Before I start piling on the insults, let me just say I actually DO really like Cheltenham. It’s got a lot going for it; beautiful regency architecture, a great restaurant scene, lovely parks etc.
It isn’t the town itself that I wish to shame, but the sorry excuses for human beings that live and breed within it. If ever a town summed up what is wrong with the English middle class; it is Cheltenham.
Firstly, the town is plagued by one of the nation’s largest populations of yummy mummies. On any given day, you will find yourself lost in a sea of Joules Sweaters and Barbour Jackets, the smell of lattes invading your nostrils.
The swarms of yummy mummies frequent the many coffee shops along the promenade, and can often be overheard complaining to each other about how tired they are, despite having never worked a day in their lives. Occasionally you will see them so deep in conversation (probably about avocados), all the while failing to notice that the pram containing their baby is rolling slowly into oncoming traffic on the adjacent road.
You can tell a yummy mummy by the names they give their children. Cheltenham is the domain of the Nathaniel, the Isaac and the Hugo. The Annabelle, the Clementine and the Emily. This is in sharp contrast to Gloucester, just 10 minutes down the road, where all the kids are called Jayden or Mohammed.
Opposite the latte licking Kirsty Allsop lookalikes, the atmosphere is ruined further still by the dreadful wailing of some spotty teenager outside of Cavendish House pretending to be Ed Sheeran. I believe cattle prods should be made available to citizens who wish to put an end to their disgusting noise.
Another feature of Cheltenham’s leafy promenade is the many businessmen rushing between the offices and the coffee shops. At first glance they give the town an air of success. Blue suits and leather briefcases are surely a sign of prosperity? Well, look a little closer and you will see most of these businessman are so old they belong in a care home, with many suffering from chronic dandruff and halitosis. Not so classy after all.
The large Waitrose on the edge of town draws in the smug couples of Cheltenham like moths to a flame. You get all kinds of rubbish in this particular branch of Waitrose. There are the old geezers who are probably very rich but actually dress like they live on the street, often with nasal hair down to their ankles. There are of course the yummy mummies whom we have already discussed in fine detail, and then you have the working class wannabes; those who like to pretend they can afford to buy their groceries at Waitrose, but probably have to go home and pawn their settee (and possibly even their children) after doing a weekly food shop there.
Finally, I would like to name and shame another group of whom I detest; the sassy young ‘professionals’.
There are 2 types of these, the over-the-top go getters and the dumb blondes. I once attended an interview at a recruitment agency (when I foolishly considered a move to Cheltenham), and the woman who interviewed me was a nightmare. She spoke so fast I think she actually managed to cram in every word in the English dictionary into the space of just 2 minutes. Her smile was relentless, bordering on creepy, how does someone maintain a smile for so long without getting muscle spasms? Not to mention the unbroken eye contact which left me feeling as if I had just been interrogated for a multiple **** rather than a job interview.
Then you have the other end of the spectrum, the blonde airheads strutting around Montpellier in their cheap heels, clutching a folder in one hand and a Costa cup in the other; sure they look the part, but ask one of them where the nearest bus stop is and you will be greeted with an open mouth, a blank stare and possibly even some drool.
So, if you like eating quinoa, driving BMW’s, giving your children goofy names or just generally behaving like a smug ****, move to Cheltenham.
Evesham – most women wouldn’t think twice about nicking your husband!
Churchdown – a final resting place
Northleach: an olde worlde smokescreen masking drugs, depression & squalor
Evesham, It’s the worst of the worst no doubt about it.
Cheltenham: As posh as a pot noodle
Winchcombe: Where Pinot Grigio and Pitch Forks are de rigueur