I live there. Its the ultimate boring, ugliest place on earth. People walk a centimetre an hour in town, two people take up the whole walkway. There’s interbreeding, we have the most ugliest people here because of it.
Cornish gits look at u like you’re a scraggled cat or worse. They’re fat and probably eat their own children.
I think you should mark every town in Cornwall, especially Redruth.
(don’t go there dude)
Paul Clarkson
IS THIS A FORM OF IRONY?
Truro’s not THAT bad really, I mean - it’s got a Monsoon AND a Woolworth’s, what more do you need? And its night life ain’t too bad either - there’s a Chicago Rock Cafe (live bands on a Wednesday! They had a Bee Gees cover band once). Monday’s can be quite fun at the alternative club, - that is so long as you like dancing with everyone you’ve ever met since you were born.
It’s also got hills and pavements, and they’ve just redesigned part of the town centre so it looks like an orange concrete block - - - what more could one ask for?
Chloe Thomas
INBREEDING JOKES A WAY OF LIFE
I’m not sure I can agree with Paul or Chloe. Being Cornish, inbreeding jokes are a way of life, but I’ve seen people in Woolworths in Tooting Broadway that look like they were dragged from the womb too early.
Everyone in a rural town walks slowly; it comes from
lacking the self-importance & frustration that city dwellers have that all transport and indeed Time itself is against them.
And I’ve met more provincially-minded people since living in London (look of horror: “tap water?”. “Nothing worth doing happens outside the M25″) than I ever did in Cornwall.
My mother’s habit of getting us to the bus-stop ‘in time’ to catch one of the two buses that ran per hour meant we’d get there early enough to see the other one pull away; but as a consequence I am never late.
A Londoner friend of mine didn’t even see the appeal of the highlands of Scotland, merely commenting that you “can’t see the landmarks for the trees” (from the safety of our car
whizzing past them at 70mph) and that “you could come up here and make a killing with land prices and building on it.”
The defence rests. Cornwall is a beautiful place.
Ellie Struth
Pubs: Full of angry ex-squaddies
Amenities:
Wadsworth 6X brewery
Trowbridge in Wiltshire Down - I did my art foundation course there for a year, and still teeter on the verge of madness when I drive round the ring road.
It has a higher murder rate than Chicago, per capita, with none of the excitement. The soul of the town was removed to create a wind-tunnel effect shopping centre, and this was then enhanced by a complex and non-pedestrian friendly one way system for the angry ex-sqaddies to race round.
Julia Hember
To my disappointment, Barnstaple has already been nominated. But my Devonian colleagues have so far overlooked Torrington… Most of the peope who live there can actually bite there own elbows (try it).
Name witheld
Positioned nicely in the middle of a ’shit hole triangle’ made up of Burnley, Halifax and Rochdale, Todmorden or Tod slides under the low standards of its neighbouring towns.
Alcohol is popular in Tod, a quick glance down at the side of any road reveals that Tennent’s Super is the beverage of choice for Tod’s discerning drinkers.
One particular resident of high esteem is the former sixties pop star PJ Proby, who has lived in Tod for some years. PJ is said to enjoy going down to one of the many lavatories that pass for pubs in Tod where he, boasts proudly about ‘the good old days’ and is jeered and heckled by his fellow booze hounds.
.PJ isn’t the only glamorous element to Tod; anyone who visits the Bluenote club is sure to have a night to remember, participating in games such as ‘Dodge the flying pint glass’ and ‘How many tattoos are on the bouncers face?’
If you want to do something in Todmorden try the local favourite; theft.
Shaun Hughes
TODMORDEN NOT DEFENDED!
I can’t defend Todmorden, I live there. If Idler do come to Tod then I extend the offer of free room and board round our house to you, because you’ll not survive the B&B or the one hotel in town.
We used to have the highest UFO sightings rate in Britain, I believe it was just wishful thinking though. No, they weren’t just wishing that they’d seen a UFO either, they were wishing one would remove them to an entirely different universe.
If you lived here you’d know why. Dr. Shipman used to practice in Tod and it is alleged that he developed his addiction to drugs and morbid fascination with morphine here. It seems the town drove him to such despair and boredom that pharmacy pure hard drugs were the only option, so that was his escape to another universe. Actually, Dr. “right laugh” Shipman visited my father one night when he had an extreme case of ‘flu. If he was an old lady he would probably have escaped Tod early too.
