I won't keep you
My neighbour is an alcoholic. A man in his mid 60s he could easy pass for much older. He has always offered me a tin of Special Brew when I've passed him getting pissed in the street - occasionally having recently pissed himself. I decline: "Too early in the day for me, thanks. Got to drive somewhere." I had always considered him mostly harmless, in spite of being regular woken too early on a Saturday morning by his long-sufferring wife shouting at him. I've never met her, though I understand she's lovely and has to put up with a lot. He was always friendly and chatty. Very drunk, but generally amiable. I felt bad but I always tried to avoid getting into conversations with him. "I won't keep you." That is his catchphrase. He usually did.

A few months ago I was returning from work when I found myself walking a few metres behind him near our street. "Bugger," thought I. "I'm really NOT up for talking to him." He was clearly VERY drunk having probably spent all day in the pub. I watched him as he calmly approached the zebra crossing, carefully lie down and go to sleep with his head in the road. "Double bugger," thought I. "I can't leave him here." Attempts to coax him out of the road failed so I resorted to calling for an ambulance. Whilst on the phone to the emergency services a bloke driving a private ambulance pulls up and offers to help. "Lovely," thought I. "A trained medical professional with an impecible bedside manner to assist getting this vagrent off the road." No such luck. The guy was about as much use as a chocolate teapot. Nothing more than a glorified taxi driver. We got my neighbour up and away from the road and my Samaritan fucked off.

Happily, the paramedics soon arrived where I found out some truths regarding my shambling, drunk neighbour. This particular crew were called out to deal with him at least once a week. He is well-known for attacking paramedics - particularly female ones (there was a girl in this crew and she stood her distance, letting the bigger, beefier guys deal with him). It took a great deal of cajoulong to get the (by now) angry, swearing and aggressive man into the ambulance and away but I like to think my calming words and encouragement helped. I went home to my beer, which seemed a little less appetising after my experience. 

I'd not seen him in a while and found out that this was because he was back in prison. He's out soon and, no doubt, his downward spiral shall continue.
(Rilux might be pregnant and has bum-aids, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 11:34, Reply)

Neighbours House
There was an abandoned house next door. One miserable night the alarm started going off. It was about 1am, Dad was up for work at six so he wasn't best pleased. Fed up, my Dad gets his ladders (actually they belonged to next dooor, t'other side, but spent most of their lives in our yard a la Simpson/Flanders) he climbs up them, and with great precision and a lack of any electrical experience begins to dismantle the alarm box. Police drive by very slowly, stop and sit there watching... cue gust of wind lifting my dads dressing gown... God knows what they thought but they very quickly drove on.

Length... dunno, I wasn't footing the ladder.
( rjmrjm, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 11:29, 1 reply)

I live in a close
The neighbourhood is alright, apart from a family that live opposite me. They rent the house, and are chav scum. I know they are chav scum, because they meet a whole variety of requirements to be deemed chav scum.

Please find the attached list:

1. Mum not out of cheap pink dressing gown before 2pm.
2. Family has stupidly named, dirty, badly behaved, snot nosed offspring, who are allowed to come and go as they please, coming in only to grab a chocolate bar or bag of crisps whenever they want, and freely throw the packaging onto the ground.
3. The father is a badly tattooed, loud mouthed fuckwit.
4. The father usually seen topless, drinking from a can of Fosters in his front garden for no reason at 10am on Saturdays.
5. They have a cooker in thier front garden. I always thought this was an urban myth.
6. The front door is always fucking open, allowing stupidly named, dirty, badly behaved, snot nosed offspring free access.
7. They have 2 fucking great Rottweilers, and the chav scum owners, despite the door being open, seem to act with surprise and anger every time one of the dogs ventures outside. This is greeted with a "GEDDIN DA FUCKIN AHHHHHHHS!" from Mummy Chav.
8. They also have a parrot. It squarks all the time. It's squarks are greeted with "SHUDDUP FUCKSAKE!" from Mummy Chav. Don't have a parrot then you stupid cunt.
9. They drive an old 4x4 at too high a speed in the close. I bet if one of thier stupidly named, dirty, badly behaved, snot nosed offspring was hit by a car in the close they would go mental.
10. 'Princess on board!' sticker on the back window of the car.
11. R'n'B or hiphop music up full fucking whack in the car as they approach the close.
12. The space in front of thier house is 100% thiers, so you can fuck right off if you are thinking about parking in it, right?
13. Mummy chav has her hair scraped back all the time, and walks around the close with a scowel on, a fag on, and a tit on each elbow.
14. Mummy chav's increasingly irate call of "CONNNA!" when the stupidest of the stupidly named, dirty, badly behaved, snot nosed offspring, who is all of 6 goes missing, is the sound that makes me want to stab her in the face more than anything.

