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For those without comedic tastes, the so-called experts at Wikipedia think they have an article about Thurso.

Chances are, if you’re reading this, you’re from Thurso or have heard of it's legends however i very much doubt that, Googled it in one of your frequent free moments, and then waded through 36+ pages of mistruthful cow-poo to arrive here: the cold, unequivocal truth. If not then most likely this was an accident.

A map of Scotland (from the point of view of Australians) complete with fall out predictions for when Dounreay goes all Chernobyl on us. The red dot(ish, maybe a little more to the right) shows Thurso.

Geography/History/Modern Studies[edit]

Crabster locals are made to wear these hats to ensure no mingling takes place but also they’re quite trendy.

Thurso is famous notable for being the most northern (or southern if you're Australian (or have your eyes in upside down)) town on the British mainland and terminal source of the deadliest road in world, the A[AAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGHGHHHHHH – JESUS BRIAN LOOK OUT!!!]9[99] which precariously links the town, through time, to actual civilisations.

The nearest city is Inverness which lies three hours to the south (or, again, north, for those in the southern hemisphere (or, again, for those with upside-eye-drome)) and at weekends becomes inundated with people from Thurso, and the surrounding areas, who are addicted to all the hustle and bustle of ‘the big city lifestyle’ (or crack, one finds it hard to tell) but they need the job at the call centre.

Within pissing distance rests the port of Crabster (literally pissing distance, during Gala week townies try to piss past it). The harbour used to be a prosperous little place called Scabster but was renamed after a devastating attack by giant mutant-alien crustaceans, who were dissatisfied with Sandside Bay, they killed, mostly everyone scratching themselves to death, and then enslaved the survivors. Although after a few years, separated from the radioactivity of their natural habitat, the genital lice reverted to their normal state and have inhabited the inhabitants ever since. A current victim is pictured.

Somewhere nearby is the unfamous giant golf ball, health-hazard and top local cause of cancer, Dounreay, the sole employment of everyone’s dad. Either that or he works as a pimp, postman, ‘paralytic’ or hairdresser.


Thurso is also host to a wide variety of sports:

Look at ‘em, clearly they're not surfing and they all look sad and desperate. Especially her. All genuine rapists.

Football (as in with a ball and feet) is a popular talking point in Thurso. The sport itself is generally ignored in favour of talking about it, loudly and incessantly over and over in your ear until you fall on the ground frothing at the mouth having an aneurism just because it has to be more fun than listening to drunks talking about men trying to kick a ball. This in it’s self became a sport: seeing who could talk their victim/girlfriend to death fastest.

Surfing has recently become popular due to some malicious rumour that the waves around here are comparable to those around Hawaii if true Hawaii must suck. Since then, occasional surfing events take place and this means the town is intermittently flooded with surfers.

Date rape is another sport played, more on than by the locals, often coinciding with surfing events but with easy access rohypnol (due to the frankly startling ADHD levels) there tends to be sporadic spikings throughout the year for people to nonchalantly bring up in those slightly tasteless fairy tale pantos. At Christmas. ones like Sleeping Beauty

Crank Calling[1] is another favourite past time of previously mentioned teens, even before Phonejacker, the scientifically improbable creatures realised it's fun to tell people your being battered via phone. However most locals now expect it to be a crank whenever the phone rings (unless it’s during the day in which case you know for a fact it’s the call centre) and so can prepare themselves for the inanity and sometimes fight back with quips like: “I- I’ll phone the police” and “I’m tracing this number” or even “*coughs* how old are you?... 8, you say?... do you like kittens little girl?”.

The next three sports are sort of interlinked – like a triathlon – but are absolutely compulsory for all members of the town. No exceptions. Even if you you think you're 'fairly tolerant' you're wrong and just as much in denial about being a homophobe.

Homophobia is a popular expenditure of energy in small town Thurso. It is a torch passed down from Daddy Rangers fan to Baby Rangers fan (although Richard Dawkins would say a-child-of-rangers-fan parentage) to be brandished around in the face of those that disagree with the preconceived notions of the original Rangers Fan that gays rape everything but lesbians are ok. If they’re attractive - but not gay!