It was no surprise to me to discover that “Tod” and “Morden” are derivatives of the word “death” in other languages (one German, not sure about the other). Come to think of it, I’d like someone to research a possible link between Shipman patients and UFO sightings, I reckon he was GP to most of ‘em during the UFO sightings; “roll up that sleeve my dear…”
And yes, I know about PJ “I ripped me pants on telly once you know” Proby. The other Todmorden old boy celebrity we have is Keith Emerson who lived here. As rock stars from your home town go, you can’t get much crapper than Keith “EL twatting P” Emerson can you? And I forgot to mention inbreeding because when you’ve been here for more than 5 years you tend to forget that it isn’t acceptable outside the town borders. And the KKK.
Steve Hanson
There is a common mis-conception that Tiverton is a nice, pretty little market town that overlooks the moors. Don’t trust the Devon tourist board: it’s a heaving, grey pit of nothingness.
Margaret Drabble�s novel �The Witch of Exmoor” contains the following passage:
“He gets himself dropped off at a service station just beyond Taunton. Thence he gets a quick lift to Tiverton, where he spends the night in a room over a pub, and, in the morning, takes stock.
Tiverton is a dump. Will Paine is surprised. He had thought it would be a pretty, West Country market town, full of smiling county people and expensive shops, but it is hilly and grim. Most of the shops seem to be selling second rate, second hand clothing in aid of obscure charities. The population looks grey and elderly and idle. Will walks along a pedestrianized High Street, through a car park or two, round a market precinct where nothing is happening at all. There is nothing for him here. Where are all the wealthy folk of the soft rich south. Clearly they do not hang out in Tiverton. Will decides to move on.”
John Wingate
Tintern Abbey. It must be said that Wordsworth’s famous “Lines” were composed “A Few Miles Above” it. He couldn’t stand the godforsaken town either.
There is one building of note here, the old Tipton library; a listed Carnegie building, now boarded up and covered with unimaginative graffiti.
A big chunk of lottery and City Challenge money was pumped into the place though if you can make out what the locals are saying they’ll describe the town as “a fucking shithole” and “depressing in the extreme”.
The highest compliment paid to Tipton was by a German Zepellin commander on a misty night in 1916 - he mistook it for Birkenhead and lobbed a few bombs on it before heading for “Liverpool” (Wednesbury). The only sense of community is provided by those who remember that night - the bright young things of Tipton are lured off to the Shangri-Las of Dudley and Wolverhampton.
Henry Raddick
A back water cross roads of a village whose sole purpose seems to be to perpetuate every backward village stereotype that there is. Distanced from the main road to the North and the Welsh border to the South by several miles and the present day by at least a century.
This two pub, one shop agricultural throwback has little going for it other than as an example of the weird dichotomy that exists in isolated rural economies when over paid city twats buy old farm houses and refit them at exorbitant cost and then attempt to co-exist with the local people…
The locals. Yes, they do point at the sky when a plane flys over and/or run and hide every time the bus goes past. Frightening.
Then there’s the middle aged faux hippie alternative types who dress up two faced duplicity as freedom of expression and whose only experience of Marx is that it prefixes the place that they buy their shirts from as they trundle off to work; usually as teachers or in some education related quasi-quango select something-or-other.
And then there’s the hunt. Proof that residing in the upper echelon of the limited gene pool is no barrier to balancing on a horse while pissed out of your head. When asked what the purpose of Fox cubbing was, I was told by a particularly waspish hooray Henrietta (imagine the Queen’s voice emanating from Ralph Steadman drawn cartoon head) “that it removes the weak cubs from the pack”.
“Isn’t the point that the hunt is supposed to be controlling Fox numbers?” I replied. “Haven’t you people ever heard of Charles Darwin?”.
It’s been four years, she’s still trying to figure it out.
Tales of lurid debauchery, blaggers, smackheads, jockeys on the take, crooked farmers, bigots, the insane, the inbred abound and the entire place is underpinned by alcoholism on a phenomenal scale, as it runs along like some weird Archers parady.
Of interest only to Hollywood producers looking for a set for the remake of ‘The Land That Time Forgot’, or anthropologists with a well defined sense of the absurd.
Darren Straker
For most of its life, Tillicoultry (from the Gaelic “Tullich Cul Tir” — “At the foot of this hills”) was an unassuming mill town on the River Devon. But that would only qualify the town as bland, not crap.
