The back roads of Devon and Cornwall, and the places they take you.
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Are they all MAD down here at the end of the civilised world then? I have cause to have to drive me, the
wife and five Grandkids to various fun-filled locations dotted around these two counties and the f**ing
places are more often than not hidden up/down some back lane they call a ROAD that isn't fit
to push a wheelbarrow full of cow-shit along. Someone long ago must've given a gang of pastie scoffing,
straw chewing in-bred Oooooo-Arrrrrrrrrs a big bag full of shovels and pickaxes and told 'em to put
some roads in between all them-they villages. Well - off they went with their newly acquired tools, and
the first thing the simps did was dig STRAIGHT DOWN at least seven feet in between the fields and then
I am assuming they all started to get completely pissed on cider because they commenced to weave
about in a slap-dash manner - going back on themselves - making the "road" narrower and narrower
until you couldn't get an anorexic flock of sheep down the bloody thing.
"'ERE!!! OWWW FARRRRR 'TIS IT BETWEEN PEMBURTHY-CUM-TREHOOLICK AND PORT WRINKLE THEN???
"BOUT TWO MOILES AS THEM-THEY CROWS FLOY...."
"ROIGHT!! GET ZUM BENDS IN THIS ROAD THEN!! OI WANT IT TO BE AT LEAST TWENTY TWO MOILES AND DIG DOWN
FURTHER. OI DON'T WANT 'EM TO SEE WHAT'S CUMMIN' ROUND THEM-THEY FIFTY-THREE BENDS WE GOING TO PUT IN!"
The peasants basically dug trenches - very bendy - very narrow trenches with shed-loads of hairpin
bends in 'em and made f***ing certain that all the dead ends were clearly NOT marked. You can
forget doing a 3-point turn, or any other recognised manoeuvre if you end up bumper to bumper
with some f***ing yokel on a tractor, towing a liquid shit-sprayer, and as for ending up in a Mexican
Stand-off with a Volvo driving, caravan tugging retired couple from up North who have advanced
senile dementia...it's best just to abandon your car and walk out of the place leaving the old gits
to die, stranded in their Bailey Scorpio as they slowly run out of tea and digestive biscuits. Then
there's the local Cornish Chav (A "Chavnish"), who believes he "knows the roads loike the back of
his hand...."
These mono-browed people with oddly sloping foreheads scream along at a ridiculous speed and
as you see 'em approaching you start to mutter quietly under your breath;
"We are all going to die........we are all going to die.......he's going to HIT us......."
Now you know that the crap-track you are on goes directly to *Mister Pasties Adventure Park*,
and the kiddies want a nice day out. The f***er hurtling towards you is going to spoil their treat
by smacking into you and wiping you off the face of the planet. Just as your pucker closes up
really-really tight....the deranged lunatic zooms right past you, missing the wing mirror by about
three microns. F**k knows how they do it...but they f***ing do. DO NOT TRUST YOUR SATNAV
DOWN HERE EITHER! The smarmy electronic bastard will take you up lane and down dirt-track
until you wind up in a village called *TREVAN-CHEEZIE-AMMY-EGGIE", where the locals will
lynch you and sacrifice you in order to have a good crop of turnips next Summer. Ensure you've
got enough petrol or diesel for the mystery trip as well........all Devon and Cornwall back road
petrol staions are f***ing shut. They're covered in graffiti (pentagrams, large wicker men, and dead
chickens usually), and their forecourts are usually surrounded by tattered ribbons of blue and
white tape stating *POLICE - MURDER ENQUIRY - DO NOT CROSS*, which is a bit off-putting
to say the least. That's it really. When you have eventually found your way to wherever you and
your children wanted to get to, there will be no place to park (if it's near a beach), or it'll be a
tyre-shredding drive up the vertical side of a field that resembles the North face of K2 and
a three hour wait to actually get into *Mister Pasties Adventure Park* owing to the fact that
thousands and thousands of wasps are running riot in the place, stinging all the kids because
they're all f***ing covered in melted choc ices and f***ing Slush-Puppies. Stop for a refreshing
pint at some 500 year old local pub on the way home? I hope you are not more than three-and
-a-half foot tall because you'll be twatting your head off all the f***ing solid oak beams in the ceiling
if you're of normal height. So enjoy your day out! You'll come back home threaders, with a few boxes
of locally made fudge and all the time you will be praying to all the Gods in Heaven and Hell that
there's enough petrol/diesel fumes left in the tank to get you to some place that actually SELLS
petrol or diesel...and is not a Hand Car Wash or a one time Crime Scene that got five minutes footage
on *The South West Today* a while back. I realise that this'll probably upset you local yokels.....
but seein' as I'm originally from East Yorkshire (which is f***ing FLAT and most of the roads go
in a straight fu**ing line), it's in my DNA to be a tight, miserable twat.
Deal with it.
I'm off to *HENDRA touring caravan park* on Wednesday with the entire tribe. God help me.
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