Being Gay is pretty good exercise in Thurso considering all the fucking that you can get done (to you) although it is generally frowned upon by previously mentioned Rangers fans (and Pastafairians). Having said this though the townsfolk throw a big Gay Pride Week, euphemistically referred to as ‘Gala week’, the advent of which brings on a spate of cross-dressing and infantilism vehemently referred to as “it’s just a bit of fun guys! Fucks sake it’s not like I do this everyday or anything – I really don’t! honest!” this leads nicely into the third of the trinity:

Denial. Denial is the best of both the first two in the series in the sense that you can be both a Rangers fan – well, I say this is an advantage – I mean you can wear blue – and be a homosexual simultaneously; getting away with statements like “Ha ha! ‘Kiss his ring’! It’s funny ‘cos it’s about rimming!” and “I’m not gay! I’ve got a girlfriend! No really! She lives in, er…” then remembering the setting of High School Musical, “Albuquerque!” without arousing the slightest iota of a suspicion.


The local area has four schools. 1, 2... Three(?) of which are primary schools:

Mount Pleasant, contrary to the name, this mountain is not pleasant. Every morning pupils are forced to climb the giant mountain and reach the top before 9’o’clock, if not terrible things happen… few children have ever been late though, most just died trying to get through the ruff part of town up the mountain without the proper gear and training. The head teacher had this to say on the topic "They've just got to learn, you know?" whilst picking his nose.

Penny Land; the name says it all, the land and buildings are made of pennies (wow what a smart joke!), held together by blue tack. It took the locals several years to scrimp and save enough coppers to build the school and then a further twelve to buy all the necessary blue-tack. If you where a prisoner in member of the great Penny Land you would know that pennies, ironically, weren't the currency in the school it was, in fact, golden beans which could be earned during golden time by playing one of Thurso's lovely sports during school hours. though that was in the sixties before health and safety existed.

Miller Academy the most in-tel-e-gent(?) sounding of the three as it has the word ‘acadimee’ in it and add-mit-ted-ley(?) it is an better school; your chances of dying a cold lonely death under a glacier or being crushed under £10,000 worth of coppers decreases dramatically, on balance, though, your chances of being molested by the lollipop ladies skyrocket.Miller is also famed for being the school with the most crap. A whole ton of bird shit is found outside the school every day but it is put to good use it is sent to Africa where it is left to harden and make new schools. Kind of like recycling.

Should you survive to the age of twelve you’ll make it to the High school which, according to the song I happen to be currently listening to[2], never ends; however this is a bit of a fallacy as it is most certainly going end when Dounreay goes into nuclear meltdown. The silver lining to the ensuing mushroom cloud is “Hey no more school! And look you’re green… oh... and a bit dead.” o yes ur mum


A Saturday in Thurso. Not even a bird in the sky. Indeed, this picture took it's self.

Once upon a time Thurso was a pious town devoted solely to the one and only edible god, Spaghetti Monster. However that all changed in 2005 AD (or thereabouts, historians are a little shaky on the exact year, but geeze, give ‘em a break) when the church of Tesco opened in near-by tribe Wick.

At this time the locals decided that Pastafarianism should be abandoned and ‘The Blue Word’ be institutionalised. The locals now worship the great Jack Cohen (founder of the religion way back in the 1920s). Most parishioners can be found wearing a blue ‘T’ around their necks with a little Jack glued to it (with Tesco brand prit-stick). On Saturday (the holy day for followers of Tescoism) parishioners worship at the great temple by buying the products that Jack delivered and sacrificing Co-Op workers, ensuring the next lot of cargo is delivered.

As recently as the other day a mini-Tesco church opened in the town creating jobs for local ministers and alter-boys (and girls due to ‘new’ sex equality laws) however parishioners still prefer the Wick church as it’s bigger and has a wider variety of cargo for them to violently defend. the local shit hole thurso high school is so fucking shit and tel ur kids to watch out for the pedo

Things to Do[edit]

Thurso is home to several leisure facilities including:

A 'child-friendly' ‘Skate-Park’ largely consisting of a crappy half pipe which was four years too late for the skating fad anyway. It is now used by small children endangering their lives for some cheap YouTube celebrity[3].

A beach – well – that’s kind. An overrated cat-litter tray, with a ‘totally sick tide man’. Contrary to dogging traditions of the country side many couples, young and old, come down here in the middle of the night and swing. A bit risqué considering the scene is just behind the police station and over-looked by several residential homes. Furthermore to this fact other people that go dogging, in the sense of walking their dogs, have spontaneously caught Chlamydia just from being in near contact with the disgusting beach. The doggers however wear hazard suits and never catch anything; not even those lice that are going round the schools at the moment.

