Many ut players come from my home town of Hull or ull to the natives......Could you come from a worse place then us?
How Crap is your city?
- Thread starter Monster Kill
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Hey - turns out IRC is out and something a little more modern has taken it's place... A little thing called Discord!
Join our community @ https://discord.gg/JuaSzXBZrk for a pick-up game, or just to rekindle with fellow community members.
It may alarm you to discover that Hull's chav infested Bransholme estate has a younger sister, well not so much sister as deformed runt that clearly should've been drowned at birth. That mutant sibling is the North Bransholme estate. Accessable by one road in and one out, this filthy dump was built in the late 70's and has been in the process of demolision ever since. Firstly brick by brick by the smackhead inhabitants and then by Hull's obscenely corrupt council. The sort of people who live here really have to be seen to be believed, as unfortunately I know all too well having been imprisoned in this wasteland for many of my formative years. As soon as you arrive here you can almost hear the sound of duelling banjos. Huge gangs of ferral children can be seen everywhere, some as young as 3 or 4, and all invariably carrying some kind of primitive weapon. Upon closer inspection many of these scruffy urchins can be seen to possess oversized heads, cross eyes and numerous other genetic defects. Obviously a consequence of the extremely small gene pool. You also see tribes of morbidly obese woman pushing prams containing more mutant webfooted offspring, and then tagging along several feet behind you stumble upon her dischevelled 6 stone smackhead husband. Should you get close enough you will always find the experience nicely furnished with a blizzard of foul language, screaming and a horrid odour of sweat, faeces and sputum. It's often unclear whether the odour is from the bog-eyed chimera in the pushchair or from the adults themselves, but the aroma is nonetheless unforgettable. Aside from the poverty striken oiks, the estate is also feet deep in chavs and chavettes. Even these are rather pathetic specimens. The chavettes still wear attire that more discerning scallettes would have discarded many moons ago and usually look like they've had their make-up applied by Stevie Wonder. Strangely despite the overwhelming poverty, many of North Bransholme's chavettes make Lisa Riley look positively anorexic. Goodness knows how you get so fat on a diet of Gregs pasties, tab ends and condemned economy burgers. Then of course you have yellow-toothed scroats by the shedload. Seemingly all of the estate chavs are smackheads as is evident by the rampant theiving, glazed expressions and dribbly chin. Make no mistake though, these skinny baseball capped tossers still possess a swagger and an attitude worth of Mike Tyson and even a casual glance remotely in their half of the same hemisphere will result in hilarious posturing and indecipherable abuse along the lines of 'Ah'll fuckin' smack yer you daft cunt'. Another thing that should be noted about males in this area is the bizzare way they walk. It can only be described as the walk of a neandathal carrying a role of carpet under each arm who's just shit his pants. This amusing posture is excelled only by the dialect of these cloth-headed cretins. The F word is used liberally, between every word if possible and occassionally two times per word. i.e 'wot's that f*cker f*cking looking at, f*cking daft f*cking c*nt'. You get the idea. This applies to chavettes too. To hear these exact words you need do no more than walk into either of the two horrific looking bars that serve North Bransholme's entire nightlife needs. The Pennine Rambler and Skippers. A hostile welcome is guaranteed just as surely as a Giros drop onto doormats in this insalubrious neighbourhood."
Bransholme, or BransHole as I prefer to call it, is one of the largest council estates in Europe and is situated in the arsehole of England, Hull, or ‘ULL if you emanate from that region. In 1642 Hull became famous as Sir John Hotham closed it’s gates on King Charles and told the king to “fhuk off you ain’t enough Bizzell”.
The gates remained shut on this isolated Town and centauries of inbreeding have given us this remarkable city. To the north of Hull, Bransholme is known as home to thousands of third and fourth generation Chavs.
The schools in this Estate are more like transition camps as kids progress towards their future lives in Hull infamous Prison. Parents are keen to see their kids do well and often involve them in their family businesses from an early age. In fact you would hard pressed to find a kid that can not out run Oscar, the Police Helicopter, or hotwire a car in under ten seconds.
The Estate has a weird culture for naming their children, it seems you take the names Billy, Booby, Joe or Ellie and pick two for a Christian name and pop them down to the local vicar is anything silk by Von Dutch or Fila.
The middle of the estate is a shopping complex know as the “Senner”. Parents congregate is various Burberry attire and double buggies filled with Bobby-Joes to swap stories of their recent muggings, twockings and to nick as much as they can before being chased out by security.
When you enter the centre you are fairly impressed with it’s lighting and cleanliness, there are even two banks in it, staffed with burley bouncer type cashiers, but as you walk through you slowly realise you are in another world, the land the gene pool forgot. Pensioners on electric scooters race up and down the main thoroughfare reliving the twocking accident that “robbed them of their pins”. The other customers include many gannies, though women tend to be gannies at the age of 30 on Branshole and their numerous siblings that meet up for ritualistic interfamily slagging contests and general gang warfare. If you are on your own these mutants will glare at you looking for any sign of weakness before they collectively remove you all your worldly goods.
However, despite the low life people are still tempted in for the bargains. On a Saturday afternoon you can get a bag of nearly rotting veg for just a pound and meat that would make your dog vomit for even less. This can be thrown together and fed to “the bairns” thus leaving the parents with enough money for the weekly supply of baccy, Becks and 20/20.
Branshole is a national contender for Chav Central and a small thermonuclear devise could put a significant dent in the national crime figures and income support payments. "
The gates remained shut on this isolated Town and centauries of inbreeding have given us this remarkable city. To the north of Hull, Bransholme is known as home to thousands of third and fourth generation Chavs.
The schools in this Estate are more like transition camps as kids progress towards their future lives in Hull infamous Prison. Parents are keen to see their kids do well and often involve them in their family businesses from an early age. In fact you would hard pressed to find a kid that can not out run Oscar, the Police Helicopter, or hotwire a car in under ten seconds.
The Estate has a weird culture for naming their children, it seems you take the names Billy, Booby, Joe or Ellie and pick two for a Christian name and pop them down to the local vicar is anything silk by Von Dutch or Fila.
The middle of the estate is a shopping complex know as the “Senner”. Parents congregate is various Burberry attire and double buggies filled with Bobby-Joes to swap stories of their recent muggings, twockings and to nick as much as they can before being chased out by security.
When you enter the centre you are fairly impressed with it’s lighting and cleanliness, there are even two banks in it, staffed with burley bouncer type cashiers, but as you walk through you slowly realise you are in another world, the land the gene pool forgot. Pensioners on electric scooters race up and down the main thoroughfare reliving the twocking accident that “robbed them of their pins”. The other customers include many gannies, though women tend to be gannies at the age of 30 on Branshole and their numerous siblings that meet up for ritualistic interfamily slagging contests and general gang warfare. If you are on your own these mutants will glare at you looking for any sign of weakness before they collectively remove you all your worldly goods.
However, despite the low life people are still tempted in for the bargains. On a Saturday afternoon you can get a bag of nearly rotting veg for just a pound and meat that would make your dog vomit for even less. This can be thrown together and fed to “the bairns” thus leaving the parents with enough money for the weekly supply of baccy, Becks and 20/20.
Branshole is a national contender for Chav Central and a small thermonuclear devise could put a significant dent in the national crime figures and income support payments. "
Is that:Monster Kill said:man id agree where do u live il come and stay with you
Man, I'd agree. Where do you live? I'll come and stay with you.
or is that:
Man, I'd agree where. Do you live? I'll come and stay with you?
or even:
Man. Id. Agree. Where do you live? Ill. Come and stay. With your chainsaw.
either way, I just cannot catch what you're trying to say.
