In the style of Bill Bryson- Chatham

The descent along the disregarded road seemed never-ending. Tunnelling into a small pit, a sense of sympathy hit me, sympathy for the unfortunate community who call this place home. However, that feeling was soon abolished as I realised this place is no worse than those held inside.

Their enthusiasm is distinctly represented through the masses of them chanting down the streets, fiercely threatening anyone who questions their manhood. I for one kept my opinions quiet, as I did not wish to “have some”.

I unwilling continued my journey further into the town, with the delights I had witnessed already I couldn’t wait to see more. Momentarily I believed that maybe the more I precede the better things will seem. Conversely, quite the opposite happened. The farther I headed the more I came to comprehend with the sobriquet this town had been given, “Chavham” this seemed like much more accurate name for the town, although having had my choice I would have added much more.

As I progressed I began to notice a significant lack of something, no, not he absence of care taken by drunken locals, nor the desperate need for a rubbish collection, but the nonexistence of any type of authority, not once was a police officer spotted despite the numerous amounts of fights and robberies I countersigned, it was clear these crimes; as they are known elsewhere, are a regular occurrence here.

The soldiers, sailors and whores from the yesteryear, who drank and committed crimes as often as you and I breath, did not fail to produce descendants who have set upon the same path as them.

I’m leaving this place fortunate enough to not live here, but unlucky enough to have visited. I grabbed the fast train out and have not since returned.