However, in the early 80s, “popular” TV sports commentator Dougie Donnelly appeared in the first of what would soon become many TV adverts for “Sterling Warehouse” — “Britain’s Biggest Furniture Centre”. Nestled in “Tillicoultry, Near Stirling” (actually about 10 miles away from Stirling), his constant promotion meant that whenever I introduced myself to anyone as being from Tillicoultry, the inevitable response was “Ah, near Stirling?” or even a rendition of the catchy jingle: “Ste-erling, the… BIG ONE!”
But surely Tillicoultry has more to offer than just a couch emporium? Erm… well, there’s a bus stop, and a library that’s open 10 hours a week. Oh, and a golf course for all the middle-classers to hang out.
For rising from anonymity to notoriety, based only upon housing an overpriced furniture store, I nominate Tillicoultry as a crap town.
Rod
The last time I ventured to this place I saw a diddycoy walking with his dishevelled horse, hitting it with a stick and muttering swear words. Further on the walk I saw two burnt out, abandoned cars next to the sign ‘Welcome to Tilbury’… if nothing else, it was an accurate welcome.
Then past the parade of shops where every little oik over the age of five stopped and asked me if I had a spare cigarette. Explaining that I had none on me I was called a “Cunt” a “Prick” and a “Mother’s Cunt”.
Nearing the end of my journey I walked down a quaint little cul-de-sac that had rusty, vandalised cars, abandoned cement mixers and burnt mattresses for garden furniture.
Oh and it has the highest rate of incest in Britain.
Steven
People from Taunton know that they don’t have it too bad. They do not live with the perpetual stench of sulphur that hangs over Bridgwater, and they have even avoided the excesses of incest that bedevil neighbouring, and aptly named, Watchet. As for Chard, well that’s somewhere even holidaying Glaswegian’s give a wide berth.
Taunton, with its twee, historic centre and pseudo-affluent High Street is surely the embodiment of English country towns. People go there for the weekend, some even travelling long distances to stay at the Castle Hotel, which boasts one the UK’s top kitchens. As a fact, this is of little use or interest to most, but in anywhere with any self regard it would at least be trumpted locally. But not in Taunton.
It is the spirit crushing banality of the locals that qualifies Taunton for specific criticism. The county town of Somerset, its only national claim is a top flight cricket team, which is regarded as a matter of complete indifference in the town. It had until recently no cinemas as the old three (and the theatre) were closed due to disinterest. Music venues went the way of the cinemas, and the concept of the gallery would not even register comprehension to your average yokel.
If you truly want to revel in the human void go to Taunton. Even people from Bridgwater avoid it.
Nick Masters
Basically, a very long high street, pubs at both ends and a Co-Op in the middle, situated between the economic crapspots of Pontypridd and Cardiff.
The town seems to be populated entirely with be-cariganed old ladies and some of the surliest adolescents outside Merseyside. The lack of architectural beauty and cultural life obviously goes without saying, despite the bizarre appearance of both a Harp Shop and a Mongolian Restaurant.
Unsurprisingly, the joke “Do you know Taffs Well - I didn’t even know he was ill” loses its appeal after repeated telling.
David Strong
Not so much a town as a mortuary. Industry has long departed, leaving the residents to shuffle round the town’s meagre consumer options like zombies in a George A Romero movie - while seagulls shit on them.
Daniel Etherington
“SOUTHERN BASTARDS FUCK OFF”
The Crowtree leisure centre dominates the centre of this town. Rusting and stained with grime, it is divided by a walkway where you come across old men gawping through the glass at swimming children. Its size and location also means the street it’s on never gets any daylight (or rather the watery and grey light that passes for daylight in Sunderland). The rest of the town consists of demolition plots, run down rented accommodation and housing estates. But its the people that really make a town what it is, and Sunderland’s population of shell suited, knuckle-dragging inbreeds really do make it what it is.
There’s graffiti at the bus station reading “Southern bastards - fuck off back south and keep the North East Northern” in three feet high lettering, and daily beating, robbing and abuse of “outsiders”.
