Whilst we always try to see the best in Stoke-on-Trent and North Staffordshire, we couldn’t help but have a chuckle at some of the expressive ways that some have detailed their displeasure of the towns they live in.
A website that specialises in negative reviews of British places has been a hit on the internet for a number of years for the creative ways that contributors express their dislike for the areas they call home.
Whether it’s saying that Stoke-on-Trent is ‘like somebody kidnapped every single village idiot in the world, gave them a s**t accent and dropped them here’ to describing Newcastle as a ‘chav spotters paradise’, the ruthless put downs of our parishes on ilivehere.co.uk are always good source of entertainment – provided you’re not an ambassador for the place in question .
Below – in alphabetical order – are some of the most brutal put downs for different parts of North Staffordshire.
And there’s also a whole section dedicated to Stoke-on-Trent and all its glory. It should go with out saying but… needless to say that we disagree entirely with all these ‘reviews.’
Have a look for your area – and be prepared to be shocked!
A reviewer wrote: “Burslem, AKA Boslem, to the ‘Mighty Valiants’ (Stone Island wearing, tattooed skin headed Port Vale supporters, with far too much self worth), is probably the WORST town in Stoke.
“I say ‘probably’ because the fact is that no one knows anymore, they are all so ****.
“Boslem, affectionately known as Bosnia, is the hometown of Robbie Williams and the Mother town of Stoke. Let me tell you that if she were a mother, she would be a pyjama clad, grey haired woman with many cats and nothing in her fridge but Findus Crispy Pancakes and stains.
“Should you ever chance to visit Boslem in the day you will see a Wrights Pies, a butchers, some newsagents and the odd second-hand tat shop amass an extravagant array of closed down buildings in a poor state of repair.
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“You will find a generous collection of rehabilitated criminals, drug addicts and prostitutes asking in the shops to buy their items ‘On tic’, presumably when their next lot of benefits or drug sale takes place.
“Visit at night and you will find no fewer than 42 pubs and takeaways filled with the local ****.
“The worst thing about Burslem? Everyone from there believes that it is some sort of Mecca and is worthy of praise for the ‘beautiful old buildings’ and that the council are leaving the ‘Mother’ of Stoke to rot and ruin.
“I say let her sit in her vodka-infused coma and soaked in her own urine.”
A reviewer wrote: “The town is quickly becoming a time capsule for the 1970s, and its inhabitants are among the most inward looking culture-phobes I have ever come across.
“To a person from this redneck part of England their entire world view extends from Cheadle all the way up to Tean – only two minutes drive from the town centre.
“Any mention of any of the other towns nearby such as Leek or Uttoxeter are usually met with grunts of “s***hole” or “why would I go there, I have everything I need here?”. That was literally a response I got when mentioning I was going to Liverpool once.
“Now that would not be a bad thing as such if Cheadle actually did have something. Anything. Anything at all?!
“There are literally no jobs in the town, the so called market is terminally empty. The high street encompasses a Wrights Pies, two takeaways and a newsagents.
“The rest of the shops there are never open long enough in order for one to remember what service they actually are supposed to provide. And yet, despite the economic depression, no-one seems to care.
“The town is terminally sick and is at serious risk of melting away into depravity, and if it were not for Alton Towers, the good Painsley high school and an impressive church built by Pugin, there would be absolutely nothing there for anyone.”
A reviewer wrote: “I’ve lived here on and off over the years. I haven’t actively sought out Leek as a natural habit but I know plenty of people that would do just that.
“People from outside of Leek usually find it to be a quaint little market town with lovely cobbles, comfortable cafes, a substantial interest in art (due in part to William Morris passing through) and a lovely mixture of independently owned shops to browse through.
“Granted the cobbles are a pain whilst venturing out in heels ladies. Please be aware of that. I’ve seen many friends taken down, sober as well as drunk, whilst attempting to negotiate their way towards the Red Lion on a Friday or Saturday night. They will entertain kids in a pram through because its bumpy for them and makes their teeth chatter.
