What can I say about Nantwich? Surrounded by pretty countryside, historic buildings abundant, friendly locals. That is until you meet the Yummy Mummy brigade. Sporting a brace of children a piece, these creatures take over the whole town until it becomes a sea of middle class insolence that only those with an iron will can stand.
The pushchairs that these people (and I use that term loosely) insist on wheeling around for their five and a half year old because “she will only throw a tantrum (more on these in a mo) if I make her walk” are actually to be used as battering rams in crowds to force those of us who have not yet bred or who have manners out of the way.
Wearing a uniform of tight ponytail with a scrunchy in a matching colour to their over tight leggings and a loose top they can often be heard using the battle cry of “Hugo / Amelia please don’t do that” whilst their spawn continue to do whatever it is that they are being told not to.
And then we come to the tantrums, these are thrown by both Yummy Mummy and offspring, usually in synchronisation. They are typified by screaming from the smaller person due to not being allowed to run riot in a coffee shop or bar and a varying degree of louder and louder sighs, ineffective reassurances and mentions of platitudes from the Yummy Mummy herself. The top one being ‘Mummy would much rather you didn’t do that, if you continue then we shall have to rethink your pony riding lesson later’.
Their battle tank, the Land Rover discovery (or for the more money conscious Yummy Mummy a Nissan Juke) can be seen badly parked in parent and child bays across the town and is often the first sign one gets that the Yummy Mummy’s are afoot.
Their female children will often grow into what is fast becoming known as a ‘Nantwich Princess’ or Yummy Mummy in training. These bleach blonde mirror images of the Yummy Mummy herself can be seen driving around the town in their Vauxhall Corsa’s applying their make-up in the process with scant regard to other road users or pedestrians. The sense of entitlement that these young ladies (loose term again) are instilled with can be a little overbearing at first. They will expect to be served first in a bar, be able to stand in front of you in Sainsbury’s and generally be first at everything because ‘you know, like, I am, like, the most important person that ever, like, lived, you know?’.
Truly these people are a blight upon Nantwich, however, if you can see past it, or buy ear defenders to at least block out the noise, Nantwich is a lovely (if slightly out of date) place to be.
Nantwich – The Great Crewe/Nantwich Divide
Winsford, once a nice, peaceful and prosperous town
Nantwich: the place that time forgot
Whitchurch (Wem): The abyss of Shropshire
Stoke-on-trent, more like Sh*thole-on-trent
Kazakhstan to Crewe – no thank you!
Blacon, Chester, where you can either take drugs, sell drugs or leave
Macclesfield: for a lass born and bred in Stockport, this place is odd
Congleton: what a place, what a disgrace!