Wellingborough

I have been there, and never will go again. I can not say any more. You will just have to take this one on trust.

Dr Bad

This town which, during the ’80s, dreamt of housing the disaffected of London never quite managed it and consequently became a haven of mediocrity with hundreds of identikit suburban housing estates filled with middle managers. Their hateful offspring fill the town centre at weekends whilst queuing to gain entry to the growing number of revolting chain pubs. They smoke Marlborough Lights and sport a profusion of cheap gold jewellery and Ben Sherman shirts.

All the old shops have closed and those not replaced with O’Neills (a hyper-real simulacrum of an Irish pub) have turned into “Everything’s a Pound”.

Andrew