Bunch of fucking cunts.
(Spaff_Quaffer Wise fwom your gwave., Fri 2 Oct 2009, 11:25, 8 replies)

It wasn't me
An repost from 2005 with additions.

Next door to my old house was this woman in her mid-fifties, though she looked a lot older. She used to drink a lot and come to my front door to borrow things (money and paracetamols - she was addicted to them) and use my washing machine (she used it once and threw washing powder everywhere and then offered me a chicken in compensation). She stank but I felt sorry for her and generally gave in.

I tried to be nice to her but I had great trouble talking with anyone who is drunk. My father used to drink a lot and had made my drunk tolerance level drop to nothing.

Despite that I would try to make an effort and listen to her when she turned up at my door talking for hours on end and ignoring all my polite reminders of the time, etc. The only way I could get rid of her was to tell her to f**k off very loudly before she would go away. I don't normally shout or swear at people so this ploy can be quite effective.

She once stole a book from someone's doorstep and gave it to me as a present. I didn't want it and she couldn't see why I wouldn't.

One day she turned up upset so I let her in (MISTAKE!) and we talked. During the conversation she suddenly said she was dying and that she'd had a heart attack. Now, my father died of heart disease a year or so before this and she didn't look nearly ill enough, so I didn't believe her.

She went on to say that her son's girlfriend was due to give birth soon and she attempted to give me a bag of knitting to get me to finish it. She knew I was gay and so assumed I could knit. I mean, we all can, it's genetic, like shopping and perfect dress-sense. Then she said "love the baby for me". Eh? I had never even met her son. I'm sure he'd be chuffed to have some overweight old queen cooing over his firstborn.

At this point I snapped and tried to get her to leave. During the heated exchange that followed she demanded that I tell her I cared for her, which I couldn't. I felt sorry for her but that was all. And then I managed to throw her out.

She was sobbing and carried on sobbing once she got home. I could hear her through the wall. I saw her the next day in the street; she was apologetic and I was surly.

She died a week later of a heart attack. I felt bad about not believing her and not doing more to help her but ... I just couldn't.
(BearWithLittleBrain, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 11:22, 1 reply)

Freedom!
I've already replied to Snark's post on 'tails' of woe about our neighbours, but anyhoo, they are two 50 plus, bitter and twisted old queens. They were friendly enough when we first moved in, but their oddities soon emerged like a turd from bears arse.
 
Talking to them over the fence one day (it's hard to avoid them, they scutter out like rats whenever we venture outside to enjoy the dwindling sunshine), the topic soon got onto their spare room and its special designation.
 
It turns out it's a sex dungeon (I've never witnessed this for myself before you rumour-mongerers start). They have dildos so big you might mistake them for draft excluders and their 'safe' word is freedom...
 
All of this information was ventured without any prompting and they were more than happy to tell us about this. Now, this would be slightly off-putting if they were a good-looking straight couple. But the fact that they are both well over 6ft with Bella Emburg-sized guts and terrible personal hygiene just adds to the horror.
 
My girlfriend swears she heard them grunting a few weeks back...
 
They also look at me like a lion eyeing up a crippled gazelle. I'm almost scared to be left alone in the house.
(Deskbound You insignificant speck of dust, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 11:21, 2 replies)

Earplugs are great
I have to wear earplugs at night because my neighbour groans a lot. I think he's either masturbating loudly and doesn't care who hears, or he's having nightmares, or both. Once in a blue moon I leave the earplugs out to see if he's still groaning and moaning, and sure enough he is. Noisy bastard.

Incidentally I can recommend those squidgy yellow earplugs that look like bullets, they work very well.
( Ysol ab abl blap, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 11:16, 3 replies)

Unorthodox use of Furniture
For the last two years of my life as an undergrad I stayed in one particularly crappy excuse for a flat which at least had the saving grace that it was a bit brighter and airier than the basement flat I'd lived in before. Apart from going slightly crazy in a tiny bedroom and having to shout at the landlord because something else had broken down, I didn't mind living there all that much. The Chinese students who moved in next door, however, had a slightly more turbulent year.

I was milling around the kitchen one morning, probably trying to find something to make my sorry-looking slice of toasted Tesco-Value-White Sliced-from-the-Reduced-Aisle a bit more appetising, when I heard a thump and a crash from next door.