I had a landlord who was so inbred he only spoke in vowels - a clipped stuttering sound like ah-eh ah-eh o hu hu. He once told me “we don’t like outsiders, us. A lot of people want that university closed”. Presumably the gene pool had been polluted by a visiting student from Bishop Auckland or Middlesborough and would take hundreds more years of inbreeding to put things right again. It’s true the local intellectual could breath with his mouth closed.
Shaun Alcock
21 STREET STREET
I used to be neutral about football but since having witnessed the endless violence “because we lost” from hords of lifeless Sunderland no hopes who have nothing in their life but a football - and a pretty poor football team at that. I have to say that I actively dislike football because of these twats.
I used to live on Amberley Street - as featured on Crime Watch and Panorama’s special on car crime. Pretty cool if you wanted weed and party smarties - and volence off the Hell Angels chapter who used to live in a bricked up house. I said “used to live” because the council decided in its wisdom to knock down the whole street. I suppose there won’t be any more managers of the Tap and Spile tied up and held at gun point in the cellar with the phone lines cut for stopping the locals from dealing drugs from the the front bar as if it was Wendy Herbal Supermarket.
Anybody that’s had the delight of roaming the numerous housing estates will clearly understand Viz’s wicked accurate collectable hearloom “21 Steet Street”.
Sunderland’s local girls (wifeys) are very skilled at applying orange foundation with the cleanest tide mark I’ve ever seen - so in line with the cheak that their pasty necks can still proudly show the litter of trophy love bites. While I used to wear long-johns, jeans, 2 t-shirts, a jumper, 2 jackets and a hat in the winter the local wear very cheap, light cotton summer clothes with packs of Royal 25’s neatly placed up their t-shirt sleaves.
If the Daily Mail were a town, it would be Sutton. The entire place reeks of intolerance, sexual repression and aspirational interior decoration.
A festering carbuncle formed on the extremity of the Victoria Line, Sutton today maintains a large population of unsuccessful middle management commuters, who can be seen of a weekend scurrying around town frantically purchasing home electronics and DIY equipment, desperately trying to anaesthetize the gaping hole in their miserable existences with rabid consumption.
Meanwhile, the local sink estates, virtually unchanged since the slum clearances of the early fifties, provide an endless supply of interchangeable bile-filled-baseball-hatted-white-reeboked-hoop-earinged cunts who would be happy to do you harm if you dare venture into the town centre and the sorry selection of themed sports bars and nightclubs on offer there.
Russell Hicks
Amenities: Chip shops
My home town of Stockton on Tees, in Cleveland. The man who invented matches was from there, you know. Local torpor can be seen symbolised in the fact that railways were invented there, and they couldn’t even be arsed to make a theme park out of that.
Having moved out at the earliest possible opportunity, I was able to see Stockton through the world’s eyes on bringing my poncy new London mates up to visit one weekend. The evening featured a PA from the Swedish breakdancing champion at a local nite spot, and climaxed in a traditional visit to a late night chip shop, where the Rubenesque girl in front of us ordered chips, chops, cabbage, gravy and mushy peas, and whiled away the time while her order was being prepared by screaming to her mate, (who was down the end of the street with some pustuled consort): ” ‘Ave you shagged ‘im yet, Nicola?”
It could be worse, you may say. It is. It’s just that if I think too hard about it, I start to feel somehow… dirty. I do hope none of you are ever required to visit.
Cindy George
Stonehaven is apparently a picturesque old fishing village 15 miles south of the oil capital of Europe, Aberdeen. It is in fact a grotty cesspit infested with seagulls and seagull shit.
Stonehaven is the worst type of Scottish town, full of the 21st Century type of caveman, a drinking, fighting, takeaway eating, womanising, craptacular asshole. It may be useful at this point to point out that Stonehaven was once in the Guiness Book of Records as the town with the most pubs per head of population. In Stonehaven this is something to be proud of. Worst health in Europe? Us?
Stonehaven is a breeding ground for every pathetic little prejudice going: racism, bigotry, sexism, homophobia. You name it, Stonehaven’s proud of it. Please print this to let all know of this vile little haven of all that is wrong with Scotland.
Malcolm Petrie
I visited Stoke several years ago and I have to say that it I quite possibly the worst place I have ever been (after Hull).
There seemed to be a grey charcoal colouration to every element of the city. The paths, roads, buildings and the people seemed to carry the same grey gloom with them as if possessed by body snatchers. It’s almost as if Stoke had been covered in a depressing film of dust after a nuclear explosion. Then the city council had replaced all the destroyed buildings with red brick eye sores.
