Northleach is a traditional Cotswold village nestled covertly within the boundaries of sleepy mid-Gloucestershire. Populated with a combination of foot-faced, monosyllabic, grunting, inbred miscreants and Times reading oversized rugby shirt and waxed jacket clad London f*ckwits, this place is truly the quaint, hanging basket capital of Britain. Growing up in this trap of a place you fast come to realise the whole town is a sham. A facade of sugared happiness coated in honey, when in reality it’s nothing more than a haven for the over-privileged, under-sexed, self infatuated mother f*****s of middle England. A town built on lurid swinging parties, cheap lies and chino trousers.
Preconceived conversations at the local bakery about your springer spaniel and how your son Hugo is getting on at Loughborough Uni (he has a coke habit) in your best ‘born into money’ accent before climbing into your inconsiderately parked 15 year old land rover are all part of the tedious monotony of daily life here. The belligerent old moose in the post office with the glasses precariously balanced on the tip of her nose, the overpriced water colour paintings of the local vistas sold from Fothergill’s gallery, the mechanical music museum run by the [allegedly] de-closeted homosexual that nobody goes to because he’s weird; all classic examples of this olde worlde smokescreen masking the underbelly of drug consumption, depression and squalid inbreeding in this rural s**t tip.
Life here is a spurious decent into backbiting and competition. Curtain twitching hags claw at their stone mullion windows like dying ravens, snotty nosed sewer mouthed kids casually pick the road kill from the A40 for their dinner whilst money minded Londonites drunkenly laugh the pancetta-wrapped monkfish and Pino Grigio from their mouths in one of Northleach’s recently renovated pistachio and cacao tinted brasserie style eateries. The chavs generally dress themselves in a gaudy oversized checked shirt, Lee jeans bought from the market in Moreton and a Burberry baseball cap that, for all intents and purposes, will be what they’ll be using to collect the change thrown at them when their pointless lives fall into a vortex of despair and drug addiction and they find themselves begging on the streets of Cirencester.
Once a bustling market town, the centre of Britain’s wool trade, Northleach is now a hapless, futile morgue that deserves nothing more than to be cast into the eternal flames of hell. The butchers, however, is excellent.