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my parents moved to grays a while ago. i'm forced to visit every now again and have nothing good to say about the place, really soul destroying, bland and highly aggressive at night. not aiming to make a pun but it does live up to its name, think that' s the problem though, why, why call a place 'grays'? town planners should learn from the USA and give inspiring names like 'phoenix' or 'san diego'. saying this i used to think that 'dulwich' sounded like the pits but quite a fan now.

I'd rather live in a town called Grays than a town called Gravesend....!

I like the country bits of Essex and riding round on the bike seeing the little villages in the north of the county is rather pleasant. Even the island bits is great fun. But agree with the towns, so very little 'soul' about them.

But the A13 (even though thanks to Boris us bikers can use the bus lanes) is a nightmare of a ride to have to get there.

I spent some time in Southend. The nightly car parade up and down and up and down the foreshore with the girls sitting watching was a glorious sight to behold.


It was the first time I discovered that there are girls out there who consider a child as a career move. It was like a study in genetics - they would have discussions on whether shagging so-and-so would result in a pretty/sporty/whatever baby. Scary people.

I recently had to travel to Purfleet. The highlight of Purfleet is the level crossing. Nuf said.


Some years ago I visited a road-side pub near Southend. I was asked to leave because I was wearing a leather jacket. Apparently women wearing leather jackets are a recipe for violence in Essex.

At some point along the A12, you pass from cliche Essex into beautiful Essex which is my motherland. Great beer, beaches and jam, and old blokes who fish for eels and take the piss out of Londoners. But the first rule of nice Essex, is don't reveal where it is.

However, I've been in Dulwich for thirty years.

Born in Chelmsford, raised in Ilford and Elsenham - all in Essex. Used to have a great cricket team (think of Fletcher, Gooch, Hussein et al). Some good pubs for a youngster - posh boozing in lounge, underage boozing, crib and farmworkers in public bar. Miss it - but plan to retire to Cornwall and the sea.

The sad tidiness of Frinton, where chalked cricket stumps are washed off the blackened groynes on chill September evenings.


Nets fluttering in Westcliffe bungalows swish dead house flies onto acrylic carpets.


In the caravan park hard by the docks at Felixstowe a retired seaman's final years are played out to the sounds of cranes picking and unpicking an endless cycle of rusting containers. He sees the lights of the shipping lane fade into the distance on winter evenings, and turns back to the flickering portable TV.


In the marshes too, rain and rivers bid a withdrawn, mud-spattered farewell to England.

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