It's not all tweed jackets, 4x4 vehicles and jam-packed with middle class wankers intent on fiddling their annual tax returns. There's also a small but visible underclass who reside there. I visited one amongst them yesterday but he wasn't home. Sure enough he was soon located at one of the drinking dens along the town's High Street.
The joint was populated by an afternoon crew of reprobates supping real ales with quirky names.
"Hands up those of you who believe Sludge is a rotter," I exclaimed. Everyone lifted an arm immediately. I turned to the person whose hand went up first and reached highest. "Sludge," I asked, "have you no shame?"
He spent the next hour or so lingering near the bar ogling the barmaid's knockers.
