There’s a good reason Bangor isn’t already on here; no-one knows about it enough to give a f**k. And to be honest, that’s the best thing you can do for a place like this.

The nearby estate of Maesgeirchen breeds chavs like a roadkill badger breeds maggots, and they completely swarm the city. But it’s not just the ratio of chav:normal person that makes it so bad. These chavs can’t even be angry or violent properly like most city chavs. Remember those kids i school who’d hang around with the bigger bullies and peer around from behind them shouting abuse instead of actually being tough? That’s every single one of the chavs in Bangor. Every one of them has an uncle/cousin/mate/boyfriend/dad/brother/all-of-the-above who’s a local fighting legend and will kick the shit out of you for looking at them funny, yet said legend never actually appears. These fuckwits can’t even muster the attitude to finish a fight they start even as a group, unless it’s against an OAP or a phone booth!

Not only that, but the rest of locals seem to support these walking-abortions too. The only thing that brings any sort of money into Bangor is the students (themselves not the brightest of sparks to have chosen to study in f**king Bangor…), so the for 1/4 year that they’re not around the place almost literally grinds to a halt. To that end the univrsity and students are hated because they don’t bring enough money to the area to support the dole-monkeys for the whole year and consequently are given a hard time just for being there. So what did the council do to fix this in recent years? Builds a f**king shopping centre in the city centre… When every other unit on the high street is shut already… There are units in this centre that have NEVER been occupied. You’d think they might have learnt their lesson, but they’ve recently allowed the build of a f**king huge new student union complex… 

Perhaps this will help one or two of the chavs muster the courage to actually be the hard bastard they all purport to be… Folks, please, don’t EVER go to Bangor1 Just let.it.die…

By: Gee Allen

Wales is an ancient place – a dark place. Merlin came from here, in ancient times when the Romans had gone. There are places, high places nestled in mountains full of ancient faery magic, where the malevolent spirits of the Earth whisper secrets in the crevices of men’s hearts. Places where time refuses to trundle onwards as it should.

Croeserw is one of those places. A place of black, malevolant evil. Everywhere you go, the hairs on your neck will stand to attention. You are being watched – not by trolls, or goblins, but big, fat, sweaty women with more tires than Michelan, and proud tax payers who haven’t worked since 1974. By ladies whose faces have been mummified by thirty years of thirty-a-day. Their curtains twich as you walk their streets.

Who is this person? Their eyes say. What is he doing here? Where is he from? Will he scream when I wave a straight razor at his face? Will they ask questions when I bury him in the woods.

The western mail called this small Welsh village “The Sickest Place in Britain.” As one in five people here claim long term sickness benefit. Unemployment is sky-high, crime is seen as a part of life. It’s a long way to the nearest police station, hospital, job center. And travel mostly relies on public transportation that is shaky at best: sometimes the bus will simply bypass this village completely to save time (I once remember having to wait fifteen minutes when one bus driver stopped outside his house to make himself a piece of toast, and, presumably, sex up his wife, before returning without an explanation of his absence.

The accent is a peculiar type of English. An English language as envisioned by a lunatic. Consonants have magically vanished. “Where are you going, then?” Becomes ” ere ou goin, en?” And of course every sentence begins with “Oh!” and ends with “But”

Roving gangs of “children” wander the streets, shouting and fighting into the night. Their screams could be interpreted as wordless laments at a dark and rainy sky. Everywhere you look, baseball caps, spliffs, empty cans of Skol lager, cigarette butts lie in the gutter like broken dreams. Grown women shuffle down dirty pavements at 5PM like the ghosts of their childhood dreams.

Teenage pregnancy is at such a high rate that women give birth to babies who then sometimes immediately go in to labor.

Once I went into the pub. Big mistake. The local pub is known affectionately as The Bog…take a minute to digest that. It’s called The Bog.

It seemed to loom over me, mist pouring from the doorway, windows became eyes – hungry eyes. Inside, I was subjected to karaoke that sounded like artistic, ironic, sarcastic parodies of the songs that they originally were. I was accused, quite violently, of being an undercover cop. Then approached by a girl who seemed like more of a haggard masturbatory aid than an actual human being with a soul, thoughts, memories, etc and asked for my phone number – I told her it was 12345678910 and she said duly saved it.

