CHAOS BEFORE PREDICTABILITY

To paraphrase Kaiser Soze / Baudelaire, the greatest trick Bromley ever pulled was to convince the world it didn’t exist. And in the minds of many, it doesn’t. After all, neighbouring Croydon distracts much of the attention. This wouldn’t matter, were it not for the fact that it is the forgotten tenth circle of hell.

Fans of Dante may begin to question this theory. Of course, he only notes nine – but then if he had noted a tenth, it wouldn’t be particularly forgotten. The fact is that BR1 (Bromley) is so painfully lacking in anything note worthy that Dante felt it would slow down the pace of his wee masterpiece.

But looking closely there is a small, grey, damp gap between Lust and Gluttony. This is Bromley. It’s sin: Mediocrity. Just as Dante boards the boat, passengers jump upon the 358 and as they pass from BR3 to BR1, their life-force is devoured instantaneously – and with bizarre effects.

All of a sudden, masses are convinced that a beer and what claims to be burger for £3.99 in Lloyds is some kind of gift from God. They hoard into The Glades shopping centre, hoping they’ll find that little thing inside of them that feels missing, all the while not knowing it’s been sucked into the very heart of the town itself.

Just look at H.G Wells. Where else would have got the idea for such works as The Island of Doctor Moreau that the Romero-esque suburb he was born. He took one look around Bromley and discovered all the beast-folk her required.

But it’s not the fault of the inhabitants. After all, I myself am one. It is the creator. Whilst the rest of the world could be said to have been created by an architect (even though we can largely agree it was actually a large explosion acting as a catalyst, etc.) Bromley was designed by his/her intern. The one who thinks Pi is a short-crust treat and still uses scissors from playdough.

So, on your way to Gluttony, why not stop off at Primark and get yourself some cheap socks.