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This is a question Neighbours

I used to live next door to a pair of elderly naturists, only finding out about their hobby when they bade me a cheerful, saggy 'Hello' while I was 25 feet up a ladder repairing the chimney. Luckily, a bush broke my fall, but the memory of a fat, naked man in an ill-fitting wig will live with me forever.

(, Thu 1 Oct 2009, 12:41)
Pages: Latest, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Blue Rinse Dragons Part II
This will make more sense if you can be bothered with this Blue Rinse Dragons Part I

The wispy apparition of the Lingerie Lady of the Line obviously represented a sort of lace trimmed gauntlet to the old bats. Stalls had been set out, battle lines drawn. This first became evident when they started to mow further and further into my lawn. The old buggers were quite literally cutting my grass. They always conspired together, frantically rushing around the garden in tartan slippers, always at dusk - one mowing, one cable bashing. I’m not a petty man; well I am actually so clearly this was going escalate.

The flats had a white slatted fence about 6 feet high at the division point of the properties, but this barely extended onto the back lawn – 20 feet at most. Whereas the lawn stretched a good 50 or more feet further off into the distance. To make matters worse my side was an end terrace so I had another large garden area and parking for 3 cars at the side of my place. They had no such luxury, so this was probably an issue of hot contention for them too, even though neither of them had cars.

The wonky line that veered further into my lawn, now twice a week during the height of summer, was getting on my tits. Then plastic bottles filled with water started appearing everywhere. I had to ask – to which I was informed with the sort of confident air in such matters that only David Attenborough should have access to…

‘The bottles keep YOUR cats out of our garden’
‘Eh?’
‘Their reflection, it scares them off’
‘Does it really? How ingenious!’

I said this while casually observing over her shoulder my tortoiseshell moggie Chloe. She was lying on her back in a distinctly louche manner lazily prodding one of the plastic bottles. I had also at one stage witnessed one of the old trouts propping up a few house bricks against the fence at the far end of the garden. On further enquiry I was informed (incredulously as though I was an utter cretin):

‘It keeps cats out – cats are too lazy to climb fences’

But it was the lawn thing that really pissed on my pizza. So one Saturday morning, courtesy of HSS Hire, the sort of ubermower that Wembley groundskeepers have pictures of, have taped inside their lockers, arrived on a trailer. One very noisy hour later the lawn was like a fucking pinstripe Savile Row suit specified in lurid green.

I knew however the wine from this sweet victory would soon run dry. So the following weekend they were in for another little surprise.

If you ever need to put up a fence really fucking fast - then I suggest you check out these guys. www.metpost.co.uk/

When the bloke arrived from B&Q to deliver my order I got him to leave the posts, 16 pound sledgehammer, fence panels, clips and other related paraphernalia stacked up ominously in the back garden. Then I went for a pint.

By the time I came back they were out in the deckchairs perched on the vehemently disputed border, knitting - knitting long polymer strands of pure black clicking hatred. An empty crisp packet blew across the garden like tumbleweed. A lone crow mocked the scene from its gallery on the rooftops. I stubbed my cigarette onto the lawn, dead on the borderline. Grinding it in with my foot I squinted into the sunlight, and snarled...

‘Can't hang around ladies, things to do’

Whang – the first metal post spike pierced the lawn and plunged into the soft black loam like a javelin through a badly coordinated Olympic official. It was like pushing candles into a birthday cake. A few taps on the wooden post with the sledgehammer, couple of clips here and there, and low! The first birch lap, pressure-treated panel was up. At 6 foot it was considerably taller than me, and these old biddies were struggling to hit 5 foot in two pairs of support hose. And there it was, a magnificent all seeing Pagan monolith draping its cold malevolent shadow deep into their chintzy territory.

They went absolutely, vein-popping, batshit mental. Literally running in and out of their flats, shouting insults from upper windows.

‘You can’t do that, this is private property’ one shrieked.
‘Yes it is, and this half is mine' I smiled sweetly.
‘You don’t own it; I’m phoning Mrs Cantremeberhername (my landlady).’
‘No need, I have in writing from her that she approves of the fence, would you care to see?'.
‘You need planning permission’
‘I don’t’
‘You do’
‘I don’t – it is classed a temporary structure, and as it is less than 7 feet in height therefore I don’t need permission from anyone except the landowner – which I have’
‘It’s on the wrong boundary’
‘Not according to this copy of the deeds (flip, flap, unfold) – care to see? In fact I’m sorry to be the one to tell you but that part of the end of the garden is also actually mine – right up to the back fence’

She was fucking apoplectic by this point – the bit at the bottom of the garden was her favourite spot for deckchair surveillance – it actually looked into my living room.

Then her son arrived.

‘Tell him Malcolm, TELL HIM’

I explained the situation to the clearly long suffering bloke. He apologised and gave me his number in case I needed it. Then smiled weakly as he tried to assure her it was not a police matter and I was not deliberately destroying the value of her property. So I continued to put the line of fence panels up at an impressive rate. The mad old witch now had to be physically held back by her son. Then the other old bint who had been quieter up till now suddenly opened her upper window and screamed…

‘You’re not even married it’s disgusting’
‘Why don’t we elope?' I suggested. 'Blue hair really does it for me?'

As the last panel went up I stood back and took stock. Just as I was about to pop another beer I heard a clattering from the mad old bats garden shed. Then perched on ancient stepladders, craning and wobbling awkwardly around the last panel, I saw a frazzled mop of blue hair attached to an alarmingly purple face glaring round the fence – so far down the garden I struggled at first to see which poisonous harridan was there screeching the now immortal line...

‘I can still SEE you you know! I can still SEE….’

I can only assume at that point the ramifications of a person of advancing years clambering onto an antique ladder suddenly became distinctly apparent to the old bitch.

I moved out 18 years ago. Fence is still there though.
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 0:56, 19 replies)
Albert the Knob
My area's a bit of a croak estate, so it's full of oldies with nothing better to do than find things to complain about.

Unfortunately next door to me is an old Scottish twat and his wife.
He constantly complains about anything, even though my wife and I are out all day and give him no reason.

He complained once that some branches of my tree were overhanging his garden (by around 2 feet I think, about 25 feet up). He said he'd consulted the C.A.B. and was within his rights to cut them off. I would have done it for him, but after that I let the crippled 70-year-old do it himself.

Anyhow, I built a nice big 12'x12' brick shed at the end of my garden, and felt the rough, unpainted, offcut adored side facing him needed something to finish it off. So I put this on the apex;

4.bp.blogspot.com/_T27jvCPoJf4/SkN76kUgoTI/AAAAAAAAb1E/P8i7Gz0FHL0/s1600-h/SHED_P1010682_crop.JPG

It's been up for a while now. My wife suggested I pained it pink, but that wouldn't be subtle enough, would it. I want it to slowly dawn on him...
(, Thu 1 Oct 2009, 14:43, 21 replies)
Blue Rinse Dragons Part I
When I left college moving back in with my folks just didn’t seem like the thing to do, but back then Mrs Spimf and I didn't feel ready to move in together, even though we practically lived together. So I found a flat to rent close to where she lived. It was a nice area with four in block post-war council houses with generous gardens. Most had been bought by the tenants and as a result were well maintained by the owners; quiet, leafy suburbia.

The flat in question was leased to me by a nice couple who had bought it for their elderly mother hoping to make a killing on it when she died, granny it would seem helped them by apparently smoking herself to death but left them with a slight problem – they couldn’t sell the place so soon after buying it due to some loophole in the ‘buy your council flat’ scheme. Old puffin’ grandma had ensured the interiors were yellower than northern social club toilet. The décor was horrendous too. Lurid swirly carpets – and I do mean carpets plural, as I discovered when I decided to sand the floors – I lifted three carpets all on top of each other in the hall, you could fucking limbo under the gap between door and floor. But my reluctant new landlords kindly said if I wanted to strip out all the granny crap and redecorate they would pay for it – splendid!

The only blot on the horizon was the two chintzy, blue rinsed old dragons that lived next door. They had been there for decades so their normality must have been shattered by the death of their neighbour who had lived there for donkeys years. I was sensitive to this and was as friendly and courteous as could be, but it wasn’t long before the barbed remarks began. One day I was in the back garden stripping 40 years worth of layered paint and nicotine off the doors - I had taken them off the hinges and removed the nasty plywood panels people were so keen on in the 50’s. Obviously this would meet with firm disapproval. So no real surprise when from the corner of my eye I caught a garish splash of floral polyester. They had a habit of appearing stealthily like some incontinent ninja brigade. They were standing silently, side by side, like a horribly shrivelled version of the twins form The Shining. A few pleasantries were exchanged – then it came…

“So you don’t work do you?”
“Well no, I’ve just finished an honours degree and I am looking for a job in my field but there is a pretty major recession on”

This was back in the early 90’s, it might not be the global crisis we're in now but the UK was seriously fucked back then, nevertheless I was immediately assigned as ‘workshy’.

But I continued to be cheery, cleared the overgrown gardens, lifted the hallucinogenic carpets, sanded the floors and decorated the place from top to bottom - whilst also applying for jobs, you know - workshy. During which time they closely monitored my EVERY move. If I went into the back garden they would immediately appear, set up deckchairs, plonk themselves down and knit with sustained and intense fury – never once taking their little beady eyes off me. It started raining lightly one day so they simply moved the deckchairs into their shed – left the door open and continued the surveillance!

