Amidst the glitz and glamour that Essex is ostensibly known for, there lies towns that differ from that image. Tilbury is a pertinent example of those ‘towns’. I’m reluctant to even call it a ‘town’. It doesn’t deserve that title. I think somewhere along the lines of ‘cess pit’, ‘slum’, ‘shantytown’ would be more appropriate.
Just to clarify, I am not a conceited ‘posh twat’ who hails from a relatively ‘posh twat’ inhabited area, I was originally born in Forest Gate (which is also an ineffable s**thole), who migrated to Romford, Essex. Whilst the two aforementioned areas do possess their flaws (quite a few really…), Tilbury is bereft of any advantages to it. There is virtually nothing to redeem it.
My beloved sister moved to Tilbury on a whim as my aunt also resides there. I was dubious that Tilbury was actually much of a s**thole as they described because I never really ‘visited’ the area without a car. When we moved, we were optimistic, initially. But that soon dissolved one afternoon in a confrontation with travelling children. I was wearing black Nike Blazers and they were sporting Lonsdale and Adidas and one girl wearing Umbro Trackies possessed to audacity to say to me that ‘you have no taste’. That was moment I realised that the inhabitants of this God-forsaken land consist of disgruntled, rancorous dickheads with no more than two teeth in their mouth.
The chavs wear Adidas and Lonsdale trackies as if they are a compulsory uniform. I walk down the street wearing skinny jeans and a Topman jumper and I feel alienated. I’m often a target. Just three weeks ago, I tried to do a perilous walk from Tilbury Town Station to my sister’s house close to Civic Square. I was confronted by aforementioned chavs standing intimidatingly outside the Tesco Express and hollered out ‘What you looking at?’ Nobody batted an eyelid, so I sought solace in a Favorite chicken where one of the cashiers called a cab and I managed to obviate getting my head kicked in.
The area consists of dilapidated terraced houses which would the 1984 film ‘Threads’ a run for its money. The aforementioned film was set in the aftermath of a nuclear bomb explosion. Just watch it, and you will discover that the appearance of the houses in the film and the houses in Tilbury are virtually no different. The odour of urban decay is so palpable that you can cut it with a knife. Most of the inhabitants who reside in this unequivocal s**thole bear a resemblance to characters from ‘Gummo’. The only well-mannered and tolerable people I know in the area are often too intimidated to emerge from their own front doors in the fear that they will meet their demise in the hands of a thug whose only haven is Sports Direct.
There are no semi-decent shops. You will find a cornucoppia of African and Caribbean establishments, and, frequently, third-rate takeaway outlets.
The only advantage that I would have to give Tilbury is that it has a train station, which can provide you with the opportunity to disperse from the s**thole and be in the pursuit of a better life away from the chavs who provide the area with its notorious reputation. The area itself has not exhibited any signs of progress. It is the revolting, rotting apple of Essex. Bruised, neglected and rotten. With the incompetence of Thurrock Council, the damage already done to Tilbury is almost irrevocable.
My sister and my aunt still reluctantly reside in the s**thole until they can find better places to inhabit. I refuse to venture out unless there is a mode of transportation such as a car or train. For anyone outside of Essex, if you move to Tilbury under the impression that the residents will bear a striking resemblance to the cast of ‘TOWIE’, with white teeth, an illuminating orange glow and women frivolously splashing their wads of cash with a chihuahua poking prominently out of their handbags, you are wrong. Dead wrong. Tilbury is merely scab of Essex along the mouth of the River Thames. Avoid at all costs.