Slough, which recently tried to change its name to Slough-On-Thames to sound less relentlessly awful, is perhaps the most obvious example; it became a vast industrial complex during the industrial revolution, and still is...but with absolutely no cultural life to speak of, essentially being one continuous factory complex. John Betjeman's infamous poem is not about it specifically, but about it being "the menacing shape of things to come", which it was, having produced hundreds of similarly joyless towns existing only to supply workers to industrial estates and metropolises and sustain sky-high crime rates, and whose only semblance of cultural life is the local Tesco (Wal-Mart for Yanks).
Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air-conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,
Tinned minds, tinned breath.