Churchdown is a Gloucester outer-city housing estate nestling between incontinence and insanity that is home to a grey tsunami of geriatrics.
It boasts a betting shop and a funeral directors and not much else, which is not surprising given that most of its inmates are housebound, glued to daytime television and poring over articles in the Daily Mail waiting for death to take them and the merciful release from their tepid lives.
Its one claim to fame is its large underground airport which houses a members’ club and bar where grandad can slump, absent-mindedly scratching his forearms and dribbling pathetically into his barley wine while the planes crash into the walls around him.