If I went out they were there at the window. Even if I returned in the dead of night with marshmallows strapped to my feet, in an instant they were at the curtains, like crumpled little lavender fuelled rockets. Eventually I found a job. So they quickly turned their attentions to my relationship with my girlfriend.

“So you’re not married ARE YOU?” they chimed in unison with their powdery bunched-up little faces.

The curtain twitching would go into a frenzy anytime my girlfriend arrived. It was a warm summer so I’d often have the barbecue on the go of an evening. But as soon as I lit the damn thing the same routine would begin: they would make a huge deal out of slamming all their windows shut then rush out to take in their washing tutting and muttering. I should point out the washing that was about 40 feet away down their side of the garden and well up wind from my tiny barbeque.

At this point they were still pretending to be civil towards us but it was simply a ploy to pump us for more information. We went away for the weekend once and when we returned there they were to ‘greet’ us.

“Oh hello” (little matching saccharine smiles) “been away have we?”
“Yes nice weekend in a wee hotel up north” (more scrunched up faces)
“Did you leave in a hurry?”
“Eh?”
“In a hurry - on Friday? It’s just we noticed you didn’t do your dishes”

The nosey old bats had been in my bloody back garden peering through my kitchen window!

“We don’t see much of her (my girlfriend) during the week do we”

My girlfriend worked away a lot during the week but in this I spotted an opportunity for mischief…

“Yes well she spends the weekends with me but during the week she lives with her husband… and the kids, nice bloke. Black fella”

Eyes like fucking saucers!

Then one day they made some comment about hanging out laundry. From what I could gather they had certain days for washing and somehow expected me to adhere to this bizarre ritual. This and the constant prying about my girlfriend gave me an idea.

The following day I waited till they toddled off to wherever the public hanging was that day. Then I hung my washing out, sat in the garden, lit the barbecue, opened a beer and waited for their return. I even took my shirt off for good measure. It was at this point I really wished I had some tattoos. Soon enough I heard their respective front doors slam, counted to 5 and turned around - sure enough there they were peering out their windows. Clearly they couldn’t get a close enough look from there so out came the deckchairs.

They sat in complete silence staring at the spectacle of my laundry billowing in the summer breeze. Next to my usual array of jeans and shirts I had hung some of my girlfriends laundry items. With considerable skill I had carefully pegged one of her laciest prettiest bras to the line. Then below the bra (with some clever use of pegs) hung a matching suspender belt which in turn supported a tiny wispy little pair of panties and of course a pair of sheer lacy topped black stockings that waved lazily in the breeze, like a very thin lady running in slow motion.

“Hello ladies, lovely day!” I waved cheerily.

If they could have pursed their little faces up anymore they’d have turned them inside out. Vicious old bats.

Blue Rinse Dragons Part II
(, Thu 1 Oct 2009, 14:13, 8 replies)
Hot & Dirty Safe Sex
Thinking about it, a hundred-or-so people have seen my cock over the years. And some of them - a pitifully small percentage of those people – actually wanted to see my throbbing cervix scratcher; whereas the others sort of had it thrust upon them...

On the road one time in my job as a travelling salesman, I was staying in a Travelodge somewhere in Shropshire. It was one of those courtyard jobs – the type you can see loads of windows of the other guests if you happened to be looking out the window. And this was just what I was up to – late at night, about 2 am, having rifled through the room for any porn some kind soul may have left behind and finding fuck all, I found myself with my head stuck out the open window having a cheeky fag.

It was quiet. Dead. It was a weeknight and the place was almost empty (who the fuck chooses to go to Shropshire?), so I was happily sucking on a cancer stick and surverying the courtyard below. It was dark. It was peaceful. I was bored almost to fucking tears and considering binding my happysack with my belt and shoving an orange in my gob for something to do.

Then, across the courtyard, a light came on. I looked up and saw her. A beautiful – correction - a half-decent-looking – correction - well, a woman. She was stood in her window, apparently gazing out at the courtyard in much the same way I was doing. And she was completely fucking starkers. My hand instantly reached for my knob, an impulse, a reflex reaction. Then I suddenly remembered I had the light on in my room. Fuck – she can see me!!! I can’t just have a bit of super-special-solo-happy-time. She’d see me. And more importantly, I might get arrested.

Then this woman’s gaze appeared to settle on....

... oh, fuck...

...on me.

She was staring right at me, the gentle summer’s breeze playing through her long dark hair. Her fullsome breasts with deep, dark super 3D nipples heaving in the moonlight. And the weird thing was she didn’t move. She didn’t draw back and turn the light off, or at least cover up her wabs. No, she just stood there, regarding me with a serene look on her – actually quite beautiful face. And this is how we remained for several more heartbeats. Her gazing at my face, me gazing at her tits.

Then a thought struck me - she wants me to look at her!!! (Ok, I admit it; I’m not the sharpest tool in the box but I tend to get there in the end).

I allowed my hand to slip down to my groin, I rubbed the wee chap for a bit, feeling him straining against the fabric of my trousers like a zepplin trying to escape from under a blanket. I felt a sharp pain in my other hand, fuck, the fag had burned down to my fingers. Flicking the stub away, I slowly and as sexily as I could manage after spending most of my considerable food allowance in the Beefeater next door, undid several buttons on my shirt. Still the woman, my kinky nightime accomplice, my partner for the evening, gazed back at me.

Fuck it, I thought. She’s showing me the goods, its only fair to reciprocate. So I speedily loosened and lowered my kegs and stood there at full mast, feeling the gentle kiss of the almost celestial summer’s breeze kissing and lapping at my balls.

And then I had a wank.

And then, suddenly bored and wanting to watch footie and eat pizza, I waved goodbye to this lovely lady (she probably wouldn’t have been so lovely if she wasn’t starkers, but there you go), I drew the curtains and went to bed.

It was bloody awkward the next day when I went to settle the bill. The lady from the night before was checking out at the same time. Someone was with her; fuck, her husband!!! I silently whimpered and came close to filling my pants with stinky arsewater. Then she turned and I got a good look at her. And I very nearly properly shat my pants. I felt something strange, something odd, something I don’t feel very often – I felt DIRTY....

I felt like the biggest shit in the world. But then I redeemed myself, I made sure I stepped out of the way as she walked passed.

It’s the only right and proper thing to do when someone’s tapping away at the ground infront of them with a long white cane....
(, Thu 1 Oct 2009, 13:36, 9 replies)
Page 3
I was about 14 - and a bubbling cauldron of adolescent hormones - when a well known glamour model of the time moved in briefly next door.

The first I knew about it was when I saw her lying on a sun lounger in her back garden one summer day. She was wearing a bikini that struggled to hold in her ample DD charms and was in the process of lathering her perfect skin with some manner of oily unguent. Before you you could say 'Kleenex', I had my urgent young schlong firmly in hand and was rubbing one out with humming-bird velocity. The mere sight of a real life page-three girl just a few metres from my bedroom window was just too much to bear.

But things got better.

In those days, I would do odd jobs for neighbours for a bit of extra cash. I was round to hers early next morning to ask if she needed any windows cleaning, bush trimmed or lawn munched (an unfortunate Freudian slip that she missed). She looked piteously at my spotty teenage face and masturbation-induced anaemia and said she'd think of a few jobs for the following day. I rushed home and wanked myself into semi-lameness while remembering the slight shadow of a nipple under her shirt.

The very next day I was cleaning her windows when I heard a scream from inside. I ran round to the front door and knocked but there was no answer. Again, a scream. So I tried the door and walked inside.

"Are you OK?" I squeaked, acheiving the kind of boner that could drill a hole in an oak dining table.

"Come quick!" she called (and I almost did, right there and then.)

Well, she was in the bath. Naked. Her creamy, pneumatic body was slick and shiny in the dying bubbles, and her nipples were hard. I could not help but notice a total lack of hair about her pubic region, for she did not attempt to cover herself. My boner began to vibrate. By now, the slightest breath of air across its bulging tip would have sent forth a geyser of gushing jizz.

"A spider!" she yelped, pointing to the ceiing. "I'm terrified of them. Please - get rid of it. Please!"

The arachnoid in question was tiny. I looked at the girl's quivering form: her open lips, her startled eyes, her gravity-defying breasts and I almost passed out with the effort of not filling my y-fronts with steaming ejaculate.

Bravely, I reached up and mashed the spider with a dirty palm... whereupon it dropped into the bathwater. My nude damsel wailed in fear, so I thrust my hand into the still warm water and made a grab for the watery corpse. Alas, she had put some kind of oily bathtime moisturiser in the water and my hand skated off the enamel up between her legs, stopping just in time... but with the back of my hand veritably kissing the silken lips of her much-dreamed-of labii.

She paused. I paused. She looked down. I looked down. The slight pressure of those delicate lips against the back of my hand became the only thing in that steamy bathroom.

And my face twisted in a goggle-eyed rictus of combined humiliation and ecstasy as I pumped a cupload of pent-up semen into my pants.

I never cleaned her windows again, and she never sunbathed in the garden again. But I have continued to abuse myself over the years with the fond memory of that brief moment we shared all those years ago.
(, Sat 3 Oct 2009, 20:40, 22 replies)
Time warp
When I was a bloody student the last of our student rents was actually a nice house (the other 2 were so stupendously rough it would be rude to shitholes to call them shitholes)

It was in a quiet cul-de-sac and when we moved in a load of kids were playing football in the street. So me and one of my house mates went out and had a kick about with them. We had loads of fun. This happened fairly regularly

When it was hot in May we had a massive street-wide water fight. Our kitchen & bathroom being used for refills (the mums weren't happy about loads of wet kids running in and out their houses fucking up their carpets) once again we had loads of fun.

