Your typical male Chorltonite is a scruffy fellow. Despite being fairly well off, he usually dresses himself in well worn jeans, a well worn hoody and well worn shoes. The fact that most of these garments are well holed should come as no surprise. He also has unkempt, long hair that last saw scissors two or three years ago. His smile is pleasant though, and you know you could have a reasonable conversation with him about Chorltonite issues: veganism; renewable energy; nuclear power. And even if you are not interested in any of these things you wouldn't mind because, hey, this guy is harmless.
Your typical female Chorltonite is pretty much the same as the male. She buys her clothes from charity shops and she gets her hair cut by anybody who'll do it. She's definately pregnant and she wouldn't be seen dead eating meat.
The Horse and Jockey, which has the prime spot on Chorlton Green, entertains neither. Instead, it ships in its customers from far flung, snobby, hell holes such as Hale, Bowdon, Mobberly and Wilmslow.
These are the sort of men who wear designer braces; these are the sort of women who scowl when you go near them; these are the sort of people who have children called Kitty, Ditsy or Bo. Bo has a dog named Prissy. Who calls a dog that? Prissy also wears designer labels and is most distinctive by the fact that she wears them better than her owners.
These are the kinds of people who don't talk about social issues (although, if they do they'll always have the wrong opinion); these are the sort of people who talk in numbers. How much is left on the house and at what rate; how much the car cost; the size of their bonus; the number of miles they have to drive to see the mother-in-law who, of course, they hate, but hey, she has a lot of numbers to give when she dies.
In short, these people make the Horse and Jockey unbearable. And this is before the food arrives.
The food is shocking. You'll order a burger and it'll be deep fried. Only in the wildest parts of Scotland where desperation has turned people mad will a burger be deep fried. If it hasn't been deep fried then I can only imagine it has been dipped in fat before serving. What kind of maniacal brain runs the kitchen I wonder? Of course, the burger comes with chips. These appear as though they were cooked 20 years ago. They are the strangest shade of brown and they are as limp as an old man's best friend. Taste them if you dare. For a fleeting moment you'll think you have struck gold as an oil slick erupts in your mouth. But then you'll remember that this is something you have been asked to eat. To eat! How dare they put it on the plate. You'll be jealous of Prissy. You'll leave wishing you had been served her tin of dog food instead.