There is a side to modern Britain that the BBC is very careful NOT to explore. Every now and again we get a glimpse of what lurks in the post-modern shadows, as the mobs rampaging through several of our major cities last month vividly demonstrated. Even then, the BBC would not countenance the suggestion that something was very wrong with the people concerned. No, blame it on the police, blame it on the banks, blame it on the boogie even – just do not blame the feral thugs, and the gangs, and the criminal instincts involved So, I thought this description of modern Britain over at the Police Inspector blog worth sharing quite simply because you will never see it or read about on the £3bn + a year BBC;
“In Ruraltown, the elderly are like dirty, damaged vultures. They converge at awful jumble sales. They rummage and fight for socks and underpants that have been torn from the stiff corpses of their previous ancient occupiers.
In Ruraltown, I saw a dead woman in the doctor’s surgery waiting room. No one noticed until closing time.
It is always cold and dark. Unemployment in Ruraltown is, of course, staggeringly high. This part of Ruralshire is so divided along class and racial lines that it is hardly the old shire at all but a collection of tribal groupings.
Some of its outlying towns are concrete wastelands too terrible to describe. People travel miles to jump from our multi-storey carpark. They truly do.
Ruraltown is where the people of Ruralshire go to die. Ruraltown is twinned with Auschwitz, I know who got the better deal. If you have a dozen screaming kids, tattoos on your face and neck, a slot machine addiction and you love frozen chips and microwaved pizza, come to Ruraltown.
I defy you to find one person smiling, or even anyone who isn’t thinking “Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I here? Please someone kill me,” over and over again, then holding their breath until they pass out. The crowning glory of Ruraltown, though, is its people. They will happily kill you with an axe while you wait outside the local chippy for a deep-fried Mars bar.
Black Lace refused to play here. Burger King actually closed down their High Street store because they had more trouble than any other town in England. Pre-pubescent skiprats and abusive old women in Kappa track suit bottoms hurl insults and beg for shrapnel from passers-by. In Ruraltown, English is a second language.
Welcome to my patch.”