I’m astonished that this nightmare of a town has only been mentioned a couple of times. I’m guessing this is because none of the residents know what the internet is yet and the majority of  those who have escaped are still too traumatised to speak about their visit. If you ever wondered if England had an area inhabited by our equivalent of American trailer trash red-necks then you’ve obviously not been to Wisbech. Wisbech’s red-necks didn’t get their colour by working hard though, oh no, their sunburned colour comes from sitting around the town’s market square comparing trainers and their latest benefit stream generator (baby to the rest of us) with their mates  The manufacturers of nylon can thank Wisbech and it’s benefit dependant pondlife residents for their wealth.  No shops worth having can survive in the place because Wisbechistanis will not patronise any business that sells anything for more than £1.  There are two businesses in this depressing and deprived dump that are doing well though…. they being the pound shop that now occupies the old Woolworths premises and, not surprisingly, the drive through McDonalds (the demographic is so low that Wisbech is one of the few places in the country where you can’t order a Dominos Pizza). It’s out of town location, just up the road from the cat food factory – work that out,  doesn’t make it difficult to find… all you have to do to find it from any direction is follow the trail of discarded McDonalds litter that is strewn on all local roads having been launched from the 20yr old Saxos and BMWs that the retards view as de rigeur transport. You’re nobody in Wisbech until you drive a BMW, regardless of how old or knackered it is. That’s not quite true, Fenland’s relatively wealthy sorts (they have a job) have a preference for pick up trucks, the bigger the better.  They are so proud of their status mobiles that they believe the roads are too dangerous to park their ‘trucks’ in. Instead, they park them on the pavements and make pedestrians walk in the dangerous roads with all the Saxos and 20yr old BMWs. You will notice that the pick up truck types ride round with looks of superior smugness on their faces. What they don’t realise is that the rest of us use their choice of vehicle as an indicator of the IQ of those within. There are a lot of pick ups round Wisbech.

Local people are the product of their local schools. With employment opportunities limited to either working in Macdonalds, the pound shop or the local cat food factory, the  high school stopped trying to teach anything useful and it became nothing more than a childminded service so the parents could get on with the important things in their lives: watching daytime TV or breeding even more benefits stream generators.  The place was so bad that OFSTED completely gave up on it and decided the only way to halt the damage it was doing to the population was to demolish it which they did.

I was unfortunate enough to live in one of the villages associated with this town for 5yrs.  It didn’t take us 5yrs to realise we’d made a mistake, of course. We realised that within the first month or so of living among them but it took us 4.5yrs to sell up and get out. The retards that bought our house – they only managed to raise the deposit because of an industrial accident insurance payout, we have since discovered, wasted no time in parking a 4X4 on the pavement outside, forcing people to walk in the roadway and to install a barking-24hrs-a-day Rotweiller (look at how hard I am with this dog) in the garden. They will fit right in with the other barking dog obsessed Wisbechistannis, one of whom had a gorgeous Staffy puppy. I made to stroke this little dog one day as it’s nylon clad football hooligan style dressed retard took it for a shit on someone else’s lawn. “Don’t do that”, he mumbled, “I want it to be a hard dog that everyone is scared of”… the poor animal was no more than 4months old at the time.

On the subject of migration…. in the late 90s there was a steady flow of immigrants from Essex into the area around Wisbech.  They were attracted by cheap property prices and the lack of foreigners. It’s so bad now that everyone who can is getting out and leaving the place to the Fennies, even the Essexers are leaving.

I came pretty close to sliding into depression as a result of living near Wisbech. I knew I hated the place but only realised the harmful effect it was having on me when we moved. I immediately felt like the world had been lifted from my shoulders and my mood has improved daily since.  We visited ex neighbours (who are still trapped) a couple of weeks ago and felt the tendrils of Fen depression wrapping themselves around me once again. Only when you’ve escaped the place do you realise just how bad it is.

I’ve always envied those people that come from London, Birmingham, Leeds, Sheffield etc… At least people will have heard of these places when they ask ‘where are you from?’ Peterborough just doesn’t cut the mustard and the generic ‘well it’s near Cambridge’ or ‘Just off the A1 80 miles north of London’ is usually met with a blank look and mild nod that says ‘i haven’t got a clue where you’re on about.’
And it’s perhaps best they haven’t because let’s be honest, who would want to visit Peterboghorror? Possibly one of thw worst-designed cities in the country, a sprawling abortion of 80′s crap architecture with facless housing estates connected with a myriad of rat run passages which become wind tunnels, litter traps and the ideal ambush point for junkies and pissed up pikeys. Of which this insipid little city has many.
A piss poor road system (in fact the only good thing about the city is its parkway system which lets you leave pretty quickly), bland, grey city centre whose main attractions are chip vans, pound shops, boarded up empty retail units, beggars and fat, idle dolescum from the Ortons, Welland, Bretton and Hampton. You’ll see them easily – they’re the ones who wear moody Crocs in the middle of winter and has suffered some form of strange lard osmosis from eating too many chips. They’ll also have anywhere between six and a dozen kids, some brown, behind them in a rag tag band running out of control, despite mother’s best attempts to tame them by ranting swearwords at the top of her voice. Perhaps telling them they won’t get Micro Chips and a Rustlers Burger for tea might do the job…
So that’s the day dealt with. What about the nightlife? It’s not up to much – one of the key moans is that if we had a university, the student scene would invigorate the place. No it wouldn’t. It’d just give more innocent targets for the council eastate Beckham-clone in-breds or the pikey scum from Parnwell to batter senseless.
I’ve always been amazed that a barbed wire fence doesn’t go up along Midgate and Westgate to seal off the ‘passable’ part of the city from the ‘Bronx’. Avoid Liquid, O’Neills, The Brewery Tap, Yates’s, Edwards and The Solstice like a plague. If you do decide to pay a visit, firstly avoid the beggars, slags flogging flyers for some sweaty meatmarket nightclub and junkies out for a fight near the Tesco Extra. Then get past the knuckle-headed apes of the door of most of these shit holes and you’re in – but you’ll wonder why you bothered. Try and spot the person with originality in terms fo dress sense and haircut. It ain’t happening. If you want to know what people in Peterborough will be wearing in a decade’s time, go to London now and take notes.
Fights are part and parcel of a night out and if you’re really lucky it’ll just be with gelled flat-top chav Gary who is upset because his whore of a girlfriend looked at another man. If you’re unlucky, you’ll get the works from some pikeys or an Eastern European gang for no apparent reason.
And don’t expect the thick as a donkey’s dick door staff to help you. They’re too busy making sure either:
A) those violent thungs in trainers and jeans don’t get in (ignoring the wakners in dragon print shirts and Argos shoes with big brass buckles)
B) Getting a blowjob and tops and fingers with an underage Orton slut decked out in Argos’s finest gold

