|Motto: "Caveat Cacum" "Seize the Irony"|
|Civic anthem: Sorted for E's and Whizz|
|Official language(s)||Sheffield, Chav|
|Opening hours||Half day Wednesdays|
Dronfield is a dormitory town of Sheffield, a failed utopian project of the 1960's that aimed to create the perfect society by making everything dreary and identical. Once lauded as "somewhere to live" by the poet Philip Larkin, Dronfield has now come to represent the archetypal suburban backwater notable for it's lack of any soul or conscience. In the absence of any art, culture or any intellectual discource, life here is sustained entirely by an increasing depressing cycle of material consumption and desperate, drinking binge behaviour.
The name "Dronfield" is thought to mean the field or open place where they shoved back the burnt-out cars to stand around to ugly, chubby women talk on and on and on. Christ, you know they had to put them somewhere but why did it have to be Dronfield? Anyway, this is where they put them and this is where they stayed. To escape from these Smirnoff-chugging harridans, the men of Sheffield built a monastery that they could hide in but Henry VIII spoilt all that by knocking it down. As a way of saying sorry, he built numerous pubs for the consumption of alcohol, knowing that otherwise there was nothing at all to do.
Drinking alcohol became popular, so popular that by 1822 almost 100,000,000,000 pints were consumed every friday night in every house in Dronfield. The success of the pub led to the congregation of ugly, spotty teenagers in nearby parks as they were unable to contain their excitement at the prospect of being able to drink in a pub one day. As a way of alleviate their dispair, Smirnoff Ice was invented and thrust into their willing, sickly, pale, bony hands.
In the late 1960's everything was to change. Local businessman, Geoffery Tarmac noticed that everything in Dronfield was too old and different, and that Something Must Be Done about it. Geoffery and his lover, Henry Homes, went for a nice little walk in the unspoilt, idyllic fields that lay to the West of Dronfield. Geoffery noticed a beaver in a stream and went to tickle it but it did a poo and ran away. Henry, in a similar way, captured a squirrel and tried to kiss it but it bit him on the nose. Geoffery and Henry were so angry that they vowed to have revenge on this harsh wilderness and decided to form a gang dedicated to destroying it. That gang became known as Homes Tarmac.
Homes Tarmac was in such a rush to destroy the wilderness, they almost couldn't think straight. "What shall we do?" they asked. "Let's build houses!" they said, and started flicking through the Modern Cheap Homes catalogue. Their flicking fingers came to a rest at page 223, which was boring box suitable for "young aspirational families" and in the blink of an eye Mr Homes was on the phone ordering a batch of 10,000 identical houses.
"Do you want anything else?" the salesman asked. "No" Henry replied.
"Do you require any recreational facilities?". "No" said Henry.
"How about something cultural like a theatre?". "No, you communist!" said Henry and slammed down the phone.
Geoffery glared at Henry. "Ok, so we fucked the squirrels and the beavers but what will the kiddies do with no facilities?", he said with a silly, quivering bottom lip. "Let them drink Smirnoff IcE!" replied Henry and the future came into being.
Can you believe it? Utopia was created just like that. Everyone was happy.
This low-budget government funded video shows how Dronfield is developing today.
The host, a local teenager has recently received life imprisonment for public urination, sexual assault, man-slaughter and homosexuality.
As late as the mid 1990s, Dronfield had shit loads of schools full of weary but intelligent pupils and a few shitty scumbags from Unstone. However, it was decided that the schools would be better off being flattened to the ground and the adolescent wishes of a generation came true. Yeah, so now everyone goes to one school so that they can fight together in one big spotty convention.
Got a problem with that? I just mind my own business. I pay my taxes... stealth taxes... grrr, don't get me started.
Dronfield has a terrible sporting culture, mainly either 6 year-olds falling about in mud and crying, or just some fat 50 year-olds with bald patches so shiny that one passer-by was recently blinded. It has 3 children's sunday league football teams, but not enough children to go around, so one team (CAFA) only has 9 players, fail. It also has a fledging rugby team, but hey have not won a match as the Sheffield teams have the advantage of actually knowing how to play and, not just rolling around in the mud. So, to conclude, not much sporting heritage here, Sorry!.