Every country's got one - a dark corner so fearful that its name is uttered in hushed tones; a place where the sound of duelling banjos is punctuated only by the sound of breaking beer glasses and screaming women.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the UK's Isle of Sheppey, a a beautiful little island situated just off the North Kent coast, approximately 250 miles south-east of the lake district.
That, at least, is how it is described by www.sheppeyscum.com, an informative website which is as positive an advertisement for this neglected corner of the UK as Chernobyl was for the nuclear power industry.
Want to know more? Well, there's an island in the Indian Ocean that the indigenous population say is shaped like a young maiden carrying flowers back from the market on a summer morning. As the above picture clearly shows, Sheppey is shaped like 37,000 useless pieces of shit floating in a swamp.
And what of the locals? Be warned: Although the official language on Sheppey is English, very few natives can speak it fluently. Tell me more. Culture? No. Jobs? There aren't any.
Ok, I'm convinced. Book me in for a long weekend break. Now, what the nightlife? According to sheppeyscum's definitive pub listing, look no further than The Fiddler's Cat - It's the worst pub by far, with plenty of drugs, fights, stabbings and murders. Fight Rating 12.
And that's out of ten. Nasty. Naturally, the proprieters of The Fiddler's Cat have not taken kindly to topping the sheppeyscum pub league of shame. It's fair to say that the good burghers of Sheppey have not taken kindly to the site at all.
The authors of this outrage profess to be ex-Sheppeyites, now resident in North London. They prefer to keep a low profile - wisely, we reckon, since if the locals ever catch up with them, they'll be dangling from a lamp-post on Sheerness seafront.
Finally, and in the interests of balanced journalism, I feel obliged to offer something in Sheppey's favour. Er, can you just bear with me for a minute... ®