I took one of approx 3 annual visits to the world famous
Cheshire
JOaks last night, and lasted about 45 minutes before I really did start feeling ill.
Swimming head and faint, I just HAD to get out of the rancid chav filled shell suit wearing vile stinking of burgers and cheap girlie
perfume shit hole.
Can someone PLEASE explain to me how exactly they can derive ANY sort of pleasure whatsoever out of shopping?
A visit to the hospital comes close in terms of pleasure on this one.
I'll have to go back now too, as I only managed to purchase one pressie before my rapid escape.