'My hometown is shittier than yours,' insists Briton proudly

TWO men who hail from shit British towns are locked in argument about whose town of origin is the shittest, onlookers have confirmed. 

The dispute began when Ryan Whittaker, of Leicestershire’s crummy and depressing Hinckley, dared to assert that it was worse than sinkhole of misery Ashton-under-Lyne, the hometown of colleague James Bates.

Bates said: “Ashton’s proper rough, mate. I once saw a man’s nose shattered in a McDonald’s and he wasn’t doing anything but sit there with his nuggets. Walk down our high street at night and see what the teenagers call you.”

Whittaker responded: “You think that’s rough? Hinckley doesn’t even have a high street. The whole thing is side streets, even the high street. And all our teenagers are 30 years old. Every year, the kids are born older, that’s how rough it is.

“Nowhere is shitter, trust me. It’s medieval—in a bad way, not in a sexy incest Game of Thrones way. And all there is to do is get pissed and pass out.”

Bates replied: “Pass out? Do that in Ashton and you won’t wake up. You have to stay awake no matter how pissed you are. Even to fall unconscious after being kicked in the head you’ve got to walk to Dukinfield.”

Whittaker said: “Must be nice having other places near your town. Nothing’s near Hinckley. Stuck in the middle of flat emptiness. Biggest shithole on earth, I’m telling you.”

Observer Hannah Tomlinson said: “Not getting involved. Except clearly neither of them has been to Redcar, where I’m from.”

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Everyone paying for what they had is a sign one person got shitfaced

WHENEVER a group of diners decide to pay for exactly what each has consumed it is because one of the group got f**king wrecked, it has been confirmed. 

The theory was proven at D’Agostino’s in Reading last night when six friends who normally ‘just split it’ turned into forensic accountants at the sight of the bill, except for the smashed one.

Attendee Emma Bradford said: “Ordering drinks is basically an exercise in conformity worthy of psychological study; the first person’s booze-or-not decision sets the pattern for the table.

“We were all on soft drinks until Tom confidently asked for a large glass of Merlot, and we all started mentally calculating the cost and how to claw it back through pricier mains and breadsticks.

“But the cheeky prick didn’t stop there. ‘Another glass, please.’ ‘A G&T, please.’ Who does this wanker think he is, going into a restaurant and ordering whatever he fancies?

“Pretty soon we realised there was no way we could cover our losses through desserts or the charcuterie board. We’re all familiar with the sunk cost fallacy. Fern called for the bill and, steely-eyed, said ‘How about we all just pay for what we had?’ to assenting murmurs.

“Tom mumbled something how it’d be easier to split it, feeling the shadow of the axe even before his came to £68. Took the shine off his happy drunk. Serve him right.”

Manager Carlo Gremo said: “The drunk one always goes quiet, then offers to sort it out ‘on Revolut tomorrow’. But tomorrow, it never comes.”