Wilmslow is by no means as dreadful as some of the towns on this site, but awful in its own way. Wilmslow has several different groups; descendants of “Old Wilmslow” meaning those whose family were here before 1940, successful boomers who moved here in the 60s and 70s usually from not far away and bought lovely Victorian/pre WWII houses, generation Xers and Yers a sort of later boomer who bought the gerry built (badly by a large well known International Builder) cookie cutter houses and lately London exiles whose previous bedroom earned more than they did.
The well to do boomers, Gen X and descendants mostly sent their kids to private schools easing the pressure on the local overflowing High School that jumps on every grant going from “sports specialist” to special needs. If blowing your own trumpet was an Olympic sport, it would be a gold medalist. [The School] also brags incessantly about how many kids it gets into Oxbridge, totally ignoring the fact that most of them spent their formative years at private school only to take up places in the sixth form when the “failures” are unceremoniously booted out. The irony of having so many “failures” goes right over their heads. Bullying is [not] rife, usually by the those from a mile north. The school [definitely does not] lie and obfuscate on the subject but [never] ***** itself when parents threaten to involve plod [because for legal reasons we have to say that never happens, before we get a snotty email from the school]. However one [imaginary, lot more of this to come – Ed] guy solved the problem of his daughter’s bully by throttling him with his own tie and telling him that a violent home visit would follow if it continued.
Boomers and Gen X
Mostly gentille, polite (very, according to overseas visitors, especially Germans and, rather obviously, Australians) and rarely venture out on a Friday and Saturday evening. Often the first of their family to attend what in those days was a genuine University.
Often living in rented with a couple of cars outside worth nearly as much as the house and constantly moan they can’t afford to buy.
Usually a condescending, arrogant, right on bunch who obviously never came from London originally but went there for or post “Uni”. The Brussels Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) has a lot to do with this and this bunch of ****wits have totally ruined Chorlton and Didsbury. They tend to flee the horrors of London as their brats approach secondary school age compounding the problems at the high school as they believe the hype that it is really good and there is no need for private education. They generally seem bemused when told to ***k of back to the sh*thole they came from or London.
I am surrounded by the them. These tw*** often have one of those expensive purple dogs with a face like Jerry has just smacked it with a frying pan or a yelping Cockerpoo. With little success so far I am trying to get an African wild dog to chew up the little ***kers.
In the postwar years, the same social experiment that ruined many a market town was inflicted on Wilmslow. Three large estates of social housing were built to the north, for locals to start with and then for the overspill of the overspill of Manchester. This lowered the tone for many years culminating in the construction of a new dole office on the opposite side of Wilmslow in prime high street premises at large rent to the aforementioned large builder. This meant the inhabitants of the social housing estates could shop lift their way there and back once a week with their bull terrier ******** everywhere.
Although from only a mile or so away the fake label market clobber, crossed eyes, odd shaped heads, bitten fingernails, food stains, feral kids, vicious dog, drug twitch and of course being out and about during the day as they are unemployable gives them away. More recently house building on green belt has grown. Not the houses we need for first time buyers of course but 3 – 5 bedroom horrors and over priced “retirement” apartments. Rather wonderfully a greedy London outfit (with the connivance of the local council who “owned the land”) has bunged up pile of these flats close to the town centre and can’t flog them or even rent them. Not surprising with £6000pa service charge. Karma!!
No local hard men
We are lucky not to have the “local hard man/families” as the few that were around have mainly gone thanks to early death due to **********, drugs, alcohol or prison. Sadly the local characters have mainly gone too including “Deaf Kev” who had a ***** childhood somewhat salvaged by having several tough brothers. Kev worked on the bins for many years then as a security guard (out of benevolence I suspect) and in the evenings was always immaculate with blazer, tie and freshly ironed shirt. He liked several pints (20+) on a good night and his bagpipe impersonation with a bar stool was brilliant. When his birthday stripper gram whipped his **** with a riding crop and his false teeth shot out it was a sight to behold. RIP Kev.
The Town Centre
The town centre (cruelly lampooned by Clarkson and the sadly missed Adrian Gill, who thought he was David Livingstone if he ventured more than 10 miles from London’s Ivy) is the usual mix of sad national chains with a few hardworking independents and plenty of empty units. Most commercial buildings are fairly dilapidated with upper floor maintenance ignored with foliage and leaking drain pipes. A little bit of culture arrived a year or so ago when an enterprising couple reopened the cinema which shut 25 years ago. They have done a wonderful job and I wish them every success.
