Abandon all hope ye who enter here
Entering the luxurious port of Holyhead you'd be forgiven for thinking you're the index finger of a medieval proctologist as you find yourself eased into this ***-grey anus of the world, devoid of all colour, culture, humanity, fresh air and hope. Even the seagulls have fled in vomiting horror at the facades of bleak hopelessness cast in the overhanging wisps of what feels like fart vapour in the air.
The moment you set foot on the dry joyless land you immediately feel yourself swamped in thoughts of excruiciating suicide. Like scouring out your insides with a risty fork or mixing a heady cocktail of asbestos, industrial cleaner and lighter fluid in your oesophagus and setting yourself alight as a sacrfice to satan. That or incest, or corpophagia, or bestality, anything to stave off the sense of impending emptiness that stretches right from the morbid coast to as far as you can hear the queer, animalistic calls echoing off to the horizion.
Wandering the bleak, pointless streets, passing hordes of aimless, inhumanly obese teens in skin-tight hip hop streetwear, huddled over shopping bags full of discount beer cans, their fuzzy, pink eyed faces sagging into a greek mask of utter despair as their mind gambols between its three topics, the local amatuer football team, someones *** in heat magazine and who ***ed who's father the previous night, you feel like the priest visiting a mental asylum in the dark ages, praying the inmates can't reach you through the *** encrusted bars with their clawing fingers.
After some three hours of trying to find some tolerable place to sit and drown our horror with drink, we finally settled on of all things an Irish pub, decorated curiously like any other ratbag local and populated with inhumanly obese sweat-drenched inbreeds, bellowing primate screeches at each other over pool tables and juke boxes. Dowing our beers in a single, terrified, gulp, we fled to see if we could find at least one place where the calibre of food (see: offal) could be stomached. In the absence of this we found ourselves condemned to some Hitchcockian nightmare where a camp Norman Bates and his senile, grinning, decomposing, mother served us some kind of syphilitic excrement intended to be beef brugers, chips more akin to toenail clippings and a glob of onion unsettlingly similar to something you might find squeezed from the urethra of a long drowned corpse. The toilet was downstairs, past their own sitting room, the kind of place wiccan cults meet in secret to plot the midsommer sacrifical burning of the 'outsider'.
Fleeing, once again, yet another soul drenching hovel we found ourselves condemned to wandering the grey-brick streets, holding back the tears and trying hard to fight the nausea induced by the growing feeling that we would never be allowed leave. Ever.
Places like this are like a petrie dish for incest, adutery, perversion, murder, suicide and alcoholism and that's just to speak of the pillars of the community. You could feel families mentalling undressing one another in the supermarket.
There are places in he world in which the keenest athiest would feel moved to thoughts of divinity as luscious green pastoral nature reaches across canyons and valleys bestowing birds, faunae and humanity alike with its sumptuous bounty. Then there is Holyhead, in which the selfsame athiest would convert completey to the notion that there is a God and he has sentenced you here for all time, to wallow in the vacuum of your own emptiness, and be slowly infected by the dredging, empty despair