Please, gentle soul, i implore you. if you would like to keep your soul and not have it ripped from you, stay away from Croeserw. Far away. never come close, if you can smell Joop and Benson and Hedges, you’re too close. f**king back off! if you EVER come here you will be here forever. You will wear a baseball cap, the peak slightly bent, you will wear underpants that will last you the rest of your life; an immortal dole claimant who’s best years are far behind him. And one day, you find youself looking out the window when a well dressed stranger passes your window.

Stay away. Here there be chavs.
By: aaron

Ah the song of humming birds, the rushing sound of water as it meanders the tributories and echanting church bells echoing through the valley. These are all the glorious characteristics you’d normally associate with the traditional Welsh villages in the heart of Carmarthenshire and indeed one would suggest, at a first glance, that Whitland has all these charms. But don’t be fooled by its apparent appeal of being surrounded by beautiful countryside. Having lived in Whitland and gone to school for several years I have come to realise that, in fact, Whitland has similar characteristics to a beautifully delicious ripened macintosh apple, with razor blades in it. True to its form it may look pleasant, almost harmless, from the outside but the sheer depths of dispair only surface when you take a huge bite into it.

Upon entering Whitland you are greeted with the facade that is dirty grey pebble-dash housing, burnt out buildings, a derelict behemoth of a train station and loads of horrible shops which many are still empty; oh and the bloody chavs.

But for many years Whitland was a thriving little market town having a very proud traditional welsh industrial backbone propping up the community with its very own milk factory. However, as is often the case, the industry collapsed. To further compound this despair, the demise of Whitland’s industrial spine coincided with the completion of the Whitland bypass which well and truly finished the town off. The resulting concoction was, and still is, a mere pimple on a pig’s d*ck; a sinister town lurking in the shadow of it’s more aspirational neighbour Narberth in Pembrokeshire.

Since the demise of Whitland’s industrial grit the town has seen an influx of intolerant, insufferable and unemployable chavs who, still to this day, patrol the dark and dingy streets of Whitland like swarms of wasps. Whitland has also welcomed a herd of volatile pseudo-irish gypsies bringing trade (in the form of drugs) into this soul-less one-horse town. In fact a few of those very gypsies knocked on my flat door the very evening I moved in, asking me ‘Av yer got any gear boyo?’; and still to this day, each and every house vomits chavs as they head over to the local chip shop of an evening sporting the usual hoddies, trackies tucked in their socks and upturned baseball caps. Rather bizzarely, Whitland chavs have a tendancy to look identical, with either long necks or short cropped ginger hair; and their hostility knows no bounds. The usual activities of a Chav include hurling foul obscenities at passers by, throwing coins at windows, shouting and generally doing what chavs do best.

To further exacerbate the already dismal chaviness that beholds Whitland, there are 2 local chav recruitment offices also known as schools, where wannabe chavs spill onto the streets at the 3 o’clock bell. The adult chavs too have their own chavettes aka girlfriends and are easily identifyable in their uniform brown / pink pajamas pushing prams.

It also goes without saying (but I’m going to say it anyhow) that this small and innocent-looking town is also rife with unemployment and crime. Whitland has the highest population of Jeremy Kyle viewers in the world (probably) and the gap between poverty and greed is nearly as wide as the Andres is long. For much of the poverty-stricken, a trip to the launderette on a Saturday (for those who can afford it) is pretty much the highlight of yer week, and I remember it well.

Thankfully I was one of the lucky ones to escape this downtrodden hole, but you might not be so lucky. Whitland is nestled in a valley which means when you leave this town you are always challenged to climb a hill, and a very large one at that. It’s quite appropriate to suggest that Whitland’s steep hills present the ‘escaper’ with such an arduous challenge that they leave you with no other alternative but to head back to Whitland in acceptance that, at least, you tried to escape. But there’s very little hope of escaping this town as it frantically sucks you in, desperate to cling on to every poor sucker. In fact most of the people I went to school with are still living in Whitland 10 years on, still grasped by the clutches of their dilligent sentence to life in Whtland. Fortunately I got parole.

I’ve been to some miserable places in my time. Slough, Cumbernauld, Bridgend, Neath, Glasgow, Liverpool. We’ve all heard of these places and know of their unspeakable misery. Unfortunately Whitland doesn’t even have the dignity to uphold a reputation to provide material for comedians, which makes Whitland worse than any of these towns. It’s a joke that needs to be explained.
By: Sean Graham