“The comfortable cafes are overpriced but they’re meant to be for tourists passing through/the extremely wealthy.
“Don’t ever expect a McDonald’s because there’d end up being a lynch mob burning it to the ground with the poor unfortunate manager tied to a stake inside. Apparently McDonald’s is the devil in these parts.
“The independently-owned shops come and go as their various owners run out of money or ‘move online’. They don’t contain anything of remote use apart from potential gifts.
“There seems to be an aversion to shops that the population of Leek may actually need or desire. Be sure to save your money so you can spend £8 on an artisan postcard to tell relatives how glorious the town is though.”
Meanwhile someone else wrote: “I’ve lived in Leek for most of my life and I’ve been saving up to move out for a number of years and just recently moved out of the s***hole.
“Although Haregate – Leek’s massive council estate – is the main s*** hole, most parts have streets of council houses where you can easily get your fix of weed, monkey dust or cocaine but make sure you wear a stab proof vest when going to these drug dealers! They are dangerous.
“Also, make sure you don’t stay out too late or else some drunk guy will start a fight – exactly what happened to me.
“Make sure you lock your house, car, shed and garage because these local druggies will take anything. They will rob you for 20p.
“As soon as it gets dark, the boy racers come out in their VW Polos and Corsas with their 14-year-old girlfriends in the passenger seat, with the smell of cannabis very strong in the air.
“Oh and remember, do NOT make eye contact with anyone. It seems to be a sign that you are ‘dissin” and they will ‘ave’ you.”
Another reviewer writes: “The signs say as you enter, ‘Queen of the Moorlands’. Those in the know say as they enter ‘Lock you windows and don’t make eye contact, you know I love you very much don’t you?’.
“The most ambition ever seen in the town made the front page of the Leek Post and Times when one 15-year-old mother of 17, made a passing comment about maybe working on the deli counter at Morrison’s one day.
“With no Maccas some like to hang out in other people’s cars as they joy ride around the hills. When these lot aren’t TWOCing cars they are beating old ladies nearly to death or hiding from the growing number of town vigilantes taking it upon themselves (rather understandably) to do the police’s job for them.
“It is however the night when the town really comes alive because, although Leek doesn’t have much, one thing it does have is an abundance of pubs.
“Leek has around 50 which for a total population of 20,000 is a hell of a lot, in fact it has one pub for every 400 residents including the underage ones (underage being about nine in Leek).
“But I suppose when there is nothing to do but drown your sorrows and try to forget what a sewer you live in, the out of town breweries are bound to try and capitalise.
“Early on the teenage mothers bring out their faux gold wearing, foul-mouthed little rugrats to get them tanked up on WKD so they will go to sleep and can be taken and left at home alone while mummy goes out to spread the clap.
“As the night progresses the fighting swearing and vandalism rises with the police flapping about only serving to make the problem worse until an innocent passerby, robbed of his shoes, wallet, phone and dignity utters an obscenity when despondently describing his current situation aimed at no-one but himself and is promptly arrested for breach of the peace.
“10.50pm it is time for the police to have a tea break whilst the pubs kick out and the streets kick off. Hair, nails, baseball caps and kebabs fly to a backdrop of the crazy frog ring tone as everyone alerts their mates to the current action.
“Then it is off home via the graveyard to smash up some headstones or to the local nightclub for more fun. And so the swearing and brawling continues until 2am when the streets erupt again.
“The police sleep soundly in their beds as a riot ensues.
“Finally it is over by about 6am. 7am the first of the town folk slip out of houses to survey the damage, not that they intend to fix it as it will all happen again tomorrow. Lovely.”
A reviewer writes: “The first time my partner visited this forsaken place she was treated two aging alchies probably named Trisha screaming and hitting each other.
