ThanetGuide's profile picture. diaries of a survivor in post-apocalyptic #thanet, written after the 2025 flooding of the river wantsum. @joebaxterwebb is my dad.

ThanetGuide

@ThanetGuide

diaries of a survivor in post-apocalyptic #thanet, written after the 2025 flooding of the river wantsum. @joebaxterwebb is my dad.

The seafront is mostly flooded, but if you’re lucky you can find tuna or even some soggy superglue.


I spent what seemed like months searching Northdown Road for AA batteries.


I met a survivor called Mark who claimed to have once been a manager at a post office.


Last night I explored in Caffe Nero. The previous tentants had been kind enough to leave a police uniform, taxi firm business cards and LED lights.


Last night I explored in an ice cream parlour. The previous tentants had been kind enough to leave a crop top, mutant flowers and MDF and dehydrated food.


A somehow-functional 2003 Citroen Pluriel came careening across Westwood Cross, driven by a taxi driver waving a pair of scissors.


The rocker said they could tell me the location of a typewriter if I returned with some GCSE textbooks.


I set off toward Margate Road, looking for parts for the basic water filter I had been building.


I went down into the tunnels under Ramsgate library in search of a Friends DVD box-set, but was driven out by mockneys and the smell of dog.


I watched the slugs make quick work of a fallen raider over by the ruins of a post office.


Outside Bannatyne's gym, a man triumphantly held aloft the severed head of a cannibal.


I met a property developer who promised me a Bafta award if I returned with enough red wine.


Outside Frank's Nightclub I wiped the raider's blood from my kitchen knife. All over a garden gnome.


I felt like I had been thoroughly beaten with a metal bat, but it was only the red wine.


I considered whether a siege engine might help me in my quest for a signed photograph of Ross Kemp.


I set off toward Newington estate, looking for parts for my large shield of sorts.


I could hear echoes of someone screaming as I entered the Ramsgate tunnels. I dimmed my torch and decided to turn back.


As toxic fog descended over Dane Valley, I mounted my rusty bike and set off toward Milmead estate.


I spoke briefly with a girl near Thanet Wanderers clubhouse. She had a teardrop tattoo and thick black eyeliner and carried a screwdriver.


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