THERE are neighbourhoods where only wealthy knobheads can afford to live, but oddly you’re meant to care about them. Residents of these areas can piss off:
Barely a day goes by without an update on planning law violations or trees illegally felled in this millionaires’ playground, as if their misfortunes hurt all of us. Britain’s practically all coast and if you want to live by the sea you can. Therefore these vicious pricks from a late JG Ballard novel have chosen their life of warring with twat neighbours and deserve it.
If you want to live near Harrods you’re automatically an arsehole. If you pay £65,000 for a parking space that goes double. And yet the nation is kept breathlessly up to date on those who’ve chosen to reside in an area where you can’t pop out for a pint of milk or a bottle of vape juice but can pick up a Hermes scarf on your way home.
Alone among the breaktaking hills of the North West, Cheshire is as flat as a plate of piss. It has nothing to recommend it other than that, which is presumably why those who have shitloads of money but are too artificially orange for the South buy enormous houses to enjoy views where the horizon ends three fields away.
Surrey is not really a place so much as between places. Elmbridge, where so many monied dickheads hang their Prada baseball caps it’s known as Britain’s Beverley Hills, is like its Californian counterpart in that residents sit there, in big houses, living on old glories. John Terry’s one of them, if that gives you a feel for the local community.
Not all of it, obviously, but even half of the Trainspotting locations have been wankerfied by now. Contractually required to be well-heeled to provide a contrast to Glasgow, these select areas of Edinburgh are populated by Scots so elevated in their own estimation they sneer at most of England. But try painting your door pink and see how radge they go.