St Albans makes me ill (again)

St Albans is bad, and not in a good way. All St Albanites would of course say I was 'overreacting' with my cough, my sore throat, my streaming cold as a consequence of barely 36 hours in the place. They would say I was being unduly negative, not seeing 'the bright side of life'. But the one thing that's good about St Albans is it makes you realise just how much shit we are in, and just how complacent we are about it. Like Anabaptist Munster, St Albans is ruled by children; there are no books, there are just needy, faintly disturbed kids to be ferried to New Look in onesies. It's mansions echo like sound boxes to JLS or Katy Perry or Fast and Furious 4; it is a life of continual crossfire, of a battering from this person or that. There is absolutely no authority, because authority is unfair, authority discriminates. There is no conception of peace (the comfy armchair, the aspidistra) there is hardly furniture at all (there may be something to sit in, but it probably moves, and I wouldn't call it furniture!) it is shock doctrine on an urban scale. Perhaps the home is not a house (perhaps it's a shed, a warehouse) maybe your house is now your car, but the car is not a car either, going anywhere in the village equivalent of gridlock (and also ringing to the noise of JLS and Katy Perry). Things fall apart continually with the most cursory use, like in that advert for M&Ms, and worst of all, St Albans is the symbol of Britain. What have we done?