Ric Bingham
Amenities: The actor who plays Frasier Crane’s dad in the American sit-com Frasier once owned a house here.
Stockport is a small town in South Manchester. Much of Engels’ research for Marx’s Communist Manifesto was based on the apalling working conditions in the town’s hat mills. And to be honest it’s gone down hill ever since.
The overiding ‘look’ for Stockport’s locals is a shaven head with optional Fila cap / visor perched on top, a Reebok shell suit the legs of which are tucked into a pair of overpowering patterned socks and a pair of Rockport, Timberland or Kicker boots. Gold jewellry is popular, usually incorporating sovereigns and / or Marijuana leaf motifs. The male uniform is fairly similar.
Anyone deviating from this universally accepted look faces daily verbal and physical abuse.
Entertainment includes avoiding being glassed in one of the town’s many pubs, avoiding being stabbed on the infamous “192″ bus and avoiding leaving your house as much
as possible.
Merseyway precinct is the town’s heart. If you do wish to buy anything from Woolworths, Argos or “Everything
For �1″, avoid walking within stone’s throw of the 2nd floor balcony edge or you face a shower of gob, McDonald’s fries and of course stones from the gangs of youths above.
Recent attempts to open an Amsterdam-style cannbis cafe were thwarted by local police.
For more information for tourists wishing to visit Stockport please log onto www.stockport.gov.uk.
Charlie Hungerford
A KIND LETTER
I was only made aware of your magazine, by reading an article in the local Stockport paper, which expresses it’s outrage at your comments on the town, and decided to look you up on the net. I, myself, am Stockport born and bred, and can assure you that your comments were absoloutely spot on. It’s shite. Well Done.
Our local MP, Ann Coffey, alleges that she doesn’t know the town from your description, and thinks you must mean Southport ! She has obviously never glanced at someone, accidentally, in Luckies on a Friday night and then got filled in, in the car park afterwards.
I’ll be writing to the “Letters To The Editor” part of the paper, this week, (anonnymously) commending your article. I’ll let you know how I go on.
Regards.
Anon
I wrote to the local paper complaining that the town centre is full of drunk yobs and slappers whose main interest is pissing up the wall of Barclays Bank after an evening getting wankered on Bacardi Breezers in the wittily-named Cobarna (hardy har-har). I went on to say that the town has a range of shops that would be considered poor in downtown Minsk.
A lady replied to my letter, calling me a snob and saying “not everyone wants cappuccinos and smoked salmon sandwiches - some of us are happy with a cuppa and a bacon sandwich.”
All liberally sprinkled with rat poison, one hopes.
Clair Woodward
Having lived in St Albans since 1975 I have witnessed many changes to this historical and frankly suffocating satellite town.
We have no cinema and more importantly no hospital, courtesy of 52 years of Conservative local government.
We do have lots of pubs though: you can either drink with nauseating morris dancing CAMRA members or with drunken, violent polo-shirts and their vacuous harridens.
You have to be careful if you’re black or gay or look a bit weird though, because the lace curtains will be twitching and we don’t like strangers who talk funny and might damage our big cars (and smell of garlic).
Edward Bailey
‘MUSEUM OF BREAD’
I’ve got to agree about St Albans. The alternative community, if that’s not too nauseating a phrase, could pretty much all fit into one house. Which they often did. However, me and all my friends left all in one go as soon as we could afford it and moved onto more exciting locations.
I would like to make special mention of a few stalwarts who flicked the ear of mediocrity whilst I lived there - particularly a couple called Dave and Dawn, who were both fine art students. Their house was blessed, as a former shop, with a large display window, into which Dave and Dawn would place a different installation every month or so. Their supreme triumph was the ‘museum of bread’ , a display which featured dozens of different kinds of bread, rolls, toast and other dough-based products, all neatly labelled and artfully displayed.
So successful were their efforts that soon after they put this wheeze up, they began receiving mail addressed to the ‘museum’ and regularly turned away disappointed visitors who wanted to see the ‘rest of the collection’.
Tim Wild
Idler roving reporter goes to St Albans
So, maybe it was a bit unfair of The Idler to give St
Albans such big billing in its Crap Towns section.
After all, it�s an undeniably attractive place and is
probably great for most of its residents.