Make it through the night and there’s a possible kebab shop fight on the way home or the nailed on cab rank brawl. Watch as the police stay sat in their vans drinking tea. Still, if i was them, i wouldn’t bother either.
The travesty is that the one decent place we had to try and bring some culture and variety to the city (The Broadway Theatre) was burgled and torched recently. What a surprise. Perhaps Peterborough isn’t ready for this sort of enlightenment. Far better to stick to casual racism, narrow-mindedness and xenophobia, three things that this grotty city excels in.
f**k me, it’s no wonder i couldn’t wait to leave. The only downside is i have to travel in each day to work. Still it gives me a great sense of smugness and superiority watching the social detrius that limps slack-jawed past my office each day on their way to the Post Office to get their dole money.
Whatever happened to social-darwinism?

I’m actually from Watford, so I’m always prepared for a Chav onslaught.  Now that I’m working in Peterborough, Watford is almost posh (yes, that’s a deliberate pun as Peterborough FC are known as the Port Out Starboard Home or P.O.S.H.).
Driving into Peterborough in the morning can be a dangerous thing. The local ‘ladies’ cannot distinguish between the colours red and green, so simply push their buggies full of  ‘too obese to walk’ children into the road obliviously and then shout at the ‘big shiny monsters on wheels’ as you drive by.
It doesn’t matter – the accent is so thick that it may not even be English. Never make the mistake of asking about the father. It’s almost certain to be the girls own father or brother.
If she’s got a bike or a pair of heelies, it may be her cousin. Maybe.
Pull into the multi storey car park and swerve to avoid the pissheads who slept there last night after falling out of Flares (seriously, it’s a 70’s club) or Chicago Cock café. Someone has actually chalked the word ‘Hotel’ on the entrance to the car park and the drunks take great delight in trying to headbutt the height restriction sign at the entrance. So expect blood.
Park your car and walk through town past the Cathedral and sundry ancient buildings. Expect to be asked five or six times if you have got ‘40p for a phone call’ or the question ‘I need £1.20 for bus fare, can you help with that?’  I have found that the reply ‘I need £120,000.00 for a flat, can you help with that?’ usually sends them running.
The Big Issue sellers are the best dressed of the locals – and the most polite. Stand near one if you are getting really fed up with the beggars. It may cost you a couple of cigarettes, but it’s worth it for the protection.
At night. What are you doing in Peterborough at night? Night starts at 5.30, that’s when the alley between Tesco and The Moon fills up with aggressive piss artists who can’t get into the bars. Within twenty minutes, every bar is full of wanna be ‘Gangstas’. It’s no good explaining that they are white, British and live in the countryside. If they say East L.A., then leave it that way.
O you know someone who isn’t Caucasian? Don’t take them to Peterborough. Outside it may be 2008, but in P’boro city centre, the skinheads (yes, really) think that it’s 1979 in terms of race relations.
There are several large posts with cameras attached displaying a telephone number which leads directly to the Police. The idea is that you stand there in the light and call, at least your kicking will get onto ‘You’ve Been f**ked’ once the video tape gets out.
If you’ve survived until 9.00 you can ‘go clubbing’. Chicago, Liquid etc are all in a row. Stand back and watch as the local tarts totter in already drunk and then fall out again several hours later.
Local blokes looking for a shag don’t bother to go into the clubs at all. They just turn up at closing time and wait. Any Chavette who has had a row with her mates or is one too many for the cab is fair game. If she’s at the point of unconsciousness, so much the better, just do her in the alleyway and leave her there for someone else to have later.  This is called ‘recycling’.
If it’s your cousin, so much the better – at least you know her name.
Peterborough is surrounded by miles of open countryside. Perfect for burying the bodies.

Huntingdon, a corner of Cambridgeshire that is forever chavland. This town, regails itself in its history of being Oliver Cromwells home town and if you listen carefully as the bottles fly in the market square on a Friday night you can hear the sound of his bones creak as he spins in his grave.

f**k off all u goths u infest huntingdon, sittin up the fountain bit all lookin sad n shit cheer up its 2000 i went olivers last wednesday n its bad nite its the only place u lot can go without fear of getting beaten up every1 there id never seen before was so funni they all looked so sad swing 1 u fukin muks