Yorkshire

If bullshit were money. Yorkshire would be London. The male inhabitants of Yorkshire thrive on self-pity. They imagine themselves to be 'hard' and each having individually suffered more woes than Mahatma Gandhi, Mother Theresa and Jesus Christ combined in their solipsistic lifetime. In evidence to the contrary, they removed the 'scrum' for their own Northern (League) version of Rugby because it involved some actual pain and real discomfort. Nobody else in the world rates Yorkshire or Yorkshire men like themselves. To those in the wider world, who have had the misfortune to come into proximity with them, they conjure up vague images of rain, miserable 'chip on shoulder' long faces, crass loud mouthed ignorance, ukuleles, pigeon shit and cloth caps.
Northerners in general (especially those from Lancashire) favour the artist is L S Lowry, who painted scenes of northern (often industrial) misery in a quaint childlike manner.
Not much is known of Yorkshire women. It is thought that the men do not allow them to talk, under threat of domestic violence.

Yorkshire = Hell, surely. And Yorkshire men are like Satans Oompa-Loompas

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