However, while the reality of life in St Albans is
nothing like as horrific as suggested in the accounts
in The Idler (which are obviously exaggerated for
humour), I stand by most of the essential criticisms
they raise.
It�s definitely a lovely place to visit. I had a fine
day walking round Verulamium Park and visiting the
Roman museum. I also liked the Bee-hive and particularly admired the fact that it�s got a table-tennis table in the garden (such a great idea, and so rarely done!).
However, visiting a town and living there are
completely different experiences � and there were
plenty of things that would put me off the latter. for
instance, there were more lace curtains than anywhere
I�ve been in my life. I found it quite unsettling; it
surely suggests something ominous. The Porsche per
capita count is also disturbingly high � what are they
all compensating for?
And, most noticeably, - Bee Hive aside - there didn�t
look like there was much for anyone under 30. While
drunk teenagers didn�t exactly “pave the streets” as
it says in The Idler, there were loads of bored
looking youths hanging around. The thing that
confirmed it for me was going to the party in the park
with Aaron. It was fantastic � and made all the more
enjoyable by the setting � but I lost count of the
number of people I heard saying that they couldn�t
believe that kind of thing was happening in St Albans.
Everyone was surprised by how much fun they were
having there � and that can�t be a good sign.
Still, it�s easier to get to the centre of London than
it is from most places outside Zone 2 on the tube map
� and having lived in Tooting for a year, I know which
I�d prefer: St Albans, it�s crap, but it�s nice.
Sam Jordison
From The St Albans Observer
By Aaron Batemen
If the town you had lived in most of your life
was suddenly and ignominiously decried as ‘crap’ you would expect to feel a rising swell of indignation and resolve to prove the ingrates wrong.
But when last week I discovered St Albans’ nomination in The Idler magazine’s infamous Crap Map my first reaction was not to scream and shout but to nod my head and chuckle in recognition at some of the complainant’s grievances.
For those of you who don’t know it, The Idler’s Crap Map is a list of reader-nominated towns which are routinely and somewhat uniformly lambasted as dull, insufferable little settlements which seemingly exist only to squeeze the life out of their younger residents.
Any readers under 30 will, I’m sure, have just shuddered in
recognition at the above sentence, but it still won’t do to have other people mouthing off about my town’s deficiencies - that’s my job.
Although it’s not The Idler lampooning St Albans, but people who actually live or have lived here, when I got a call from a member of staff at the London-based magazine offering to pay us a visit, I knew that I would be determined to show him St Albans was actually a thriving city which does not
leave its youth forming an orderly queue for the scaffold.
Thank God then for GetUptoGetDown in the Big Top on Saturday evening. Promoter Hansi Koppe’s occasional fandango at The Horn was transplanted to the specially erected marquee in Verulamium Park as part of the St Albans Festival and was an unqualified success.
Having spent the day showing off St Albans’ merits to Mr Idler, namely Verulamium Museum and my front room, I felt I needed a big finish to prove once and for all that St Albans was a cool place and I got it.
The �14 entry fee to the event was a bit steep but it’s not every day you get to party in such idyllic surroundings. With the sun setting over the lake in majestic fashion we sat just
Outside the entrance to the Big Top enjoying a cold beer and listening to DJ Seen warm up the crowd with a finely crafted set of laid back breaks and beats. Even better was to come, with a great set from Hansi, who played as well as I’ve ever seen him.
As darkness fell and I surveyed the scene before me I realised the incongruity of several hundred revellers dancing for their lives where normally there would be nothing more strenuous than the odd dog-walker pooper-scooping.
The energy in the Big Top was frenzied by now, with the youth of St Albans relishing their chance to unleash their party spirits. The five-deck mixing of The Drunken Allstars, a threesome who are surely destined for bigger things, was the perfect warm-up for the main event � an hour of mixing genius from the Freestylers.
Mr Idler had long since departed for the last train home to London and so missed the highlight of the night, specifically me dancing. But, by then, I think he’d seen that St Albans is a gem of a place.
Future organisers of the St Albans Festival should take note and make sureGetUpToGetDown is top of next 2004’s agenda.
Young people here feel let down that there is so little for them to do. Something good happened on Saturday night. Don’t take it away.
« Previous Page —
Next Page »
"I do nothing and then I do something. But it's taken years of investigating idleness in all its forms to be able to achieve this. My discipline is borne out of concerted study of idleness."