Later that year I was studying for my finals and the doorbell rang, I went and answered it. One of the kids form the street was there holding a football

"Can you come out and play?"
awwwww so sweeeet so I said "Sorry my mum wont let me" which was sort of true because I needed to pass my degree or my mum would have been furious ;o)
(, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 12:54, 6 replies)
Rocky
When I was 15 years old, my parents decided that we needed an exchange student. Upon receiving a dossier full of potential new temporary siblings, my sister and I did what any teenage girls would do: we chose the cutest one.

We lived in the most backwards sliver of cow-fingering Northern Michigan. My parents were educated people, but the town was full of the yee-haw gelatinous hillbillies in Nascar t-shirts cloaked in a film of crystal meth, comprised of 2 parts human and 98 parts gesticulating feces. This was the place where the only black man in town was shot in the stomach. We had the highest rates of child poverty and child abuse in the nation. This was a real winner of a place.

The Swede arrived, as handsome as expected. As conversation flowed, it was revealed that he was a serious member of the wealthy bourgeoisie – his mother was an MP and his father a millionaire giant of industry. The Swede was, as one might expect, a fish out of water. My hometown was the perfect antithesis to the privileged socialism to which he had become accustomed.

At the end of his stay, his parents decided to visit. My parents were keen to show that we weren’t Hitlerlusting inbred cretins, but rather hard working members of America’s heartland. My mother repainted much of the house, the garden was full of flowers, thicker books received more prominent positions in the bookcase – my parents were ready. We were proud of being small town folk, and gosh darned it, didn’t the house just sparkle.

We sat down for the first dinner around the table, the menu of which I’ve long since forgotten. I spied the fat neighbour boy, Rocky (for that was actually his name), creeping through the front garden. I saw The Swede’s parents lift eyes and follow this root vegetable of a human being…

Then Rocky pulled down his trousers and shat in our front garden, like a dog.
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 9:58, 12 replies)
My house backs onto a field
and last week, a group of around 16 travelling people, housed in just two caravans, moved into the field. I kept a close eye on them as I know they have a reputation for robbing, vandalism, physical and mental abuse,hosting dog fights and not washing. I took the liberty of recording a diary of events that happened, and this is just one extract:

8am: I was woken rather abruptly by shouting coming from behind my house. On looking out of the window I saw two large caravans parked up in the farmers’ field. Numerous flea ridden dogs were barking at one another, kids were throwing stones at cars as they drove past and there were adults sat idly around smoking, and drinking strong lager. I also witnessed a 30-something year old lady squatting over a bucket and releasing a torrent of what I can only describe as ‘gravy’. The pikeys have officially landed.

8.10am: I had to duck down quickly as one of the main pikey men saw me spying. I burnt my forehead on the radiator and had to apply a damp flannel. I held this in place with a bulldog clip attached to my fringe so I had both hands at the ready, should I need to use them. The children were called by the elder lot for breakfast and they sat round a fire under a gazebo to eat.

8.20am: The gazebo caught alight and in turn set fire to one of the older, slower dogs. 3 men and a teenage boy threw the burning remnants of both the dog and the gazebo over the fence of a neighbour who lives 2 door down from me. Luckily, it landed in the pond. I went down for breakfast; poached egg on toast.

8.50am: I saw two pikey girls aged around 16 jacking up behind one of the caravans. One appeared to have a small goatee beard. I wondered if they could be part of a circus. My thoughts were interrupted with the sight of one dog tearing a rabbit to shreds, whilst the rest of the pikey clan whooped and cheered with joy. The rabbit was then skinned and given to the children to play with. They used it a football. One boy kicked it with such force, the rabbit liver shot out and landed on the roof of one of the caravans.

9.35am: Numerous beer cans littered the field now. I contemplated phoning the police but thought I’d observe a little longer. 3 of the younger children decided to drop their trousers and bare their backsides to me. All 3 had worms, I could see them dangly free quite clearly, even at a distance. One of the younger pikeys pulled one free and hurled it into my back garden. It seemed to stretch out as it flew through the air.

9.45am: I moved into the back garden to get a closer look. I have a nice peep hole in the back fence. Music was now blaring from the make shift camp site, it sounded like that new rave techno shit all the kids seem to be listening to nowadays. I accidentally trod on the tapeworm. It was slippery and of a rubbery texture. It looked like a cross between a condom and a jellyfish but smelt like Swindon. I nearly vomited but managed to contain it which caused a burning sensation in my stomach.

10.00am: The lady who I had previously seen relieving herself in a bucket ran over to one of her friends, who was sat upright on the floor, with her back against the wheel of the caravan. She had a distressed look on her face and was panting and sweating quite alarmingly. She had a rather nice red and yellow chequered dress on though, with a dandelion in her hair.

10.03am: Said lady gave birth and followed through at the same time. The dogs began the clean-up operation whilst the men opened a can of lager each in celebration. The sound of Whigfield now filled the air.

10.15am: As all the family crowded round the newest member of their pikey clan, the two biggest men, both in their late forties, overweight and with lumberjack style shirts on, made their way inside one of the caravans. They appeared a few minutes later carrying something wrapped in a blanket. The blanket was put onto the grass and unfurled, revealing a small, disfigured cripple boy. The young lad smiled at the baby, and then pulled a tuft of hair from his own head, and a tooth from his mouth before crawling into a small puddle. His legs look like they were fused together, like some sort of freakish mermaid. He had sores and welts covering his scaly skin.

10.25am: Some of the other children began prodding the freak with bamboo canes. I admit I laughed a little when one of them gouged his eye! This was the highlight of my morning as not much else happened for the rest of it, only foul language and the consumption of more alcohol. I made my way back inside to play scalextric and make an artichoke sandwich.

2.00pm: I must have dozed off. I awoke to the smell of burning. I searched for the source of this smell and through the glass pane in my front door could see a small fire. I opened the door and stamped manically on the fire to put it out. Eventually I succeeded. I was about to go back inside when two pikey children decided to pop up from behind my front wall and hurl faeces at me. I cowered behind my wheely bin until they had run out of ammunition, the last of which cannoned off the wall behind me and landed, still steaming, next to my shoe.

2.10pm: I ran back inside my house and went back to the upstairs window. Two cars were now in the field, a blue Austin Maestro and silver Vauxhall Cavalier. I couldn’t see if they had tax discs from where I was, but I doubt they did. There was also a frail donkey, a small tent had been set up, and a naked man in a wizards hat. This disturbed me somewhat. I could hear him shouting “Come on children, who wants to play with my wand?!”

2.15pm: The naked wizard man disappeared inside the tent with 2 children, a girl and a boy, whilst their parents looked on. I assumed wizard man to be a relative. A bonfire was lit and most of the other pikeys started throwing deodorant cans onto this. As they exploded, the kids were jumping out of the way. I noticed the small freak laughing manically under one caravan.

2.45pm: The bearded lady also gave birth and the previous ritual was carried out. Wizard man offered his congratulations by knocking his helmet across the chops of the mum thrice, before disappearing back into his tent. One pikey, who I presumed to be the dad, lit a roll up and nodded in appreciation. The mum looked tired from giving birth but exuberant. Her dress was tattered and her withered breasts could be clearly seen. I took a couple of polaroids.

3.30pm: One of the teenage boys turned up on a tractor, obviously stolen from the farmers’ yard. A few of the younger girls started throwing sanitary towels at him so he chased them around the campsite, narrowly missing the crippled child who was now rolling around on the ground, wrapped in his duvet. He reminded me of a large grub worm as he moved about.

4.04pm: Most of the children were now on the rampage, pulling down the fences that separate the gardens from the field. These were being used as firelight. An elderly gentleman from up the road went to remonstrate but was forced back into his house by one of the dads, who picked up a rake and began thrusting it aggressively towards him. I heard the smashing of at least two windows and I was very nervous that my property may get damaged as well. I decided to call the police, who confirmed to me that they had already received several complaints and were on their way already.

4.30pm: On their way my arse! The police finally arrived to the field which was now burnt, littered and covered in putrid mess. I was surprised as the pikeys moved on with minimum fuss. Initially, a few glass bottles were hurled at the police cars, but when the police retaliated and shot the wizard man in the knee cap, the pikeys’ fun was over. Unfortunately, so was mine. Whilst I was scared at the thought of these people entering me and my house, it was exciting to watch, and I got some great photos of the occasion. I still hope they never come back though.
(, Thu 1 Oct 2009, 13:11, 12 replies)
Summer Loving
There were a few of us at my mates house, and as it was a hot summers night, we had his patio doors open, whilst we sat in the kitchen enjoying a few beers and cigarettes.

The conversation was flowing, when over the top of our ramblings, we heard the easily recognisable sounds of two people rutting vigorously. Peering into the garden, we saw the house backing onto ours had a solitary bedroom light on, and the window was wide open. We all fell silent, and sat and listened as the two lovers built up into a simultaneous climax, with the woman screaming, "Yes Mark! Harder Mark! Harder Mark!"

