The big Tesco: Seven Wonders of your Crap Hometown

EVERY unimpressive mid-sized town has features its defensive residents believe make it stand out, and they’re always the same seven things:

The big Tesco

Your parents still recall the buzz after the announcement a Tesco Extra was on its way. They were there on day one, with all their neighbours, excitedly browsing the aisle of electrical goods. The thrill still hasn’t worn off. Nothing has ever been the same since they were able to buy a five-pack of underwear at 2am.

The bus station

If you want to get a bus anywhere within ten miles, you simply have to visit the new bus station, still called that because it was completed in 1995. And while you’re there, stop in on the neighbouring pay-and-display car park ingeniously made out of waste ground. This is why you pay your council tax.

The retail park

Whether a teenager going on a sophisticated Nando’s-and-Cineworld date, a parent looking at mattresses in Dreams, or a pensioner bedazzled by Dunelm, the retail park is your hometown’s Mecca. Although Mecca Bingo moved a mile out of town.

The building that used to be something else

A monument lost to time. For generations, people have been driving past where the tire factory used to be and saying ‘that used to be the tire factory’. Rumours electrifying neighbourhood Facebook groups suggest it might someday become flats.

The drive-thru McDonald’s

Looking for an authentic late night bite? Try out the drive-thru McDonald’s on the ring road. You can’t miss it, because it’s right opposite the drive-thru KFC. What happens between these locales will be the talk of the sixth-form on Monday.

The fancy park

All the other parks are basically fields with a path going through, but this one was donated by the local philanthropist who worked everyone to death in his tyre factory and it has a bandstand and a duck pond. Making it posh and worth a visit even if there was a recent stabbing.

The small hospital

Everyone you know was born there, and it’s where you took your mate when he got a concussion from running into the glass door of the kebab shop. The most impressive feature? It’s been in special measures for twenty years.

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The match day diary of a Sunday league footballer

EVER wondered how Sunday league players meticulously prepare their bodies and minds for the big game? Tom Logan, star striker of the Fox & Hounds, reveals all: 

8.30am

Rudely awakened by the percussive thumping of a Championship-class hangover, I roll out of bed. Consider a fortifying morning lager, deciding against it on grounds of fitness, sportsmanship and there only being Fosters left. I’ll be over the limit regardless.

10am

Four Superkings, a strong Nescafe and a hearty shite later, I’m ready for my pre-match meal. Nutrition is key for elite footballers and it’s no different down here in the Warwickshire North-East Pub League. Fry-up it is. I leave out the black pudding because the stink of it’s making me heave.

10.45am

Kick-off’s at noon, so time to pack my kit. Eventually find it still packed and damp in the back of my Vectra. Bang the boots together to lose the worst of the dried mud. Throw in a packet of Superkings and a can of Monster and I’m ready for anything.

11.30am 

Turn up at the pitch. It’s a grudge match against bitter rivals The King Edward, which I’m barred from. There’s been bad blood between us ever since our centre-half Dan nicked their dartboard. Pre-match warm-up is supposed to be two laps of the pitch, but I’m conserving my energy for where it matters by scrolling Instagram.

12pm

Kick-off and I haven’t had a touch of the ball before we’re 2-0 down. Since I didn’t touch it it’s not my f**king fault, I explain to our manager who’s calling me a useless twat from the sidelines. He’s very much of the Pep Guardiola school.

12.45pm 

Half-time, and we’re 5-0 behind. I down a Fosters in one to give me an ‘edge’ in the second half. Feel pissed again, which will give me power.

1.20pm

The good news is I’ve scored a goal. Bad news is we’d changed ends. How was I to f**king know? If our keeper thinks he’s getting mates’ rates when I tile his bathroom on Tuesday, he can f**k right off.

1.45pm

Full-time. 7-1 loss. I think getting sent off for calling the ref a fat ginger twat hurt us. The showers are still broken and I’m not rinsing down in freezing cold water. I’m not Wim f**king Hof.

2.15pm

Back to team HQ for a pint. Barmaid won’t speak to me. Vaguely remember likening her to ‘Pamela Anderson, but, like, now’ last night.

5pm

Home. Chuck my filthy kit in the wash basket for my mum to deal with. What? Does Harry Kane do his own washing after a match? Same time next week, lads. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.