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A mysterious location, Shropshire is believed to be found roughly between the Irish Sea, Manchester, Birmingham, Norway, the Battlestar Galactica and the M54. It has been said to be a place of wondrous beauty and mystery, with historical tradition from the Battle of Shrewsbury to the Ironbridge Gorge, alongside a rich tradition of rural arts, crafts and fine foods. Unfortunately, the above is mere legend. In truth everyone in Shropshire is a farmer, inbred and with about as much IQ as a fly on a piece of horse shit. Residents of Shropshire are deeply superstitious and territorial in nature. Visitors to Shropshire – cited by residents as ‘Townies’ or ‘City cunts’ – are often made to feel uneasy and often find the fact that no-where within the county is open to serve a decent coffee on a Sunday morning highly traumatic. It is advised also that if you are of an ethnic or European background to avoid Shropshire at all costs. Pitchforks and satanic rituals. That’s all I’m saying. On the positive side, and contrary to popular opinion, you can get decent phone signal in Shropshire. If you are a visitor and find yourself being chased by an army of pitchfork welding farmers this means direct connection to the emergency services. However due to Tory funding cuts, these services are now run by a Sheep and pair of mating ducks, which has so far proved unsuccessful.
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