As Mark spilt his creamy load, letting out a groan of pleasure, an eerie silence fell - I imagine that the rather vocal pair had collapsed, exhausted onto their bed. After 30 seconds or so,we heard another neighbour, who to this day remains anonymous, start a slow hand clap, interspersed with shouts of "Well done Mark, good performance son!"

It was enough to send us into fits of laughter and was only topped when the bedroom window of the lovers was slammed shut.
(, Wed 7 Oct 2009, 12:43, 1 reply)
My old mum and dad, RIP.
My old mum and dad are sadly no longer with us, but this is one of my favourite stories involving them.

I used to live in a tenament flat in Edinburgh. A big solid looking building, but sadly the walls between flats could have done with an awful lot more insulation - especially between the bedrooms, if you get my drift.

My next door neighbour seemed a pleasant enough girl. I didn't see too much of her, but she always said hello on the stairs. However, she started seeing a guy who was a bit of a prick. He'd double park his car if he couldn't park within 5 yards (literally) of the front door, played loud music at all hours of the night, slammed the front door as he went in and out of the flat - you get the idea.

The loud humping, initially anyway, was slightly entertaining. Every night for a fortnight was getting a bit much - especially as he seemed to work shifts and 5:45am on a Tuesday morning seemed a popular time for making my lightshade swing - firing clouds of dust over my sadly unaccompanied form, whilst I was forced to listen to her taking a pummelling.

My mum and dad were coming up to see me one weekend. They were going to have my bed for the night, and I was going to kip on my living room floor.

I'm sure you can see where this is heading.

I hoped to Christ that she'd have the painters in that weekend, but I had to prepare for the worst.

Sunday morning arrived, and my mum came through to the living room.

[important point: my mum was always quite naive regarding 'downstairs' activity]

'Sleep ok mum?' I enquired.

'Not bad son, but I was woken up by a heck of a racket at one point.'

'Oh, really?', I enquired, cacking it slightly.

'Yes, I heard a baby crying really loudly, and lots of banging - like someone running up and down the stairs. I haven't a clue what was going on.'

At that point, my old man appears.

'Hi dad, sleep ok?' I ventured.

'Not really, that pair next door were at it like a pair of friggin rabbits all night. Does the girl ever sleep? She must walk like a cowboy.'

A mouthful of coffee squirted up my nose.

Mum didn't have a clue what he was on about. To the day she died, I don't think she ever twigged what the 'crying baby' noises really were.
(, Wed 7 Oct 2009, 14:30, 5 replies)
East End Chavs
Many moons ago – I lived in sunny East London – on an estate made up of four blocks of flats, with a large grassy area in the centre (I say grass – there was actually more dogshit on that patch of parched earth than grass).
I would dread the Summer, when the local chavs would seemingly all decide to throw open their windows and mount speakers on their window ledges, and play the same garage/drum and bass/grime tunes over and over again. Either that or all be relaying the same crappy pirate radio station streaming out much of the same. From some point near Midday when they all got up out of their beds to around midnight – the estate would become a virtual wall of (crappy) sound.

Now this wouldn’t normally bother me during the week, as I actually had a job, but it would become pretty annoying at weekends. So in the interest of ‘joining in’ – I would dig out my PA speakers, ramp up the amp and play classical music - Mozart’s Requeim was a favourite.
Next door lived a Bangladeshi family, the eldest boy was roughly the same age as me, and one afternoon, he knocked on the door, asking if I could do him a favour - he simply hands me a CD and asks me to “Play this for a while on your speakers”. The glint in his eye and the smile said it all – he was on a windup mission.

Cue two hours of traditional Bangladeshi folk music, with some epic vocals and some quite wonderful drum pieces – just the sort of thing to play to wind up the local inbred chav scum. Strangely the inpromptu outdoor drum and bass festival every weekend stopped happening after that.
(, Sat 3 Oct 2009, 13:35, 6 replies)
When I was a little nipper
my dad used to burn rubbish in a big metal barrel in the garden. (Not very environmentally friendly, but this was the sixties and my dad used to own a bottle opener which was a taxidermied rat with metal jaws that used to sit on his study dresser looking like a bionic mutant killing machine; my dad was not into kissing trees and hugging flowers).

I'd stand to one side and breath in the heady fumes of whatever he was burning, wathcing the dancing flames, mezmerized - probably a little turned on.

Then one time on a dark November morning a pale blue and white panda car came screaming up the drive with the big blue light flashing. The police officer (local bobby, nothing special, nice but dim), got out and ran over to us. He looked into the burning barrel, panting heavily.

"What are you burning?" he asked my dad.

My dad poked around a bit with his stick. "Errr... I'm burning some of my daughters old toys, officer," said my dad.

The police officer looked a bit pissed off. "We had reports you were burning something illegal." He looked into the barrel, saw the mass of melted plastic and wood and various other shit. Then he waved a goodbye and stalked off.

My dad appeared perplexed.

Took him until after Christmas to find out why the copper had come tearing up the drive like Starsky AND Hutch. My mum heard it from a friend of a friend of the next door neighbour.

She'd alerted the authorities when she saw my dad putting a baby in a burning barrel with some small demonic kid (me) clapping his hands in glee and looking on.

It was one of my sisters old and knackered dolls.
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 11:03, 3 replies)
hay festival
After years of squatting and renting I managed to get onto the property ladder and buy a lovely first floor flat in Camberwell, south London.

During the first few weeks we decorated the place and put our personal mark on the house. I even bought some power tools now that I was a responsible adult and I put up some shelves in the study. While I was cutting wood outside the house my neighbour who lives downstairs came out and we had a chat. He said he needed to put up some shelves because his mum was an editor and she sends him lots of books and he just had them piled up in his room.

It felt quite manly and grown up when I lent him my jig-saw, drill and a readers digest DIY book and he made some shelves and bought me a bottle of wine as a thank-you.

A few weeks later I was going to the Hay Literary Festival because my sister's boyfriend was having an exhibition there. When I saw my neighbour again I asked him if he was going to the festival and he said he wasn't but his Mum was going because she loved it, he said “It's like Glastonbury for old people” and it is. The streets are full of the blue rinse brigade just dawdling about and randomly stopping in front of you for no reason or to stare at buildings. He said his Mum was doing a talk there so I got her name and said I would look her up if I had time.

I got to the festival for the second weekend and found in the guide that she was doing a talk at 11am on the Sunday morning about her new book about the history of English gardens. My family had arrived in Hay as well so I went to the talk with my Mum and my Nan. We had all had dinner the night before and I was a little hungover but I made it to the talk. My Mum is hard of hearing so we had to sit in the hearing-loop in the middle of the audience of about 400 people.

It was a very interesting talk. She spoke about how the potato arrived in England and how no-one ate it for seventy years and how it was a catholic vegetable and protestants wouldn't eat it. The tomato was thought poisonousness and had come from the devils own garden. She said how 17th century sailors used to come back from their travels with bulbs from exotic places and sell them to the aristocracy who would grow them and have a “glorious hyacinth that no-one had ever seen the like before.” It was all quite twee but I found it quite interesting.

At the end she said she had ten minutes for questions and answers and one of the blue rinsers asked her about bindweed or something and how to get rid of it or something. I hadn't planned to say anything but for some reason my hand went up and they passed me a microphone. My Mum and Nan were both mortified and were trying their hardest to look like they weren't anything to do with me and sink into their seats.

I said “Lovely speech. Thank-you. I've just moved into a new flat in Camberwell, above your son actually, and I have to look out of my kitchen window every single day of the week at the state of your son's garden and I was just wondering when you were going to come round and sort it out.”

The place erupted. She stood on the stage and pointed her finger at me and said “I despair, I despair with my son's garden. My husband will agree that I despair over his garden. My son's garden is just paving stones and three big pots of grey dust!” She then went on to talk about how lovely her daughter's garden was and that her son said he would only become a gardener when he retired.

She said that her son lived with his friend Anna and they had know each other since they were babies (that cleared that up for me because I didn't know if they were a couple or just flat mates) and that Anna's parents were at the house this very day, working in the garden and “sorting it out” and she pointed her finger at me again.

She disappeared after the talk and I didn't get a chance to apologise like my Mum said I should. When I told my uncle what I'd said he said it was unfair of me and I started to think I had upset her.
I rang my wife who was studying at home and asked her if she had been in the garden and she said “Yes, but Anna's parents are tidying up their garden” and I said “I know.”

A few weeks later we had a party and we invited the neighbours but they said they were away that weekend but we could use their garden. Then during the party he came out of his house and I went over to have a chat with him and thank him for the use of his garden and as I walked up to him he said “Dad, dad, this is the guy that asked Mum that question at the Hay Festival”
and as I shook his hand I said “Sorry about that, I didn't know if it was out of order or not”

and he said “No not at all. That was fantastic. We've been dining out on that for weeks! You've given her a great story to use in her talks and a way to talk about her children's gardens because most of her audience have children and are interested in what she thinks of their gardens. Thank-you.”
(, Sun 4 Oct 2009, 18:05, 1 reply)
Raymond and his budgie.
My neighbour is a genius. We shall call him Raymond, for that is his name.

Raymond used to be a Fisherman. Not your sitting by a river dicking about for hours fisherman. But a proper fishin' the north sea for Haddocks and other whitefish. He is also the funniest person I have ever met, one of lifes great story tellers. If you imagine a strong man version of Alan Carr, then add about 10 stone, that's what Raymond looks like. If you were to ask him "How are you getting on?", his standard reply is "Same as usual, fat and ugly".

