The thing about MK is that it has been specially designed to be a) friendly b) practical and c) highly accessible. It fails spectacularly on all fronts. It is populated by a series of ever-more-bizarre looking freaks. You know the types: EMO obsessed teenagers, people so fat they have to have specially designed chairs to glide around in and people who long ago realised that it doesn't matter if they are wearing a tea cosy on their head and have a piss stain down the front of their trousers because the incessant drooling and lolloping gait attract enough attention away from any sartorial errors. The neverending series of concrete underpasses that direct you up and down through the 'town' like a geriatric rollercoaster are so dangerous after 6pm that you might as well loosen your belt before you attempt to navigate your way through them to save time. I say 'town', because of course, there isn't one. One big sprawling shopping mall, packed to the gills during the day and instantly deserted as if by magic the moment the shutters come down, is the closest you'll get to a high street. By road, the endless roundabouts leave you nauseous and hopelessly lost on even the simplest of journeys. The beauty of MK, they say, is that it doesn't really matter which road you take, they all lead to the same place eventually! Whilst my grasp of English Literature has never been solid, I've a feeling this very theme was raised in one or the other of Jean Paul Satre's plays.
The overall effect is that MK is deeply sinister. It makes West World seem jolly and safe, makes Yul Brynner look like a kindly old uncle. Even the road signs are sinister, though how they can make simple black writing on a white background send a shiver that shakes me to my very core, I don't know. I mean, surely somewhere where people can ski, in England, inside a building, must speak for itself.
Oh and just in case you needed any further convincing, I took a picture of one of the local nightclubs. Nuff said.
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