A stone bench at the river side routinely used by bored 12 – 14 year olds as a place to get drunk on alco-pops and litter with condoms that they ping at each other (due to poor sex education some people around these here parts have even chocked on condoms incorrectly inserted into the throat and or nasal passage).

'Tops' left to right: Your father, Harry and Ray. 'Joes' left to right: Fred, Francis and lenny

An unofficial ‘cruising’ track used by guys in their early twenties to pick up girls bimbos drag queens impressed by cars, get drunk on/at and litter with the used condoms (and single shoes?) that they drop out of the window.

Several condemned cottaging areas public toilets used by men in their fifties who are ‘experimenting’ not for the first time

Medow Well is more of a tourist artaction that a facility as it never gets used but people still come up in there thousands to see it rumour has it the spirit of Jesus himself lives inside it other rumours (ones more comonly believed) say the real Postman Pat is still stuck down there but as it is too deep it will forever be a mystery. A deep one at that and it also has water in it, i think somewhere, actually i'm not sure wait i'm going to find out........................i think there is another soul trapped in medow well now!

There is also a Cinema covertly called ‘The Porn House’. Most local-folk complain about the extortionate pick-‘n’-mix prices but, personally, I’m just annoyed that napkins don’t cum free with the pop-porn.

The glorified pub, Skinandis. It recently had some Poll(ish invaders immigrants people)s installed however they were quickly removed after local intellectual heavyweight complained: “I cauny un’erstaun’ nuthin’ they was sayin’ or tha’.”

An underground Gay-Bar called Top-Joes. It comes as quite a shock to most 18 year-olds (who are doing their obligatory birthday pub crawls) to find out this little fact. Even more shocking when they find their father there enjoying a cool Bacardi-and-coke (with ice and a tiny parasol) with 'Uncle Ray' (and 'uncle Fred'.(and 'uncle Lenny'(and Francis the man who works in the butchers (and Harry the hairdresser (and so on))))).

And yet, even with all those things, there’s still a constant solanum-suffering moan about there being ‘nothing to do’ and a weekly mass exodus to the Tesco in Wick (however this is also part of their religious rituals).

People to See[edit]

Thurso is also the home to several major celebrities, past and present:

The founder of The Boys Brigade (essentially a boy scouts but for pretentious loosers instead of genuine nobodies), Sir William Alexander Smith who was born near dounreay in 1854, it is believed that the radioactivity sent him mad.

John Thurso-man scrutinising a “How to not look illegal” manual.

John Thurso-man (pictured) is the local super hero, a bit like Super-Man but he wears a kilt (and sports a so-good-it-looks-fake moustache) and has nothing to do whatsoever since he gave up enforcing the laws concerning underage drinking, littering, wearing a hoody and enjoying High School Musical 2.

The paedophile, affectionately called ‘Dodgy’ by school children, although, misleadingly, the fact that he is a paedophille is incidental; parents teach their children the name 'Dodgy' as in his day he was a 9 - 12 year-old, girls, county-class dodge-ball champion. Yes, he was on the team.

The footballer[4] who escaped moved away recently to play for Liverpool FC. Locals cling to as their claim to fame – “oh my god I went to school with/taught/saw/talked to/stalked/ him!”.

Anyone that has appeared in the local hobo blanket newspaper. This can include a whole array of useless bastards, such as the guy that is walking out of the shop in the background of the picture of some sporting hero returning to 'the game' after forty years.

Twin Town[edit]

is twined with a German town called Brilon. Brilon is an exact replica of Thurso that was built by locals in their spare time for the sole purpose of confusing tourists and other non-local folk. And, indeed, tourists do often confuse the two realising their mistake only when they reach Brilon to find there isn’t coast for thousands of miles. A knee-jerk racist local who has visited the twin town had this to say: “Aye it’s creepy as fuck, lak hom ‘cept filled way people wearing gimpy shorts, iytin’ their ain shite, and goose mairching to Nazi music!” whilst wearing a platted skirt, chomping on something called ‘haggis’ and being a racist hun.

See Also[edit]

External Links[edit]