So Raymond had a daughter. Being at the fishing he didn't get to see her very often, so he left the boat for a job ashore. He thought about what he could do to pay the bills and came up with the idea of startIng a mobile fish van. He goes through the motions and gets a van, gets it kitted out and gets it survey by the local health and saftey inspector. The inspector told Raymond he would be able to start trading next week after the relevant paper work had been completed.

Two weeks later the paper work still hadn't arrived. Raymond is a bit pissed off, so phones up the inspector and get excuses from him, Raymond explains that he really needs to start making money, bills are coming in and the last pay from the fishing has run out. The inspector tells Raymond that he can start trading tommorow morning and he will be down with the certificates in the afternoon.

This is great news. Raymond can start making money with his new buisness, he makes a phone call to his mate on the boat and gets a few boxes of fresh fish delivered. He thinks to himself, how am I going to let people know that I'm selling fish? So he phones the local radio station;

"Hello Radio Orkney? I'd like to place an advertisment please.". Only to be told don't be stupid we're part funded by the BBC, we can't help you.

Never call Raymond stupid. A couple of hours later...

"Hello Radio Orkney? Its Raymond Raymondson here and the most terrible things happend, my daughters lost her Budgie. Could you read a message out asking if anybody has seen him?" asked Raymond
"Why yes sir that shouldn't be a problem, can you give us a description of your budgie?"
"Well he's green and yellow and his name is 'Cheepfish'"
"Cheepfish? Strange name for a budgie."
"Hey that's the name me daughter picked for him"
"Oh okay, can you give us a phone number for contacting you?"
"No theres nae point me giving u me number me bloody phones on the blink, but I'll be on Kirkwall Pier tommorow in my fish van from 12 till 1."

Cue Radio Orkney reading out that Raymond has lost his budgie 'CHEEPFISH' and he'll be on the pier in his fish van tommorow afternoon.

There was a fair few folk buying fish on the pier.
(, Sat 3 Oct 2009, 19:23, 1 reply)
Bloody students
Me and Mrs Duck used to have some students living next door to us. For the most part they were good lads. However the person who had the room adjacent to our bedroom did have a problem with the volume of his stereo

One morning we were woken up at about 3am to the sound of the littlest hobo, sesame street, the fall guy, knight rider and other similar themes all at a volume so high it may as well have been a stereo in our room. After this hilarious ironic musical smorgasbord some techno followed for about an hour. Me & Mrs Duck had a cup of tea and a little reminisce about when we used to take drugs and annoy the neighbours.

Finaly the music stopped then the porn started, at the same volume! While he was bashing the bishop I found a live CD and queued up the end of a track and cranked up the volume so as soon as he finished he got a lovely round of applause.
(, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 10:38, 1 reply)
My angry, paranoid neighbour.
A few years ago i used to share a house with my girlfriend, her sister and her sisters boyfriend. It was a nice set up, the house to the left of us was empty and the house to the right had a neighbour who we barely saw and was pretty down to earth.

So this was all good, we could have friends around, we could party at weekends and we could relax without any bother or noise complaints.

That was until Ste moved into the empy house with his family (wife and two kids). Now Ste was almost always drunk on Stella artois, he was very twitchy and paranoid and had was extremely dodgy. Like a kind of skinny Del Boy crossed between a Jack Russel dog.

For the first few weeks he could often be seen opening his back garden gate and bringing (presumably) stolen furniture into the house from the back of a van (full of equally dodgy men). So far so good, no real problems to speak of... Until we dared to have a party on a friday night. We had a few of our closest friends around for a meal and a few beers and it was as a whole a pretty relaxed affair.

The next thing we knew, we heard banging on our back window and Ste had climbed onto the garden wall and was spying through the curtains.
I opened the back door and was instantly greeted by :
'Fuckin party at this time? I've got kids in bed (which was a complete lie as they were both in the back garden eating ice cream) and you're taking the fuckin' piss!'

'Ok sorry, i didn't realise it was so loud, i'll turn it down' i said and proceeded to do so.

'Make sure you do!' He yelled.

Nothing more came of it, until a few weeks later, we had another gathering and with the previous events in mind, we kept the volume to a minimum.

Now, my good (and totally harmless) friend Richard had gone to the back door to have a smoke and a few seconds later Richard asked for me to come to him. I popped my head out the back door to find Angry Ste was again propped on the garden wall with a kitchen knife in hand and was shouting at Richard.
Upon seeing me, Angry ste said 'Eh tell your mate to stop being cocky!'

'huh?' i exclaimed.

'He's being a cocky bastard and keeps smiling at me!'

I told Richard to go inside to diffuse the situation (so we didn't get killed) and tried to calm Angry Ste down. He told me he had anger problems and didn't like people smiling at him. (Doing my best not to laugh) i told him it was okay, and not to worry about us, we're just a bunch of harmless hippies and we won't be any bother to him.

'Yeah but i wanna fucking talk to you, and you keep trying to go inside you house!'

'Okay Ste i'll talk to you if you put the knife down'

Ste chucked the knife into the garden and remained sat on the wall. Now it was at this point i thought 'if this keeps up, the next few years are going to be hell', so i told him in no uncertain terms that the only time we ever get to party is on a weekend, we have respect for him, but i didn't like him threatening my mates. I told him if he ever has problems with any noise or people smiling at him, to come and talk to me and not shout at people.

'You're a bloody good lad you Lizard, you're a bloody good neighbour, not like my last neighbours who got me kicked out, fucking cunts, you're a good lad Lizzy!' and with that he shook my hand, dropped down from the wall into his house and returned seconds later with a can of stella for me.
Result.

Now occasionaly if anything happened Angry Ste would shout for me (at all times of the day) 'Lizzzzy!!! Lizzzy!!!' and we would have a good chat and smooth everything out, despite the fact he was a red-faced nutcase. Every chat would be resolved with him handing me a can of stella.

Now in regards to the music volumes, i didn't dare mention the fact that EVERY fucking morning WE would be awoken to the Rolling stones 'Gimme shelter' at exactly the same time 8:00 am on fucking repeat, blaring from the kitchen next door. I didn't want to call him a hypocrite as we'd managed to sort things out. But it was a kind of neutral resolution. He didn't mind people partying here on the odd weekend, as long as we didn't mention his very narrow and loud and repetitive musical taste in the morning times.

He obviously had social issues and was more than likely on the run. Eventually we got used to his strange habits and the musical awakening at 8:00am every morning. He befriended me, telling me 'if you ever need anyone sorting out Lizzy, you tell me!'

Now - he eventually buggered off, doing a moonlit flight with his family, but i still remember the time on Christmas day I was alerted to his loud shouting of 'Lizzzzy, Lizzzzzy!' to which i appeared at the back door to find him in his usual perch on my backwall with two cans of stella in his hand. The rolling stones 'Gimme shelter' blaring from his kitchen as per usual.

'Merry Christmas Lizard, you're a good fucking lad, have a drink with me'

He gave me another can of stella and a jack daniels glass and to be honest it was a nice feeling to have a yuletide beer with this nutter of a neighbour. The thought was obviously there and in all honesty he was all mouth, he looked after his wife and kids (even if he couldn't look after himself much) and treated them like princesses.

I once talked the poor guy out of suicide. One spring morning, he shouted for me 'Lizzy, Lizzy!' and he told me he was sick of life. That he was planning on jumping off Runcorn bridge and he gave me a handful of money to give to his wife and kids and to tell them that he loved them.

I was taken aback. I told him that he was being selfish and that he could sort his life out one step at a time, i refused to take the money and told him to calm down and think about things. Which he did and after contemplation, he again returned with a can of stella for me.

'Cheers Lizzy!'

He's long gone now (presumed drunk and shouty)... But i often think about the strange man. How he was very confrontational, a bit mad but ultimately just troubled. I'm quite proud of the fact that i didn't ignore him and listened to him and gave him the time to talk, and i like to think he respected that, especially by showing no fear to him.
I'm glad i changed the whole situation round, becoming friendly with him instead of being afraid of him. He may have even killed himself if i hadn't have gone outside to talk to the mad bastard.

Whenever i hear the rolling stones, i often raise a wry smile and a beer to him.

Sorry for the unfunny.

* For clarity: -my name isn't Lizzy, but it sounds similar enough...
(, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 17:25, 4 replies)
Goblins! Midgets! Spackers! Tescos!
My neighbour (well, a nearby resident) is a lady in her late 30s/early 40s. She's a very nice lady, but has a challenging life. This is principally owing to her Downs Syndrome son, who I shall, for the purpose of anonymity refer to as Mungo.

Mungo is about 17, powerfully built, and mad as a box of frogs. His greatest adventure began some weeks ago, and is still ongoing as a result of pending legal action.

It began with his mother leaving him unsupervised for a short while; the cupboards were running towards empty and so a trip to Tesco was undertaken. Naturally such expeditions carry with them a great deal of hassle if Mungo attends and so as it was a quick in-and-out shop she left him at home, in front of the telly, with a bit of chocolate.

40 minutes or so she came back and found Mungo covered in scratches with a bruise welling up on the side of his face. Naturally, as a caring and protective mother, she was very concerned and enquired as to how he obtained these marks. His answer was:

“I've been out catching Goblins!”

