Tag Archives: Huddersfield

Huddersfield is like my ex-girlfriend – cold, hate-filled and full of ugly Polish men

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After my wild night out in Manchester, I woke up to endless rain and a phone call from my brother. My grandfather had died about the time I’d flown out to England five days before. It was not unexpected, because he was 93, but that doesn’t make it any easier to take. The cold and wet weather outside my window reflected my personal turmoil, as I tried to deal with losing a family member while, literally, the furthest from home I’d ever been.

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Two handsome trains

With the day off to a bad start, I decided to make things even worse by heading out to a town that no visitor to England has ever visited – Huddersfield. Situated halfway between Manchester and Leeds, Huddersfield is a dreary place with ugly people and drab buildings and very little that anyone would ever want to actually see.

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As bleak as Manly’s finals hopes

Well, that’s not quite true. There’s a reason why I headed to this dirty little town in the north of England – back in August of 1895, representatives of 22 northern rugby clubs met at the George Hotel, Huddersfield, to form the breakaway Northern Rugby Football Union. The renegade competition sought to create a semi-professional environment where rugby players could be paid if they were forced to miss work due to injuries, but the movement ended up being far more important that that. For on that cold night in Huddersfield 20 decades ago, the great game of rugby league was born.

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If you see this sign, don’t get off the train

Growing up in Australia, I’d wake up early to watch English rugby league matches, and because of that I was convinced that the biggest cities in that country were London, Wigan and St Helens. So, naturally, no trip to England would be complete without a trip to the birthplace of the Greatest Game of All.

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All they could serve me was a pint of disappointment

The train ride out took me through rolling green hills, but the weather was miserable and couldn’t see a thing. When I made it to H-town, tired and emotional and hungover, the George Hotel was closed for renovations. With the rain tumbling down and the list of interesting site in the ‘field rather limited, I headed off to check out The John Smith’s Stadium, where the Huddersfield Giants play. The journey took me through dilapidated buildings and some of the grimiest, uninspiring streets you could ever have the misfortune to see. The stadium was in a creepy industrial district and I wasn’t able to get too close to it, and while scoping out the area some tough-looking children started calling me a paedophile, so I headed back to the station.

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The Theatre of Bad Dreams

The town is weirdly quiet, and most of the people I saw were either thuggish kids, crackheads, or Eastern European peasants. I looked around to find some food, but nowhere was open, and I ended up buying some weird imitation Twisties from a Polish shop. They reluctantly served me and I swaggered back to the train station never to step foot in Huddersfield again.

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I bet they have to bolt the windows shut to stop people from jumping

If given the option to either spend time in Huddersfield, or have a gold ball roughly inserted into your wee-hold by a man dressed as a penguin, go for option B. It’s an ugly, boring, dreary town with a shit footy team and ugly residents, where dreams go to die and the sun comes as regularly as a pensioner who had his imitation Viagra tablets confiscated by customs after his trip to Thailand.

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The famous ‘uddersfield circular metal thing

 

Macho Man-chester

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The north of England is fantastic, but it often gets overlooked for the south of the country. Sure, London is worth a visit, but ignoring the top half of England to concentrate on the bottom is like ignoring a chick’s boobies just because you have access to her fanny – it’s a shame and a waste, because you really should enjoy the whole package.

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Who wants to go for a swim?

There are plenty of places to check out oop norf, but the centre of much of it is Manchester, England’s second city (much as Wyong is Australia’s). I expected it to be drab and dreary and marinated in violence, but when I headed there a couple of years ago I discovered a modern, progressive city with plenty to offer. Oh yeah, and I also got really drunk there.

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Who needs a girlfriend or a job when you’ve got lukewarm English beer?

I rolled up there on the train from London, and when I hopped off I was surprised to discover that it was about 26 degrees, with clear blue skies as far as the eye could see. Naturally, I slipped into a singlet and went walking, and was impressed to find all sorts of canals and aquaducts criss-crossing the area near my hotel – it was like a slightly shitty Venice, but actually quite nice. I enjoyed walking by the water until a group of tough-looking children called me a ‘vest-wearing fag’, so I ventured into the city at a rapid clip, as they threw stones at me.

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This is why I almost got bashed

The central business district is compact enough to walk through, and has historic buildings mixed in with really nice new structures. There are also heaps of pubs, so I spent the afternoon moving from drinking hole to drinking hole, exploring the town and enjoying the clash of styles. The centre of town features a huge ferris wheel (as does every town in in England with more than 100 people), there are plenty of shops, heaps of trams, and as many places selling fish and chips as you could possibly dream of.

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After a big day of grogging and sightseeing, I took a stroll through a former printing factory that has been converted into a rather excellent entertainment precinct, complete with bars, cinemas and interior decorating that makes the whole place look like its outside, when it isn’t, which messed with my drunken mind.

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It’s inside, but it’s outside… like a magical fish!

There’s also the famous gay district, (C)anal Street, but I didn’t go there. I certainly didn’t go into a pub and drink something called a Dirty Doodle with a bloke in a dressed called Reggie.

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Tee-hee!

One thing that’s not great to look at is the people. There are funny little blokes with round heads and no teeth, fat chicks with too much makeup, pushing trolleys full or unattractive children, and all sorts of misfits and miscreants who look like they’ve escaped from some sort of institute for the criminally unappealing.

