Anguish and dismay were conveyed by locals this week following the shock announcement of the sudden closure of Sallafield. Known as the Haçienda of the South East, the famous artistic and creative hub closed Tuesday last week leaving a sea of tearful, botox-lipped, single mothers nowhere to seek validation from drooling pubescent lads.
“Oranges” Thompson was left scratching his cavernous head as to where he could ever see a pisshead puking a Fat Frog cocktail through their coke encrusted nostrils again.
“I know that Heraclitus lad said “the only constant in life is change”, but where the fuck am I supposed to snort snarl off the top of a filthy toilet cistern at two in the morning now?”
The venue had a global reputation for showcasing the cream of DJing talent where one could singe their eardrums to such avant-garde music as “Build Me Up Buttercup” by The Foundations, “(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life” from the Dirty Dancing soundtrack, and of course, “Don’t Stop Believin” from Journey.
The smoking area, also known as Speakers’ Corner, was where the town’s intelligentsia and McGregor wannabes would congregate to discuss the perils of cultural Marxism and the omnipresent threat of nuclear war. Here, ideas flourished and superficial barriers were erased before the illustrious debaters punched the shite out of the boxing machine and each other.
Self-proclaimed gainzzzzzz merchant and social media influencer, Dealy Hog, also cut a devasted figure upon the news that he would now have nothing to post on social media with 78 hashtags about what an absolutely bantz-tastic night he was having. #bumps #gainz #anabolics #steroids #sleevetattoos.
“My roid blood pressure head, perfectly manicured eyebrows, and fadezzzzzz for dayz beard will only get an exhibition at home now I guess.”
I also spoke to middle-aged supermarket worker, Mary Kinsella, who told me what she would miss the most about the place.
“The after-work sessions would be right craic down there alright. I’d get me hair and makeup done like I was half me age and then down a bottle of Huzzar with me workmates before hittin the club. Nothing rounded off the night like tearing the blood-soaked hair extensions out of me colleagues heads in vodka fueled catfight on the dance floor then. The next day in work was always fun.”