His mother was surprised by this, and pushed him for a more believable answer. This time, his response was, if anything, even less credible.

“I've been out catching goblins and I have one locked in the upstairs bathroom!”

At this point his mother heard muffled banging coming from the upstairs of the house. Concerned, she sprinted upstairs and braced herself to confront the “goblin”, whatever the hell it was.

Tension coursed through her as she eased open the door, to find herself staring at a very angry midget woman. Standing all of three foot six, what she lacked in height she seemingly made up for in fury. She ran from the house, unmollified by the frantic apologies of the mother, and quickly called the police.

It later transpired that Mungo had seen her walking past the house, decided she was a goblin and should therefore be imprisoned, ran out and got her into a headlock, endured an almighty battle, prevailed and dragged the unwilling midget into the bathroom, locking her in.

The midget was naturally terrified, and is trying to sue as well as reporting him to the police.

Mungo's mother is now a trembling wreck who will not leave him unattended. Mungo still seems to have a bit of a thing about short people.
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 13:47, 20 replies)
Birthday present
The two lesbians next door bought me a rather nice Timex for my 30th birthday... I told them they'd misunderstood me when I'd said to them "I wanna watch"
(, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 15:15, 4 replies)
Nobby, my Neighbour
Many years ago (Cue obligatory wobbly line like substance) when first I was drawn to the heaving metropolis that is Cardiff I lived in a shared house on Fitzhamon Embankment (For those of you that know the geography of the Riverside district).

Let me tell you, gentle readers, living there was an utter experience. Beyond the discovery of murder victims in the neighboring back-garden, the drug factory next door and the stream of other crimes committed within 100ft of my 'home' it also attracted a stream of the strangest and most surreal people I've ever had the experience of meeting.

First and foremost amongst these was a chap I knew as "Nobby". I think everyone knows a Nobby, you know.

Nobby was strongly anti-drugs and anti-drink. He was also a skinhead who wore nothing but camo's and was utterly hooked on snorting cans of butane lighter fuel. See, thats neither drugs or drink as far as Nobby was concerned, so he was a pillar of society and utterly doing nothing stupid, oh no.

Still, he was *generally* a nice chap. Apart from the time he nearly stabbed me with a kitchen knife when his girlfriend decided to drag me into the middle of one HELL of a domestic. But that's a tale for another day...

For now, I wish only to recount the strange events of a particular day in the summer of 1991. (wavey lines inside wavey lines now, you'd best hang on to something solid...)

It was truly scorching and the city lay in a sultry, abused heap dumped on slowly melting tarmac. The traffic moved sluggishly past and even the seagull and pigeons couldn't be cunted to squawk, shag or fight. Everything, animal or vegetable, was either lying gasping in the heat of the midday or jumping into the Taff in an effort to escape. (Tantamount to suicide...the Taff could be *walked* across on colder days!) The city stank of sweat and hops, and in the distance a saxophonist played slightly off-key blues.

Nobby and I sat in the window of the garret room at the top of the house; he snorting from a fresh can and me taking the occasional pull from a bottle of JD and a reefer alternately.

Now, below us, on the ground floor lived a frech fella whose name eludes me for the moment... ...let's call him Mr. Frog... who was a very strange fella indeed. He rarely emerged during the day and when he did he almost never spoke to anyone. He worked, we heard, as a chef, but given the strange stench of mouldering food that hung around him we were not keen to try his cuisine. That day, and for the weekend preceeding, neither Nobby or I had seen Mr. Frog at all, but that didn't strike us as unusual....

Our attention, slightly lagged, was drawn to a police car cruising sloooooowly down the embankment. We could imagine it wheezing and sweating in the heat, and the two police-person occupants looked uncomfortable indeed. Uncomfortable and bored.

Whilst their comfort was unlikely to improve as a result of what happened next, they were certainly no longer to be bored, for into this scene of parched laziness exploded a howling banshee. Below us, out of our own shared front door burst Mr. Frog. Naked, save for stained and ill-fitting Y-fronts. Screaming, bestial and primtive. Foaming at the lips, he flung himself straight at the police car.

Now, that in and of itself would've been enough of a suprise for the dutiful officers, but their dismay could only have been multiplied by the rather large breeze block that Mr. Frog had thoughtfully chosen to bring with him. Only to bring it crashing down through the windscreen before collapsing over the bonnet himself.

All was still. The heat of the day continued to build. Nothing moved, nothing stirred.

Then there was pandemonium as the police exited the vehicle and attempted to apprehend the strangely slippery and suprisingly fast Mr. Frog as he legged it down the street.

Nobby turned to me, took another pull on his can and said "Y'know, Effin, I think I do too much of this shit."
(, Tue 6 Oct 2009, 14:55, 11 replies)
Pat and Les
I live next door to a lovely couple, you couldn't ask for nicer neighbours, problem is I've forgotten who is Pat and who is Les.

Is it Patrick/ Patricia, or is it Lesley / Leslie.

I cant ask them its been too long.
(, Thu 1 Oct 2009, 14:04, 3 replies)
That whole naked-neighbours-falling-off-the-roof story
So, we bought a house and the roof leaked. A relative lent me his longest, springiest ladder, and I ascended to see the damage. Whimpering, I reached the top, and found the flashing coming away from the chimney, resulting in a swimming pool in one of the bedrooms.

Feeling particularly bullet-proof on this glorious summer’s day, I stood up to admire the view across the rooftops and gardens of my new street. And that’s when I saw Laura for the first time. My heart skipped a beat at this vision of womanhood. Gods, she was ugly. And naked.

“Hello,” she said, looking up from her book. It was only when the ladder stopped wobbling that I realised that the big mass of black fluff in her lap wasn't actually a dog.

“Bwaargh!” I replied, clinging on to the TV aerial for dear life.

“You just moved in then?” she said, scratching the stretch-marks just above her Black Forest nadger.

“Bwaargh! Yes, last week. Help!”

It was at this point that her husband Roger joined her in the garden. Naked as the day he was born, except for a rather ill-fitting hair-piece, and hung like a donkey. My God, I remember thinking to myself in my heavenly perch, if that thing had brains, it'd rule the universe.

“Roger,” said Laura, pointing skywards, “This is our new neighbour, Scary.”

"'Ow do," he said, both he and his pecker looking upwards, "We're naturists, you know."

Really? Except it came out “Bwaargh!”

In fact: "Bwaaaaaaaaaaaargh!" as I fell off the ladder from a good twenty feet up, my fall broken by Laura's bush. There's nothing like a woman who goes au naturelle who shows a keen interest in gardening.

When I finally reached safety, my charming wife was quick to ask me about my first encounter with Wiggy and Laura. I told her. She was not impressed.
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 13:57, 6 replies)
Dirty Harry & Dirty Harriet
I think my parents were trying to tell me something... It was a traumatic time, it felt like someone had jammed their hand in my mouth, reached down my throat, worked their way through my body cavity, and were tugging on my ball tubes, playing my testicles like a set of meracas.

I was going home.

The first year of uni had flashed passed in a drunken haze of Morrisons own-brand vodka, various seedy, smokey Manchester bars, and tits. And now here I was, on a train heading for Northampton station and the deary middle-England beyond I’d attempted all my life to escape. I’d never really had a great relationship with my parents. They were ok, but family stuff from years back meant things were, well, a little difficult. I was dreading losing my new-found fredom for a whole summer. But I had fuck all money and the rent was great, the rent was free. Then a thought occured to me. I recall my parents saying they’d moved house round February time – they hadn’t passed on their new address... I HAD NO FUCKING IDEA WHERE I LIVED ANYMORE!!!

Thankfully when I got to the station my old man, looking like some tripped-out veteran from Woodstock, turned up to meet me. This was way before mobile phones. Thankfully he hadn’t forgotten I was due back on the 4:40 train from Manc-land. We gathered up all my worldy possessions – a couple of bin bags stuffed full of various crap, and loaded it in the Talbot Horizon. Then we set off. Heading in a weird direction, going to my parents new house, my new home for the summer until I could escape back up to Manchester to start my second year of arsing about and learning how to be a grown-up. My dad drove me to the quaint little village of Harpole (quaint except for the regular dummy divebombings delivered by the Warthog fighter jets from the local American airbase – they’d fly so low you could almost see what the pilots had eaten for breakfast). Then we pulled into the driveway of a nice little semi. My mum met us at the door and said she’d show me my room. This was all very weird. And it got even weirder.

My mum led me through the house and into the garden, down a path to the end of the garden and: “There you are, Spanky. Home for a couple of months ‘til you go back up North.”

I couldn’t quite believe it: “Erm. Mum. Its a shed.”

My mum shook her head: “No, Spanky – its a summer house.”

“No, mum. Its a shed. Its a shed with curtains but its very much definately a shed. You want me to live in a shed?”

My mum explained that they didn’t need an extra bedroom anymore which is why they’d moved here. And, after a fair bit of negotiation, she finally admitted the tiny wooden structure at the end of her garden with the felt roof was very sheddy in appearance and useage... There was a reason for that:

IT’S BECAUSE IT WAS A FUCKING SHED, THAT’S FUCKING WHY !!!

Anyway, fuck it – it had a bed in it. The spiders were mostly small and the lawnmower didn’t take up too much room – so I moved into my wonderful shed and settled in. I had to get a job quick to save up some cash for when I went back to uni in September. I’m not a buddhist – I can’t live on fresh air and good feelings.

