Anything But The Poutine

I've been living in Rushden for the past few months and I rather wish I hadn't been. If ever there was a nation-wide zombie outbreak, the undead would steer clear of this place. Either that, or Rushden would be their point of origin.

Taking a walk around Rushden is a particularly bleak and desperate activity, with little to see but neglected terraced housing and fenced off, closed down industrial buildings from a by-gone. Pre-industrialised-China, shoemaking era.

I know a lot of people enjoy slagging off the small towns they live/lived in. Us Brits love it. A look at the books “Crap Towns: The 50 worst places to live in The UK” and “Crap Towns II: The Nation Decides” would attest to that. But I promise you that I know what I'm talking about. I've spent many of my days living in Luton, after all (#1 position in Crap Towns II).

Okay, so what does Rushden have to offer to budding travellers who want to see the real Britain?
Hairdressers.
Yes, hairdressers.

I do appreciate that nearly everyone needs to get their hair cut at various times in their lives, but I swear that there are more people trying to make a living out of hair removal than there are both charity shops on a typical British highstreet and unfathomable, underground, snow avoiding secret passageways in Downtown Toronto combined. As if to illustrate my point, just off the high street, there are two of the fuckers right next door to one another (and a barbers around the corner... and then there's a hairdressers on the opposite side of the high street). One of the two neighbours call themselves a "beauty salon", which essentially just means that once they've cut your hair for you, they'll trim your nails, too. And charge more. Probably.

If you happen to visit Rushden and you see a group of haggard, middle-aged men looking confused and angry but with suspiciously good hairstyles, either you have stumbled-upon a horde of lost zombies or another shoe factory has just closed down. It's hard to tell.