in. I mean the place is heaving with them..like flies around a kebeb stick. Pulling up on the local bus into Poole bus station and you are welcomed by the ‘kfc’ ***** who seem to never leave that little corner of the bus station. Sometimes you can have up to 30 of them there at one time, along the bus station a bit you get a lot more, buzzin’ round the newsagents and sitting on the bench. ‘!!*Z wa***rs ******** !!??ZZX’ is all you can hear.
In the town centre dolphile shopping centre all you can see is groups of youths in track suits etc. It’s hard to avoid them. The high street is no different either, with idiots right up to the quay. All outskirts of Poole are full of groups and gangs, so it is not a very nice place to come on holiday, unless you live down sandbanks or over to the purbecks. This place is a real ********. I got of the train from London on Saturday, to poole. The first people I laid my eyes on were a bunch of *****!! Yet there were more loitering around the benches up wimborne road outside the londis. outrageous. London is far less ****** than poole and if you want a good holiday, then don’t come here or Bournemouth in that case. Sh*thole!
Check out how the rest of country fairs
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