“When myself and my partner were theere, one funny basin-haired chavling decided to taunt me about my bushy hair, from the other side of the window of the train we were on.
“After laughing at him, he decided to assert his manhood by screaming at me and beckoning me off the train.
“While I couldn’t stop laughing, his gorilla of a mate started on us next, so I blew him a kiss. This blatant attack on his sexuality enraged him so much he proceeded to scream at me that he was going to **** me, spat at the train, flailing his arms and running after the slow moving train continuing his war cry. Unfortunately, they are probably going to breed.”
A reviewer writes: “Newcastle-under-Lyme, Staffordshire or Castle as is affectionately called is a chav spotters paradise.
“Please make the effort to go there on the local town festival parade/p**s up /all out brawl.
“Watch in awe at the logistics as police barricade side streets.
“Hark! the first smashed pane of glass of the day, and it’s only just 12noon!
“This annual feature of the midlands sees local little kids parading through the town centre twirling batons and their parents cooing and aahing from behind reinforced steel barricades.
“Warning: Please do be in before dark, the NHS is under enough pressure.”
A reviewer writes: “A town’s chavviness is usually in direct proportion with the size or success of it’s local JJB Sports shop. Well, quite recently, Stafford’s branch was extended considerably, so as to triple in size. I think that speaks volumes.
“The council estates of Highfields, Rising Brook, Coton Fields and the entire North End of the town are a rich breeding ground for our Nike AirMax baseball cap wearing chums.
“The fabled market town of Stafford, county town of Staffordshire, has its fair share of followers faithful to the cause.
“A typical walk into town from the Silkmore area of Stafford is a feast for the eyes.
“The railings and lampposts encountered on the public footpaths, emblazoned with the messages ‘Debbie iz well fit’ ‘Joe has a pinny’ and such are a clear indication of the presence of the tracksuit wearing fellows. I strongly advise people not to walk these areas at night.
“The bridge over the railway is a hotbed of activity, one could expect to encounter a miriad of smells – p**s, vomit and used condoms being just a few.
“And less said about Victoria Park, the better.”
A reviewer writes: “Stoke-on-Trent. My home city. As I gaze wistfully across green Cornish pastures to the remote little cove next to my home, I am forever grateful for the opportunity that came my family’s way that enabled us to escape from this terminally-depressed and squalid excuse for a city.
“The Potteries folk are by and large a friendly bunch (lets not talk too much about the git who charged my mother £300 for one replacement bath tap or the brothel whose worker was nicknamed ‘Killer’ after enthusiastically servicing a client).
“The people are, as I say, quite cheery, but if you spend any time there you’ll soon discover that the inhabitants are caught in a time warp circa 1970. It’s all Mungo Jerry this and Woolworths Pick’n’Mix that.
“Sit in any lino floored end terrace pub and you’ll hear about the good old days when the bottle shaped ovens fired up on a Friday and Monday saw a plethora of plates, mugs and teapots being delivered to the four corners of the earth. That was over 60 years ago you sad f*******. It’s gone forever. Get over it. The air was black with smoke then you stupid, stupid imbeciles.
“What exactly HAVE you given to the world Stoke-on-Trent? Cups and saucers, Jackie Trent (technically not a Stokie but from over the border in Newcastle-under-Lyme) and oatcakes. Jesus.
“You don’t even have a serial killer to boast about – you boring dying rectal fissure so just zip your dimwitted mouths and go and live in Rhyl or whatever other place you holiday in and eat Arctic Roll.”
Another review said: “Stoke-on-Trent, what a dump. It’s embarrassing to say you live here. A city slowly dying, well it’s actually already dead, but the locals haven’t woken up that fact yet. They are still living in the past of Reginald Mitchell and the long defunct Pottery industry.
“It’s now a city of call centres and distribution centres where most of the locals haven’t even got the brains to gain employment in them.
“It’s easy to spot a local, same uniform of fake sports top, tracksuit bottoms, and cruddy trainers. The so-called city centre Hanley is now a refuge for the smack-heads. I gave up shopping there years ago.
