The Usual Whine, No Cheese

Oh, the trials and tribulations (not to mention lamentations) of living in a peaceful village in Britishland.

You see, out in the country there’s this pretty little place which all the local inhabitants dislike because it’s owned by a parvenu  couple, the Horners;  to be specific, multimillionaire Red Bull Racing boss Christian and his equally-wealthy wife Geri (a.k.a. Ginger Spice of 1990s pop sensation Spice Girls).

This would be bad enough, but the Horners do not appear to Know Their Place, and have a desire to build a swimming pool on their property — said property consists of more than a few acres of land, by the way, and includes a stable for their half-dozen horses.  (Okay, it’s a second pool, but apparently the existing indoor one is unsatisfactory because it’s too small and too far from the house.  Whatever.)

Here are some of the comments from the Local Yokels:

“Now we’re going to have to put up with months and months of noisy building work, then years of having to listen to the Horners and their friends partying day and night round the pool in the back garden.”

You have to wonder why it would take “months and months” just to install a swimming pool, but that’s probably a feature of the famed British work ethic and/or efficiency, not to mention the need for repeated (and endless) sign-offs from the village nabobs which slow the whole process to a crawl anyway.  Hardly the fault of the Horners, though.

“A second swimming pool? It’s downright greedy, isn’t it? They surely can’t need two swimming pools. Most people would settle for one, if they could.”

Yes of course we have a right to tell other people how to spend their money and what they should and shouldn’t own.  The Horners also own four cars in a two-driver household;  I’m surprised nobody’s moaned about that, yet.

“The church is only a few metres from their house and if a pool party is in full swing on a Sunday, how are we going to hear the service? I guess from now on, the vicar’s going to have to project his voice a few decibels louder.”

…for those dozen or so people who actually attend Sunday services.  And by the way, that’s a stinking lie.  The church is nearly a quarter of a mile from the house, as Horner pointed out in his permit application.

“I’ve heard this ruddy pool comes with a heat pump too, so that’s going to make a hell of racket.”

Maybe Victorian-era heat pumps were noisy, but modern ones are silent, as I noted when I was staying on Mr. Free Market’s country estate with its enormous, and heated pool.  And given the renowned British climate, it makes perfect sense to heat the pool water so that they can actually swim in the thing for more than two non-consecutive weeks of the year.

“They haven’t really integrated themselves in the village. We barely see them and when we do, they are very aloof in their manner. I’ve no time for either of them.”

Perhaps their non-involvement in village affairs is because the locals are a bunch of insular wealth-envious assholes, or maybe it’s because Mr. Horner is busy running a successful Formula 1 racing team for eleven months of the year while Mrs. Horner is performing all over the world with her band.

I mean, my dear!  These money-grubbing chavs are just Not Our Kind.  Far better to live in genteel poverty, of course.

I know that in the past I’ve often ranted about rich assholes fucking up a neighborhood just because they think they can.  And if the Horners were wanting to demolish their exquisite old country house to erect some Modernist concrete cube, I’d be on the side of the village idiots.

But a swimming pool?

“This is a beautiful village, loved for its peace and serenity. This swimming pool development goes against those values. I’m very disappointed and I urge the Horners to reconsider their plans.”

And I urge the Horners to tell these petty little people to go and fuck themselves.