There are more than 30 places to buy an overpriced coffee, several “charidee shops” that encourage out of town scavengers hoping to find a designer bargain, a clutch of generally poor, overpriced eateries and many, many beauty salons turning out clones with straight blond hair, orange faces, trout pouts and multi coloured talons.
These clones wear gym gear from morning till bedtime many never venturing near a gym and their only exercise is hauling themselves up into the large Chelsea tractor hubby has rented for them and carrying the over large fake (sometimes genuine) Louis Vuitton bag full of makeup. The look on their little faces when the neighbour’s hubby has scraped the deposit for the rental on a Bentayga and they have to make do with the “Rangey” is a sight to behold.
These females are aged between mid 20s and well preserved 40s and 50s (who after divorce spend their alimony chasing young boys in nearby “Elderley Edge” as the boys call it and memorably referred to as being “full of fake t*ts and real a**eholes”) and most have never worked apart from a spell answering the phone in a estate agents, hairdressers or beauty salon and couldn’t earn enough to fuel the aforementioned Chelsea tractors.
Their hubbies are generally a sociable bunch who enjoy their occasional escape from their demanding spouses although many get infected by mixing at a local golf club. Hotbeds of knobbery. Many have little formal education but have done very well at double glazing, alarms, accident management, PPI claims companies, estate agencies etc. The “educated” are in law, meeja, IT and loads in parasitic recruitment. These types drone on about wine, expensive restaurants, Barbados, their “exec” seats at Old Trafford or the Etihad (means United in Arabic, for a laugh put “empty seats” into google maps search), bloody golf, and their orange wives expensive tacky taste.
They are often obsessed with supercars and the (very enjoyable) loud roar of exhaust on the bypass at the weekends is very welcome especially as it upsets the do gooding virtue signallers. Their sprogs are generally a good bunch and I regularly chat to the A-level kids that come in my local. Some very smart, those are usually at MGS, CHS, Kings Mac or Withington/Man High although the high school also has a few. I despair at some of the **** they believe told to them by climate obsessed lefty teachers and their sad belief that three years doing a second class degree at a third rate Uni will secure their future. Apparently one of them went to vote in December and asked why Magic Grandpa’s name wasn’t on the list as they had been told to vote for him!!! The local lowlifes, dealers, thugs etc. are known to all and roundly despised.
Peace at last
One high spot is August. Most jet off to Majorcoh, Marbelloh, Dubai (ye gods man) or their caravan on the Warren in Abersoch (truly the biggest collection of knobbers in one place in the world) and the peace descends. When I finally leave (hopefully a year or two at most) I may well holiday here in August.
Day time in Wilmslow is predictable. All the surrounding streets clogged with the parked cars of workers from out of town who will buy a Starbucks but refuse to pay to park. Streets busy with elderly and the orange women. Saturdays clogged with punters buying sh*te and dragging their kids and purple dogs with them, females with the permanently attached phone in one hand in case they miss the latest story from their yakking mates.
We don’t tend to have adults in sleeping attire shopping here although many take their kids in pyjamas, but the Tesco just down the road in Handforth (a once lovely little village totally ruined by social housing) is full of dressing gowns in the mornings.
Saturday night is different. Hoards of happy punters boozed and drugged up with the youngsters heading to the misnamed Revolution and the older lot to Symposium. I am
reliably [completely falsely] informed [i.e. probably a rumour I heard from my early 60s Farage-fan mate and 10am-drinker in my local chain pub, who lives alone in a bedsit after dumping his wife (who now feels free) and steals the pubs bog roll to take home, you know, that guy] that sexual favours are easily obtained should a line of charlie be made available and, judging by the number of pairs of knickers to be found in the car park behind “Revs” on a Sunday morning, this seems [like something I can’t legally speculate about given it is based on a falsehood] or maybe the girls just don’t like wearing them after a few Jaeger bombs and shots. These nights end up with some out of town low lifes having a punch up outside the kebab shop then racing home in their souped up Hondas/Corsas.
A Sunday morning stroll to get a paper means dodging pizza boxes, half eaten kebabs, broken glass, piles of puke and the dog t*rds left by the early morning dog walkers.
All in all by no means the worst place to live but it’s all relative.