The Changing Face of the British High Street

Written by Eurocleese De Zouch

Tuesday, 28 January 2020

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Not a day goes by, but it seems that another shop in a random high street in a town or city across Britain closes...only to be turned into a den of filth and depravity, or into a ghetto whereby habitual cocaine users use the said shop to shoot the dirty drug into their buttocks.

Only three days ago, a well known toy shop in Newbury, Berkshire, "The Todler's Paradise...and Cafe", was shut down...only to be turned into a bogey comparison establishment. Another, in Fort William, up North somewhere, was converted from a former public house into a lady admiring house.

Elsewhere, in Hull, Harry Basiljet, a well-known thiefmonger, whinges that he can not walk into his nearest electrical superstore, The Electric Kettle, to swipe two to three 50-inch TVs a day, in order to fulfil his wanton chaffinch habit.

Mr Basiljet quaffed "even five years ago, the staff in The Electric Kettle would roll out the red carpet for you. They would kindly prepare the proverbial TVs for me to manhandle out the door in a swift fashion, along with a bundle of ibuygum Pads under each leg...I'd even get given a cup of tea thrusted into my hand during the's political correctness gone mad, I tell you."

In the salubrious outskirts of Burnley, Lancashire, a local diviner, Sheryl Albert, said that she often buys up old shops, just so that she can put a big well in it...All she can say for herself is "I love water, me...I find water in old shops, by sniffing for it. Once I've found a wet patch, I dig a massive hole, and sit by it".

In the yachting town of Weymouth, Derek O'Blimey, a former scout leader and womble enthusiast, admitted in the local rag, the Dorset Grumble, that he would rent out an abandoned shop for a week, as he loved to be sick in its doorway.

The UK seems to be losing its well-thumbed decree of being "the nation of shopkeepers", only for it to be taken over by a gaggle of oddballs and gropers. We await the next instalment of the High Street. However, the British people might need to wade through the puddles of sick and half-empty cans of Meths before they can get to it.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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