I’m aware this is unfair. Thousands of lovely people live in Luton. They have families, jobs, and gardens. But as a concept, as a punchline, Luton is the reigning champion. It’s the place your satnav sends you to when you misbehave.
Is it dangerous? Not particularly. It’s more like a low-grade fever that never breaks. It’s the lukewarm tea of British towns. It’s the Wednesday afternoon of places. It exists, and it knows it exists, and that’s the tragedy.
So, what’s your worst place? Is it your hometown? Be honest. Does a little part of you shudder when you see the sign? Mine is Luton. And I say that with the gentle affection you give a slightly damp, whining dog. It’s not the dog’s fault. It’s just… a bit of a sorry state.
Now, pass the biscuits. And if you ever plan a trip, maybe go to the Peak District instead. Your soul will thank you. But if you must go to Luton, pack a flask and a good podcast. You’ll need both.
