5 Signs You Know You Live in Dronfield

Dirt Pile

In case you forgot, you live in Dronfield. To reiterate this, Dronfield Digital has highlighted the many reminders that will not let you forget this fact, no matter how hard you try.

– You’ve woken up with a Fat Sams box in your room and you can’t remember eating it.

It’s Saturday morning, you can taste garlic mayo, shame and – if you party like me –  impending legal letters through your letterbox. You wake up, get out of bed, stumble around, step on a plug, step on a For Sale sign (where did that come from? Oh god, not again) and stumble around more in your room visioning flashbacks of the night before. In between the medley of hazy reminders that you kissed that trashy old bird in the smoking area and, once again, decided to argue with someone about the economy of a country you know nothing about, you find yourself staring at an open pizza box covered in sauce, littered with crusts and has a napkin caked in grease.

It’s at this point you remember that you can’t remember much past the drink where the bar maid told you that you might have had enough. Maybe she was right.

– When someone says ‘town’ and you don’t know if they mean Chesterfield or Sheffield.

The lads have had a few beers, it’s only 9pm and someone drops the T-bomb, sparking a fury of excitement across the previously glum faces at the bar: ‘Ay, why don’t we go down town?’

In the post-euphoric imaginations of tonight’s fate, everyone stops dreaming and the questioning begins, ‘Ay, Sheff town or Chez Vegas?’ and suddenly your dreams of meeting a girl with a full set of teeth is teetering on the edge of the first consonant of the next response.

– You tell outsiders you live in Sheffield to avoid a long explanation of what and where Dronfield is.

You’re in a city, probably somewhere absolutely dreadful that your friend has hyped up to the place to go for the night. People are wearing neon skirts, every other bird is XXL and it all got very grubby as soon as you left the confines of the cattle-shed of a train-station you spent 2 hours getting to, but you’re here for the night so you might as well have fun, right? Maybe you’ll get arrested; the night is still young.

Fast-forward 3 hours, you’re in a smoking area and your vision is about as credible as Jimmy Savile’s career, a nice(?), hot(?) regionally-accented bird asks for a lighter and small talk starts, she’s telling you all about her day at Gregg’s and you’re trying hard to impress her by not throwing up on your feet and she throws a wild card in the mix: ‘So wher’boots ar-ya frum like?’

At this point fight-or-flight kicks in, you tell her you practically know the Arctic Monkeys because you live in Sheffield. You live on Devonshire Green and Alex Turner might as well be your house-mate by the time you’re finished the blackest white lie you’ve ever told, because you know the truth will spark too much controversy: she has stopped talking and the word Dronfield might start her off again. Sheffield, yeah, Sheffield, that’s where I live, Sheffield. Pretty cool, yeah, Sheffield. Music, bands, Sheffield.

– At least one of your family members or friends has been in the Dronfield Eye.

If you actually do live in Sheffield, you’ll know that if your family members are in a local publication, it more than likely means either they have stabbed someone or they have been stabbed. This is true in 90% of cases, the further 10% is made up of charity events you found yourself involved in or you’re petitioning about something.

We don’t have that in Derbyshire’s ‘Most Stab-free Town 2013’, but we do have crass charity events aplenty. We have that many charity events, a charity has been set up to help those with an addiction to trivial fundraising, in the hope it may free middle-aged women from the shackles of their middle-class charity-fundraising obsession. We have the Dronfield Eye, it’s the one publication where you know at least family member or family friend will be every month, usually accompanied by the least witty pun in Derbyshire.

– You have banter with staff members at every Co-op.

If like me, you don’t like to regularly shop at a particular place, because you don’t want to be judged on how much Gin and share-size bags of crisps you buy during the week, you’ll have adopted a strategy of flicking between Co-ops to maintain the illusion of not being an alcoholic crisp fiend.

This tactic takes its toll after a while as you develop rapport with late shop staff town-wide. They will make wisecracks about why you’re buying king-size Rizla as well as a 20 pack of Benson’s; you’ll make wisecracks about the ridiculous deals they have on 5-packs of Snickers and before you know it, you’ve made a new best friend. This relationship will not change, every time you walk back in, no matter how drunk, you will instantly be locked into a to-and-fro banter battle to the death (or until you read the words ‘Card Authorised’)

Dronfield is the only place where it’s possible to be best friends with so many Co-op staff members across so many different Co-ops without being a a regional Co-op manager.

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