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I’m like an alcoholic Batman

I’ve always been fascinated by those big bottles of cider that cheapo Poms like to guzzle, so I weedled into a supermarket and bought two litres of some unmentionable crap, then slooped back to my room to smash it. By the time that was done, I was trolleyed, and decided to make the most of it by heading out to one of Manchester’s infamous nightclubs. The city has a reputation for shocking violence after dark, but I didn’t let that phase me as I made my way out into the chilly night and headed to some shithole called 5th Avenue, which I’d read was popular with students most nights, and a great place to party. Well, I got there at 11pm, and it was fucking dead. There was me, the bar staff, and two fat blokes sitting in a corner looking as if they’d either come from raping someone, or were getting ready to rape someone. The bar staff looked as if they’d be better targets for raping, so I bought a beer and sat back, figuring it was going to be a lazy night.

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This was before I even reached the club

The horde arrived just after midnight, wild-eyed and breathing heavily, pushing their way into the club and flooding the dancefloor. The women were all had their tits hanging out of their tops and big hair, with wild clown makeup scrawled across their faces. Most of them were pretty in a scary way, while the rest were scary in a pretty way. The dudes all looked like they’d be more at ease on the wrong side of a glory hole, with sparkly hair and limp haircuts. I just sat back and smashed beer after beer, watching the tidal wave of humanity overtake the room.

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Bet you can’t spot me!

I must’ve downed a lot of those beers, because I ended up really pissed and acting like an idiot in a room that was painted to resemble a beach. By this point I was no longer scared of the ladyfolk, I was just horny, but due to my state I was a little bit off my game. Well, that’s putting it mildly. My one and only pick-up line was to fall on a chick and shout, “G’day, I’m Australian!” which didn’t work nearly as well as you might expect. After a few slaps and a knee to the balls, I was yanked out of the room by a gigantic bouncer with an eyepatch. He took me to the entrance of the club and told me I was being turfed because I was too drunk.

“Mate, mate, maaaaaaaaate,” I reasoned, while tolding onto a pot plant to stop from falling over. “I’m not drunk, I’m Australian. This is just how we act.” It was a well-thought-out argument, and the bouncer probably would’ve bought it… if I didn’t then open my trap and vomit down the front of my shirt.
“Alright,” I slurred, wiping spew from my beard, “maybe I am a bit drunk. I’ll go home now.”

It ended up being a memorable and brilliant day in a fantastic city, but the next ended up being one of the worst of my life. Not just because the weather was rubbish, and not even because I visited the shithole that is Huddersfield. Oh no, it was far more heartbreaking than that.

 

 

I’d rather drink shit than spend another day in Jakarta

Sorry, Huddersfield, you’ve been replaced as the worst place I’ve ever visited. All hail Jakarta, Indonesia, a filthy, noisy hellhole that is as pretty and interesting as the contents of Clive Palmer’s toilet the morning after a pie-eating competition. Let this stand as a warning to anyone thinking about coming here for a holiday – don’t.

The most beautiful buildings in Jakarta
The most beautiful buildings in Jakarta

My new friends were smart enough to escape this sewer first thing this morning, leaving me to set out to explore the city on my Pat Malone. Which I put off, and put off, and put off, before finally heading out into the dirt and the filth. Having already seen Jakarta’s only tourist attraction, the monumentally disappointing National Monument, I decided to trot north and see what was up there. The answer was ‘fuck all.’

There are a few colonial buildings from when the Dutch ran the joint, but most of them are burnt out, covered in graffiti, or lying in piles of rubble. I found one that was still standing, and it had the shittiest town square of all time surrounding it. Homeless people were lying everywhere, there were more of those nightmarish mascot things, and that’s about it. Remind me again, why didn’t I just stay in Australia and go to the beach?

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This is where all dreams go to die

The highlight for the kiddies was a paedophile-looking man in a frilly hat who rented out bikes with flat tyres, that they could ride around the square (and, usually, straight at me). One sturdy chap seemed to be enjoying it a little bit too much, leading me to believe that he obviously hasn’t discovered masturbation yet. The dude in the hat could probably help him with that.

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He’s just come back from Paris Fashion Week

I didn’t go much further than that. It’s almost impossible to walk anywhere in this city as the roads are so difficult to cross, and the further I ventured from my hostel, the more dangerous things felt. It was alright to walk around aimlessly yesterday, when I had people with me, but today I was genuinely scared of getting stabbed. I was just trying to kill time until I could watch the football at 3:30, and ended up in some awful shopping centre full of broken tools and toothless hillbillies.

Today was truly one of those days where I wonder, “What the fuck am I doing over here?” Jakarta is a boring and uninviting city, I felt incredibly lonely and cut off from my world, and for the first time since I’ve been away, I just wanted to be home. Having such a fun day yesterday with good people just emphasised how bad today was. I would rather stuff an egg beater up my dick hole and spin it around than spend another second in this open wound of a city.

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He’s on his way to his Zumba class

This time tomorrow I will have said goodbye to Indonesia and be banging my cock in Bangkok, during a long stopover on my way to Myanmar. Yeah, I don’t think I’ll be shedding any tears for J-Town.