I didn't initially regard this as suspicious. They were a noisy bunch at the best of times, and I assumed that the sudden, startled sounding shout was because the mouse who'd been terrorising our flat had wandered into their kitchen in search of something more exotic to steal than the corner of some Tesco-Value-White-Sliced-from-the-Reduced-Aisle.

So I was very surprised when I set off for uni, maybe half an hour later. I got my things, put my coat on, opened the door, walked out...

...straight into a policeman.

There was a strapping six-footer in a policeman's uniform, who I had to presume wasn't there to provide a striptease, as he was talking to one of the Chinese guys in the doorway of their flat, and actually taking notes in his notebook, rather than using it as a way to show teasing glimpses of his penis. And further down the hallway was another similarly burly bobby handcuffing one of the other flatmates.

Turns out the noise wasn't the mouse, then. I heard later on that the loud shout had been the result of an altercation in which the guy I saw being handcuffed had decided to hit his flatmate over the head with a chair.

Apologies for length; I'm sure if the copper had been a stripper it would have been gargantuan.
(LongJohnBaldry, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 11:15, 4 replies)

For my sins
I ended up living in Corby, just after the steel works had closed, On the rough Orange order Norhtern Irish estate in the middle of a catholic Scottish town in the middle of England. We lived in a block of six houses, four of which were abandoned. The end one the local kids had set on fire, causing a dust explosion in the second one blowing the roof off it. the third one along, the old man in it had died and everything in the house behind the windows and front door had been stolen, windows, back door, stairs, light fittings, floorboards, the lot.
The house next door was actually abandoned, and a local bought it to do up. He fitted new double glazing, the local kids smashed it all. so he came back and fitted more and the local kids smashed it again. He fitted yet another set, and boarded over them. then a couple of days he came back, did some work inside and went away, and managed to puncture a gas line. one of us walked past smelt gas, called the gas board and they came round with the fire brigade, who ripped the boards off and smashed all the windows to let the gas off and prevent an explosion. We never saw him again.

And thats not counting the 10 year olds attempting to mug you with a bucket of petrol and a lighter (Actually a bucket of water and a squirt of zippo fuel to make it smell right) or the gang of skinheads kicking seven bells out of a guy in my back garden who on being told to fuck off or we'd call the police pulled out warrant cards and said they were the police.

Neighbours on the other side were quite plesant and never any trouble at all though and I have nothing to say about them.
(ceebs, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 11:12, 3 replies)

“You can’t choose your neighbours.”
Said the patronising shister from the estate agency who was showing me round a flat I went to view recently. It was a nice flat. Perfect infact except for one mammoth sticking point. The neighbours were playing music LOUD, very LOUD – so LOUD I thought Mr. Pork-Pie Hat Druggie No-Talent Waxen-Skinned Pasty-Faced Drain Pipe Trousers - Pete Doherty himself was actually performing like a big public schoolboy spaz next door.

The walls were shaking. I was not best pleased.

“No you can’t choose your neighbours,” I replied as I placed my hands on the wall to feel the vibration of the hackneyed apples n pears, ows yer fatha dross seeping through. “But you can choose which ones you club to death with a cricket bat, cut into tiny little peices, and then flush down the bog.”

The estate agent thought I was joking. I was not.
( SpankyHanky, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 11:02, 1 reply)

Had to sell my house.
My first house was a mid terrace 2 up 2 down in Hertfordshire and it was lovely.

On one side we had a deaf old lady and on the other a slightly odd middle aged couple. We were all good neighbours - never too much noise and we all got along pretty peacefully.

After we had been there about a year the middle aged couple announced they were off and would be renting the house out.

About a week after they left the tenants moved in. I came home from work that Friday and as I was about to open the front door, my wife appeared at the neighbours door to say that she had been invited round for a house warming drink and to come in as "they're really nice".

My "Looney Radar" went into overdrive the moment I met them. He was short and weighed about 9 stone wringing wet, she was 6 foot and hadn't weighed less than 20 stone for a long time. I was offered a glass of warm Martini - nice - and a seat on the floor as they didn't have any chairs. I would guess they were about 50, very well spoken and skint. This was the only time we ever spoke in a civil manner.

It quickly became apparent that they were alcoholics and that she beat him up. Bear in mind that this was a terraced house and you could hear a lot from next door, including her throwing him down the stairs accompanied by frenzied screaming and swearing.

I think we lasted about a fortnight before our first call to the police which became a regular (at least once a week) occurrence.

One Sunday she knocked on our front door (pissed) asking if she could borrow a pound. I was so stunned that I rather meekly handed it over (idiot!). Later that day I found out that just before she knocked on our door she and her rat faced cunt of a husband had just been thrown out of the local church for being drunk and trying to take money from the collection plate!!