Over the next few days I secured a job (sweeping up blood in an abattoir), I didn’t start ‘til Monday so I had a nice long weekend to relax and unwind. And relax and unwind I did. With my old schoolmates, in our old local. And it was when I came home absolutely shitfaced after a particularly long relaxation and unwinding session that I experienced the neighbours for the first time up close. And my god they were fucking scary – made the good citizens in that Wickerman film seem like decent, normal, well-adjusted members of society. I’d seen a fair bit of curtain twitching going on leading up to this; fair enough – its not everyday you look out your window, peer into your neighbours neighbours garden and see a hairy unwashed youth scratching his balls, fag in mouth, sitting on the step of a garden shed he’d apparently commondeered as a nice little studio apartment. Only wearing his boxers. Hacking up phlegm and pissing in the bushes. I can sort of see why they were a little concerned. I imagine they thought a particualrly nasty transient confidence trixter had duped the new couple who’d moved in next door back in February...

Anyway, I’m staggering back, pissed out of my mind, nursing the full pint of Guiness I’d brought back with me from the pub (quite a feat – my old local was in Northampton town centre, Harpole was about eight miles away after a very bumpy and twisty bus journey). So, I’m quaffing my pint and I get to the front door. Shit, no fucking keys. Lost, left with a mate, given away to some stranger on the bus while saying: “OoooOOOOoooooHHHhhhh, shiney, shiney, shiney!!!” – who fucking knew. It was late, I didn’t want to wake my parents. So –

I went round the back into the little lane and attempted to clamber over the wall. I stopped. Thought it best to actually finish my pint first, then I gave the it another go. Took me a little while to scramble up the fucker, it was a pretty tall wall. I’d managed to clamp my arms round the top, was using a handy dustbin for a leg up, and then –

I managed to get completely fucking stuck. My t-shirt had somehow snagged over my head, I was blind-drunk with the added bonus of being blind. Fuck... Well, I’ll just dangle here for a bit... Gather my thoughts... See what happens... And then something DID happen, very definately and it was FUCKING PAINFUL ! - THH-WWW-AAA-CCC-KKK !!! ARRRGGGGHHHHHH !!! Something’s just bitten my arse!!! My arse is under attack !!! There’s a wild animal and its trying to fuck me or eat me, or fuck me then eat me !!! Oooohhhh, BOLL-OOO-CCC-KKKK-SSSS !!!

Then I heard the voice: “You just wait there, sonny,” if Clint Eastwood was about ninety and English, this is how he’d sound. I was being attacked anally by Dirty Harry. “My wife’s called the police and they’ll be here soon.”

“I fucking live here!!!” THHH-WWW-AAA-CCC-KKK !!! “Owww!!! Stop fucking hitting me!!!” THHH-WWW-AAA-CCC-KKK !!! “Help me down, for fucks sake you demented old cunt !!!” THHH-WWW-AAA-CCC-KKK !!!

Pause... Silence... Then then menacing old voice: “You gonna do as your told, sonny?”

Being a real manly type man, I considered my options then whimpered, “Yessir...”

And there I remained for a good ten minutes or so until the rozzers turned up. “Well what’s this? Halloween come early this year, har har har!” Turns out the two PC’s had knocked on my parents front door – they were out. Shit! Yes! They were going over to Coventry to visit some of their old hippy mates, to commune with nature, talk about the sixtiees, probably fuck each other ragged while listening to the Mammas & the Pappas.

And to make matters worse... my weird dangling postion meant my jeans had managed to work themselves down my bum crack. I was holding them up at the front in an attempt to hide my hairy balls from the law and the old folks from next door.

“You want us to cut you down, gorgeous?” said the other copper. I said that would be lovely, and they managed to get onto the wall and cut me loose. I came to the ground with a crash, whimpering on the floor like a great big drunken, ashamed daddy long legs with his arse out. The coppers asked me for proof of who I was – I had no proof. They asked me for the address of the property I was attempting to gain entry to – I had no fucking clue (still can’t remember my own flat number and postcode for where I live now, and I’ve been there for two years; this sort of thing isn’t my strong point). They asked me if I could get in contact with my ‘parents’, I said no, I didn’t know where they were, considered saying I had my suspicions they were at a swingers party, but thought this wouldn’t buy me any advantage.

Then I had a brainwave! I turned to the couple from next door, Dirty Harry had now been joined by his wife, Dirty Harriet: “You’ve seen me! I’ve seen you looking out your window at me! You know I’ve been living here for a week or so!” I pleaded.

Then the old fuckers, almost in tandem, replied: “We’ve never seen this young man before in our lives...”

“Yes you have!!!” The lying wrinkled-up cumbuckets!!! I’d locked eyes with them through their twitching windows on at least half a dozen occasions. “You fuckers!” Remember – I was drunk, very, very, VERY drunk. On a sliding scale of 1 to 10 I was the entire England rugby team after a win who’d just stopped off at Costcutters to be told: “Help yourselves, boys – everythings been spiked with antifreeze and barbituates too! Knock yerselves out!” Then I said something that I suppose I shouldn’t have, something the coppers picked up on immediately:

“You do know me!!! I live in the SHED!!!”

And with that I was arrested and carted off to the cells for the night.

Fucking uncomfortable, your small village police cell.

And my parents were fucking livid, I mean LIVID when I turned up the next day and told them what had happened. “Yes, we know,” said my mum. “We spoke to Mr and Mrs Smith next door – they thought it was a good idea to teach you a lesson." I was enraged. But my mum cut me dead: “We tended to agree with them.”

Fucking parents...

Fucking neighbours...
(, Tue 6 Oct 2009, 14:33, 21 replies)
Cheap house for rent-Sheep herding experience preffered
Way way back in the mists of time a much younger Mon was due to be homeless and looking for somewhere quick. I thought that I had lucked out as after a couple of dreary one room shitholes I was shown a lovely northern facing property in the middle of nowhere. Seriously the place was within my budget and all I had to do was put up with the solitary sheep that grazed in the field.

After a quick look around the landlady (A lovely woman who had made a shitload of money in the entertainment industry) explained that there was one snag with the property and that was the grassland around the property also belonged to her and she would regularly loan out the plot to musicians/ actors to perform live concerts/ open air ramblings, etc, etc. The house itself was classed as security premises and also a small distance away from the area that theacts would use. I would be warned in advance of the upcoming shows and would be paid to lock up the sheep in a specially designed sheep pen in the back garden. I loved the place and an idea of seeing a few free live shows really appealed to me. I signed up a 12 month agreement and moved in the next day.

The novelty of a live concert wore off pretty quick. Mainly because I thought it would be something like Glastonbury but it turned out to be a bunch of shitty unknown groups that could not play any instruments, or some spoddy convention about an obscure film/ author that attracted a small following of unwashed wierdo’s. The sheep was a little fucker to catch too. Any time I was scheduled to put it in its pen the wooly little sod would turn into a demon and leave me exhausted and covered in a fine coating of mud and sheep shit.

The most memorable moment happened one rainy Saturday in April. The stupid tart of a landlady had accidentally double booked the area with two acts and rather than cancel one of the acts she decided to let them share the space and asked me to sacrifice my weekend by staying in the house watching that both camps did not cause any trouble. I was sat looking at the two camps being set up at opposite ends of the field and wondered why I was spending a weekend doing such a stupid task. On the east side of the site was for a fan convention of the TV show of Batman starring Adam West (With guest appearance of Cesar Romero and some other bloke that played King Tut) the other side was a specialist circus that had decided to ban using all animals and do nothing but use comedy acts that can also perform acrobatic moves. I tried to sneak over to the convention but was sent back (Ticket only and as half the visitors were dressed as Cesar Romero’s character I stuck out like a sore thumb). I decided to avoid the circus as I always find it odd for a grown person to paint their face and entertain kids (Wrestlers and French football fans are exceptions to this rule).

I trudged back up the driveway to spend my weekend watching the grass grow when the landlady rung to let me know that she had booked a live concert for a famous Scottish rock folk group to turn up in three months time and one of the band members was going to call down and see the plot in about 10 minutes, she was hoping to meet him there but was delayed at the office so could I meet him and stall for time until she turned up.

Gnashing my teeth I put my wellies on, headed out back, checked on the sheep and then headed out to the bottom of the road to meet the bloke, a guy called Gerry Rafferty (who turned out to be a decent bloke).

So this is the place eh? Said Mr Rafferty

Yup says a rather wet and pissed off Mon

Whats it like living here asked Gerry

Pfft…..Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right …here I am stuck in the middle with Ewe.

(I would say that I am sorry for this awful pun but I enjoy it)
(, Tue 6 Oct 2009, 12:37, 8 replies)
Pretty Epic but it is all true!
I once lived on an ordinary little street in Surrey where the lawns were well kept and the neighbourhood was a little well to do. Or at least it was until a few years ago. My neighbours V and P were a very uppity couple, he was a director of some company while she was a stay at home housewife to look after their only child a tubby little tantrum throwing bugger that had no respect for anything. I am not going to bitch about the usual toddler trouble we had at first but then it all went tits up as a relative of my neighbours died in a car accident and as P was the closest relative they were dumped with the kid, also another little troublesome sod.

As they grew up the two kids seemed to go different ways P’s son picked up a few hangers on and would go around terrorising the neighbourhood while the other one H would drift around aimlessly looking like he was up to something shifty looking thinner and thinner each time I saw him…..My guess is he was on drugs but he was quite polite when he spoke to you.

