A location which resembles a scene in a George A Romero film.
As far as I could tell Mansfield is one big precinct in which the local zombies walk around all day bumping into each other and filing in and out of Costcutter and Poundstretcher. All of the pubs have big cardboard stars in the window advertising happy hours during which 50 pence or a pound can be saved on a pint of piss in the company of teenage psychopaths.
I heard that until recently Mansfield was the largest town in Britain with no railway station and the town has that feeling of being cut off and insular. When asking for directions I expected people to tell me to “keep to the path”. The trains to Nottingham are still pretty scarce (perhaps the good burghers of that city have successfully campaigned to keep the zombies out).
The football ground looks like one of the pictures you see of a ground belonging to a club that went out of the league 20 years ago, culture begins and ends with bingo and the local pastime is hanging around the bus station.
I spent three hours in Mansfield. I still have nightmares about this truly gruesome place