Another time the neighbour on their other side saw her in town "wearing a dress just like mine". When she got home she found that it was her dress and that it had been nicked off her washing line.

The list of problems we had with them would fill a book but ultimately there was little that we could do back then (1989) apart from sell the house - which is what we did after the worst 12 months of my life. 12 months of interrupted sleep; endless calls to the police; visits from the council; abusive confrontations in the street; explaining to the bailiffs that "yes, they are in". It was a fucking nightmare.

The day we moved out was such a relief I could have wept, in fact my wife did.

To the people who bought our house I would like to say I'm sorry and that I hope they were evicted before too long.
( Blackdogmanguitar is out with Fat Larry's Jazz Band on, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 10:50, Reply)

People I sit next to at work...
...could conceivably be classed as neighbours. Anyway, I overheard this conversation in passing this morning (initials changed to protect the innocent):

SA – (showing DT some photos) “I’d love to get one of these blown up”
KW – “Are you looking at Arabs?”

Serves me right for working for this company. Should have noticed something in the name...
(SonoraAeroClub "OH SWEET HELEN OF BALLS!", Fri 2 Oct 2009, 10:47, 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.
(sittingduck Attention seeking, bullshitting fuck-knuckle, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 10:38, 1 reply)

Thin walls
Thin walls seem to be a recurring theme of my abodes. My current house is no exception: I love it, but it was built for the late-Victorian working class, and sound insulation wasn't prominent on the builder's briefing.

In the mornings, I'll frequently hear the old lady next door hacking up eighty years of phlegm. In the evenings, the soundtrack changes. It becomes karaoke from the people on the other side. That would be annoying in its own right - but the experience is enhanced by a number of considerations.
(1) It seems to be only one member of the household who sings.
(2) Whoever it is has an amazingly loud voice.
(3) Whoever it is has an amazing ability to miss the high notes by quite a long way.
(4) Whoever it is has an amazing ability to continue, unperturbed, by (3)
(5) Whoever it is has an amazing fondness for Celine Dion - the only song that's been sung (I use the word advisedly) for a long time is "My Heart will Go On". I have a faint memory of Jennifer Rush's "The Power of Love" being attempted once, but that was a freak and statistically insignificant occurrence.

My erstwhile lodger suspected that the perpetrator of these crimes against music might have been the 11-year-old son of the family. He's a nice kid - but if he is the singer, then I really wish that he'd find another interest. Something like gang warfare would be nice.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 10:36, 1 reply)

Best view ever
When I was a second year student I had the best view imaginable from my bedroom window - directly opposite was the bathroom window of a house of five girls, and their landlord had installed the frosted glass the wrong way around.

That is all.
( rofl harris, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 10:35, 5 replies)

Mr and Mrs Hall.....
used to live next door to us when I was growing up in Southampton. They were really really nice old couple who I knew all through my growing up years. The trouble was as years went by Mrs Hall started to suffer from dementia and used to think we needed extra food. Instead of just coming to the front doot to say 'I have a spare cauliflower, do you want it?' or 'Here, have a few apples off the tree' she would deliver in an unusual way, over the fence. Now this food wasn't the best, it was usually every colour of the rainbow with mold or half eaten!.

It got sad towards the end of their lives, she was as batty as a bat.....well you know, a bit loopy, but as fit as a fiddle. Sadly Mr Hall was as sharp as a knife but physically not good and struggled to walk. My Dad used to go in and speak to Mr Hall after the news to keep him sane and give him some sensible conversation. Sadly neither of them is with us anymore but they were great neighbours, RIP Mr and Mrs Hall.


P.S Just remembered a classic Mrs Hall moment that makes me smile. I was playing footbal in the garden, hitting the ball up against the wall of the garage when I miss kicked and put it straight through the window. I was probably about 7 or 8 at the time and remember thinking ' shit I am dead, Dads going to kill me' only to look up and see Mrs Hall in hysterics looking down from her upstairs window. For some reason I felt reasured by that and I don't know why
(Studentken is looking for motivation on, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 10:31, Reply)

our own "Narnia"....
we talk to our neighbours through a little hole in the wall

well... when I say "little", what I mean is we kinda knocked through into next door during some "unplanned structural readjustment work" and effectively made a doorway to next door's spare room.

they were alright about it really, it's nice to be friendly with the neighbours (especially in our street!)

