Crawley would be an excellent place to build the new runway.
What a dump.
With apologies to John Betjeman. :
Come friendly bombs and fall on Crawley!
It wasn't fit for humans ever
There isn’t room to park a car
Swarm over, Death!
>
Come, bombs and blow to bits
Those nasty discos full of flabby chicks,
Who've overdosed on alcopops
And flash their flabby tits
>
Mess up the mess they call a town-
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week a half a crown
For twenty years.
>
And get that man with double chin
Who’ll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women’s tears:
>
And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.
>
But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It’s not their fault that they are mad,
They’ve tasted Hell.
>
It’s not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It’s not their fault they often go
To nearby Brighton
>
And talk of flying and makes of planes
In various bogus-burger bars
And daren’t look up and see the Boeings
But belch instead.
>
In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.
>
Come, friendly bombs and fall on Crawley
To get it ready for the runway
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.