The neighbours house started to look a little unkempt and various vermin must have infested the place as all the local night time wildlife was always spotted nearby hunting for food.

Anywhoo my guess one of the kids did something seriously wrong as the whole family left pretty sharpish one morning and didn’t return for a few days. When they did come back H was not with them and had been sent to some form of reform school.

H was back every summer and when he did come back trouble would also follow, whether it be him and P’s son fighting, something being blown up or shady looking blokes turning up dressed quite scuffily. One night I looked out to see H carrying the fat waste of space son home, my guess is that they had started fighting and I was quite surprised as H was a weedy little bugger when compared to the tubby son.

I realised it would be better to move on after last summer. I was enjoying a quiet night in when all of a sudden I noticed some movement outside. Fearing for damage on my beloved car I moved over to the window and saw a bunch of fully grown blokes on next doors lawn. They were dressed in robes firing weapons (I don’t know if it was a handgun or a flare gun for god’s sake it was dark and I am a bloke in middle management from Surrey) my guess is that they were also throwing fireworks at each other (There were all sorts of colours going off) . I must have been lacking in sleep as I was sure I saw a number of people who looked like H, not similar I actually mean that they all looked the sodding same.

Anywhoo after the ruckus (When I was sure everyone had gone) I called the police, went outside, cleaned up the charred remains of the burnt owl corpse on my lawn and called my local estate agent to get the place sold off.

I live in Barnsley now and the area may be a little rowdy at times but it was nothing compared to the things that happened in Privet Drive.

Apologies for lack of Quidditch.
(, Tue 6 Oct 2009, 10:52, 12 replies)
One night coming back from the pub I was so wankered
I dropped my phone in the street as I was reaching for my keys. The phone spiralled to the ground and broke aparts, various components flying everywhere. Fuck. I drunkenly reached down and attempted a rescue operation. Picked up the battery, the battery cover, found the phone, the keypad... But I suddenly got the strange inkling I was making too much noise. One of my neighbours violently drew back his curtains, opened his window and yelled: “You drunk fucker! You’re making too much fucking noise!”

Being a reasonable chap and also currently down on my knees, I felt round for the first heavy object, a nice big pebble, and lobbed it at the cunt. Hit him square between the eyes David and Goliath style, he fell back looking stunned and confused.

Its true what they say in the bible: Let he who is without sim cast the first stone....
(, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 16:58, 5 replies)
Love thy neighbour
When I was about 14, we got new neighbours. Well, they weren't really neighbours, their garden backed on to our garden. Does that make them neighbours? I'm not sure.

Anyway. These neighbours had two kids: one girl about my age and a sporty boy a couple of years younger.

Due to garden sizes, we never really talked that much. Until one day, about three years after they moved in, the sporty boy sliced a golf ball into our garden. He was a little on the shy side so sent his older sister around to ours to get it. Since I was the only one in the house, I let her into the garden and we spent a while trying to find the golf ball.

During the course of the search, we started chatting and discovered a mutual love of Guns 'n' Roses... yadda yadda ... blah-di-blah ... ten years later we got married.

No appologies for length, she loves it.
(, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 15:13, 5 replies)
Idiot Neighbours and Surprise Parties
This one has been brewing for awhile now so I think its time I let it out. Back in 1990 my neighbour was entirely responsible for ruining my 6th birthday party and for me receiving the bollocking of a lifetime off my mother... so here goes...

It was 2 days before my 6th birthday and I was merrily skipping home from school with my sister. Chatting about this and that we made our way up the drive and saw our mother at the door looking thoroughly pissed off. Dragging me into the house she sat me down on a chair and proceeded to interrogate me. ‘Flim-Flam, have you invited anyone to our house for a birthday party?’ I looked blankly at my mother, mainly because I had no idea what she was going on about. I said no and then she went berserk and burst into tears.

It transpired that one of our neighbours had been having a spring clean and came across an invitation to a birthday party at my house, this invitation was for the previous year when I did in fact have a birthday party. So my neighbour called up my mother asking if the party was still on for the 11th. Now my mother rather than work out the connection between someone cleaning their house, discovering old paperwork and getting their years mixed up, assumed that somehow I had managed to - go out to the shops, buy invitations, write in readable print that I had a birthday coming up and distribute said invitations around to our neighbours without her being aware… I WAS 5 DAMMIT, I COULD BARELY PUT ON MATCHING SOCKS LET ALONE ORCHESTRATE A BIRTHDAY PARTY FOR MYSELF WHILST KEEPING IT A SECRET FROM MY MOTHER! So rather than believe that I hadn’t actually arranged anything my mother grounded me and went out to purchase party supplies!?!

Cue me sitting in my living room on my birthday, with a party I didn’t want, festooned with party paraphernalia, with no guests except for my retarded neighbours kid, no presents and no idea what was happening.

I still bring this up every now and then with my mother she apologises each time blaming her behaviour on being a bit mental at the time. I can sort of understand her behaviour, having three annoying kids all under the age of 10 doing her head in 24 hours a day, but still... I have not entirely forgiven her or my neighbour for that matter. *folds arms and nods*
(, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 12:52, 5 replies)
Stiffness and Pussy
I once lived next door to a middle-aged lady whose cat was old and arthritic (well what were you expecting the story to be about from the title, eh?)

When I first moved in, there was a pile of boxes on my side of the fence, staggered to create steps, and the same on her side, so the creaky little chap could clamber over the fence.

When we moved the boxes - she came round and asked us to put them back, politely, which we did. When the binmen took them away one day, she asked us to put them back. When we said we couldn't because they'd been taken away, she got angry.

It was at this point that I asked why it was so important the cat got into our garden, since it was our garden anyway.

'I don't want him going to the toilet in MY garden.'

It was at this point I told her to fuck off.
(, Thu 1 Oct 2009, 16:56, 7 replies)
Cultural mash
My time spent in East London increased my cultural diversity no end - not hard when you're an Irish girl who grew up twenty-two miles from the nearest set of traffic lights. Despite the huge change in demographic I soon settled in amidst the Bengali families who inhabited most of the block of flats, tempted by the amazing scents of curry wafting from kitchen extractor fans. I was pleased to become a member of the local community. I felt accepted. I felt like I fitted in well.

The next door neighbours sent their son round to borrow a potato masher from me. That's flippin' stereotyping at its worst.
(, Wed 7 Oct 2009, 12:32, 2 replies)
Do bed-sit neighbours count?
When I first moved to London, I rented a bedsit off some dodgy slumlord type (when I left, there was a bit of a dispute over getting my deposit back, a dispute the was quickly resolved when I pointed out that his home address was on the tenancy agreement and I would quite happily come round to collect it). Most of the other bedsiters were fairly sound, if a little weird, but one was really annoying. His name was Matt and he was 17. He was the first of his group of mates to move out of his parents, which meant his “crew” would treat the place like a youth club.

I would frequently come home from work to find about 15 school kids sitting on the stairs, smoking weed and trying to act hard. I was particularly impressed when I was asked “Oo I was peepin at, white bwoy?” by some 15 year old ginger kid.

Them hanging around the place didn’t bother me, since I quickly got into the habit of locking the door to my bedsit every time I left it – even when I went for a piss. What did bother me, was the music. Of the dozen or so kids who hung around the place, I would say half were either black or mixed race, the rest of them just thought they were black. So they listened to hip-hop. Unfortunately, they were all very much middle class (this being a relatively nice area of Finchley) so they only listened to radio-friendly, non-scary hip-hop and only three tracks thereof: “Stan”, “Still Dre” and “Forgot About Dre”. Now I didn’t mind these tracks, what I did object to was them being played on repeat for days on end, through a shitty little Alba portable stereo.

At first I asked them to turn it down, which they did for a while. Then I started basically getting told to fuck off – though they’d wait until the door was closed to actually tell me to fuck off.

Unfortunately for them, while they had a really crappy stereo, I did not. I had a relatively expensive CD player and amp and a massive set of speakers. So, as soon as the hip-hop went on, so would Pantera’s “Vulgar Display Of Power”. I’d stick wet tissue paper in my ears and whack the amp up to about 6, at which point the vibrations in my chest would be kinda painful. They’d normally fuck off somewhere else after a couple of minutes of thrash metal.

I also accidentally scared the shit out of them all. I needed something to cover up where the door should have been on my wardrobe. While wandering through Camden market, I spotted a flag-seller and realised these were the perfect size for the job. So I bought a Union Jack and pinned that in place. After it had hung there for a few days, the creases in it started to annoy me, so I decided to iron it. I was just slobbing out, so was wearing my slobbing out gear – a pair of blue jeans that were too tight to wear in public and a white t-shirt. So I stuck my feet in my boots (I’d taken to wearing para-boots to support a dodgy ankle) and wandered out onto the landing where the ironing board was set up. I was half way through getting the creases out when the “gang-stars” pilled up the stairs and came to a comedy halt, literally running into each other when the one at the front stopped. They all stared at me for a moment, then slowly filed past in silence, trying not to catch my eye. This puzzled me until I went back into my room and caught my reflection: big bovver boots, tight blue jeans, white t-shirt and a head freshly shaved down to a “1” all over, ironing a Union Jack – looking for all the world like a poster-boy for Combat18. They left me well alone after that…
(, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 9:57, 2 replies)

This question is now closed.

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