“It’s quoted that during the war the German Luftwaffe looked at aerial photos of Stoke and asked themselves if they had already bombed it. 70 years on it’s still the same situation.
“Stoke’s only salvation is that North Korea lobs a nuke onto it and flatten the whole lot, that will increase property values straightaway. Areas to avoid Bentilee (nobody works in that area), Meir, Norton and Tunstall (which is now classed as a third world country on its own.)
A reviewer writes: “I lived in Stoke-on-Trent for three years, and worked there for over 10, and there’s one irrefutable truth about the place that has remained unchanged for all that time – the place is a complete s******e.
“It’s not that their accents make them sound braindead – they actually are. The only time you will find a working brain cell in the whole of Stoke-on-Trent is if somebody from outside drives through or visits.
“They have no idea how to drive, how to speak in a civil tone and their dialect is at once irritating and incomprehensible.
“They use phrases like ‘geen downtown’ to mean they’re going into the city centre, and when they’re not stuffing their faces with oatcakes and Wrights pies, they’re mutilating the English language further with words like ‘enneeettttttt?’ instead of ‘isn’t it?’.
“It’s like somebody kidnapped every single village idiot in the world, gave them a sh**e accent and dropped them in Stoke. I’m amazed a single member of the population remembers where they live every day.
“Travel through here, but don’t stop. Don’t trip over the knuckle grooves that have been eroded into the city’s pavements since time immemorial – the residents still walk around dragging their knuckles and glaring at people who smile at them.
Another writes: “Stoke-on-Trent, well, where do I begin? A run-down, deprived armpit with delusions of grandeur for starters – a dreary conurbation of five (or is it six?) towns shovelled together and called a city.
“The ‘crowning jewel’ of which is Hanley, the ‘shopping centre’ with a boring mall, umpteen empty shops a Wetherspoons inhabited by ex-miners (the pits were all closed by Thatcher) droning on about how wonderful Stoke was. Throw in a few charity shops and that’s your lot.
“The women are all fat slobs clad in the ‘uniform’ of grey shapeless Primark t-shirt, black camel-toe-revealing leggings, Samsung phone and the essential accessory of a push-chair with a (totally ignored) screaming brat. Following these charming examples of womanhood is a pasty-faced skinny youth usually clad in fake Adidas and baseball cap.
“Stoke-on-Trent, if you want to lose the will to live come here, if not stay away!
Oh, and the weather’s usually c**p too!”
Another writes: “I have had the misfortune, and stupidity to base myself here when I took a position with a local company. I should have listened to people and chosen a better place to live but I assure you I’m rectifying that right now.
“How can you describe Stoke? Well if the actual world needed an enema, Stoke-on-Trent would be where they shove the pipe. It’s that bad, junkies, single mothers and general track suit wearing dole-ites. It has the lot.
“Then there’s Robbie Williams. Robbie is the Stokie’s idea of a demigod, their hero who is to be worshipped at all times. The fact that as soon as he had a few quid in his pocket and got away as fast as possible seems to be lost on them.
“In short the only way to improve Stoke-on-Trent is a well-placed cruise missile. I count the days until I get way from it, never to set eyes on the s***hole again.”
Areviewer writes: “Of course, who could miss out the glorious town of Stone? Lined by its beautiful canals, fantastic views and p***heads on cheap cider, Stone has an array of wonderful places you can visit.
“Then we have the fine cuisine Stone has to offer. Stone has it all! Feel free to visit one of the many fine kebab houses selling you three quids worth of filth after you’ve had too many Snakebites.
“Don’t forget to add the local suburban paradises to your tour of Stone. Walton (around 10 minutes from Stone) is a wonderful area, littered with middle class ‘wannabe *****’, who think they were raised in the ghetto and they run the town.
“Stone! Paradise! Well ‘ard!”