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

The sprawling, amazing, wonderful metropolis of Truro, Cornwall, Britain, not Englandland is the huge size of, oo, a shopping mall. If you add the fields then you reach the size of mall and car park. If its a small car park. They say "Small is beautiful" but who says? At the risk of offending the "campaign for Equal Heights", we think this term came from the diminutive Emperor Napoleon. A recent survey asked "Does size matter?" and only 10% of respondents ticked "yes". Mind you, 90% ticked "Hell Yes!".


The founder of this historic town is Trevor Rowe. (That is a lie, that is. 'ee wez too drunk to find it, and the one who found it was 'iz brother Treve. He never got no credit tho, 'cos he was busy with her up Tolskithy Row. Well, wa'd 'appened waz they 'ad a fight outside the pub, 'cos Trevor reckoned Treve waz nicking 'iz name, then see Trevor passed out. Passed out 'ee did, right in street, too! Well, Treve 'ad to sort isself out a minute, and thought 'ee'd be back proper once 'ee'd seen to business, like. Well, it's iz bladder, see? Can't 'old 'iz drink. So 'ee was walking right and he found this city, and called it Treve Rowe. Meantimes, up pops Trevor, seez wa'd 'appened, and went an' told folk 'EE'd found'un. All the while Treve were busy like. Mad? Treve were jumping. Jumping 'ee was. He was bloody mad, and 'ees still bloody mad.) Alternatively, Richard Lander often and petulantly claims he found it instead. Yeah, like you "found" lake Victoria, eh Dickie? He made enough wild claims, waltzing into East Africa going "Right, thats it, this is mine!" that they stuck him on a plinth up the top of Lemon Street out of harms way, where he could discover pigeons on a daily basis.


Truro reached its first 'dawn of splendour' in the mesolithic, when the "hunter gatherers" said 'sod this for a lark' and built the first city there. As the only city this side of Ninevah, it obviously drew the greatest minds of the time who inexplicably seemed to lose some of their intellectual capacity once greeted with the traditional vat of a strange drink made from fomented apples (now called "suicider"). They erected strange monuments worshipping outlandish concepts such as "truth" and "honesty" which today's society have thankfully outgrown.

The first city was accidentally destroyed when an early chief named "Penhaligon" accidentally farted over his fire, creating a pyrotechnic display of an early flamethrower. His various underlings suffered third degree burns to their noses. They decided to build a new city, and after rather a strong night on some spingo imported from the distant land of "Hell's town", they came up with the idea of "civic planning", and placed the dung heaps all upwind of the city to keep them on the skyline and in full, aromatic view. Their descendants even today keep their memory alive in the "exciting" design of County Hall.

This second city thrived, or rather "grew like mould" and the chiefs of Truro became kings. The metropolis expanded vastly in the Bronze Age, the civilised borough encompassing the entire Peninsula west of the Tamar. Disaster struck in 735BC when wife of the then chief, Caradoc-Arthur-Vlygh-Jago named "Camilla" dropped her earrings. By royal edict, the population had to look under every dung heap, and they dug up the entire city. They continued digging, finding a tunnel to Shangri-La, two Balrogs, and a memorial to some bod called "Balin son of Fundin". The last team, named "South Crofty" found them a couple of years ago, so we can all stop looking now and go and sell crap to tourists instead.


There were so many Methodists, Quakers, Baptists, Anabaptists, Welsh Congregationalists, Plymouth Bretheren, Presbyterians, Second Presbyterians, Presbyterian Church of Elvis the Divine, and pagans in the area that to give them all something to equally loathe and pay for, the Anglican Cathedral was built at the end of the nineteenth century. Attendance peaked in 1987 when "Songs of Praze" was filmed there. (Songs of PRAISE were dead against it, so the villager of Praze-an-beeble toddled on and sang a few hymns and hers, filmed by Denzil Penburthy in glorious technicolour, and the goat clapped. The goat also appears in other copies of the DVD that Denzil circulated before realising he had not quite copied over the OTHER film.)

Hall for Cornwall[edit]

Fed up of having the Cornish invade Plymouth, it was decided to provide a "Hall for Cornwall" so everyone can collect their dole cheque without being seen by the rest of the country. The "Hall" was duly commissioned, and the old "County Hall" was given a lick of paint and renamed...I mean this splendid architectural feat was encompassed.


Some liar a.k.a. William Worcester claimed there was a castle in Truro. There was not, there never has been, and even if there was, its buried under the law courts. Most locals see the law courts, sometimes only briefly, as there was an injunction against prosecution in the case of the stannators confiscation of English Heritage signs from Tintagel (no really!)