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