Only problem is, if someone knocks on the front door, we have to go through the doorway into "Narnia" (that's how I like to think of it) and pull the wardrobe in front of the doorway so nasty soldiers can find us
(Anne Frank started to build a loft conversion on, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 10:28, 1 reply)

Location, location, weiner dog
I got a letter through my postbox last week. “Shut your f*cking dog up,” it said. Fair enough, said I. It was written by my neighbour to my left…

…who seems to be in regular employment as a drug dealer and has just been bailed on rape charges. My dog barks whenever his uninsured BMW comes tearing into my parking space blasting whatever song uses the word ‘innit’ the most in the charts that week.

It is a sad state of affairs when your rapist drug dealing neighbour thinks the neighbourhood has gone to the sh*tter because of your dachshund.

Worse yet, I apologised.
(TheSnark oh, c'mon, like you didn't see me coming, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 10:08, 6 replies)

Nice old couple :-)
I'm pleased to say I used to live next door to the nicest elderley couple you can imagine.

Rita had a daily fitness routine of playing swingball. Which I admit after a late night out the fwapp fwapp fwapp noise of the swingball at 8am could be a touch annoying but once I had a girlfriend I found use of the rhythmic alarm call ;-)

However what really made Rita a great neighbour was when I decided to have a noisy party one night. I decided to be courteous and warn her that I was having some friends over for a BBQ party and if it got too noisy to please let me know.

Her reply, "oh don't worry dear! I'll turn the TV up, if it gets too loud I'll turn it up more. If it's still too loud I'll turn it off and listen and if it sounds good enough I'll join you!".
(golddust QOTW now revolves around being a cunt, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 10:00, Reply)

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…
(ScousersPet, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 9:57, 2 replies)

Ink
My house is a Victorian terrace in the sort of area that still has a corner shop and a pub every couple of blocks. In fact, I live about 10 doors from one pub, and there's a second just across the road. (I've never been into the latter: I'm a touch scared of it, on the basis that there's something about a pub that's lit with fluorescent tubes that screams "rough".)

When I moved in a couple of years ago, the house pretty much directly across the road from me (and next door to the pub) was derelict and for sale. Eventually, though, someone bought it, and converted into a shop unit with a flat (which must be tiny) above it. The commercial unit was let to a guy who turned it into a tattoo parlour.

Thus I have as neighbours two pubs and a tattoo place.

Such is the marketing genius of the inky entrepreneur that he had used to keep unconventional hours at the weekends. Notably, for the first few months of trading, he would stay open until midnight on a Friday: perfect to catch the passing trade in noisy chavs who, blitzed after several hours of cheap lager and alcopops, think that there'd be no better end to the evening than to have a permanent record of their love for Shaz or Baz or Kaz or Gaz or Daz somewhere on their body.

Classy.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 9:56, 1 reply)

Winner for last weeks compo (again)
I just got this email:

"Hello

If I view a document I typed yesterday I cannot go back to full page view?

XXX"

I have a bruise on my forehead now from banging it on my desk.
( Crap Little Monkey Deathstar, so good they built it twice, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 9:54, Reply)

Care in the community
My last neighbour was a few cans short of a six pack. He took to watching my every move with suspicion after accusing me of stealing his postcode after taking in a parcel for me.

My neighbour before that was lovely. Then I woke up one morning to find the police and forensics outside my garden as he had stabbed and killed someone in a drunken argument. A drunken argument that woke up everybody in the neighbourhood except myself and my husband.

Length - 8inches with a serrated edge apparently
(ladraven, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 9:40, Reply)

There Goes The Neighbourhood
Ever since the Anglo-Saxons moved in there's been nothing but trubble - 'invasions' this and 'civil wars' that. Not to mention the cooking...
(roysin, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 9:15, Reply)

Before we were neighbours..
I live in a recently built block of 6 cute Pseudo-Neo-Tudorbethan ish houses, on a street of mostly grand Victorian 3 story villas, and Lyme trees, in a little country town.

The local developer that built our houses was so dodgy that when the time came to connect them to the main sewer, the only firm that could, only would with cash up front (Unheard of in the building, apparently) Said dodgy developer raised the cash by flogging the block to a housing association. This was a good thing for me, since I could live with my children on a lovely street with Victorian houses and Lyme trees, etc etc.. Not so lovely if you lived there, according to my mate six doors up.. Concerned residents raised a hundred-signature petition against the purchase by the housing association since, and I quote...

"They'll move single parents in, and there'll be all night parties, and orgies, and all their kids will be car thieves, and they won't keep their fronts nice, and they'll lower the value of your house"

Obviously he laughed at the funny little man with the petition and then told me all about it.

Welcome to the Neighbourhood, then. We never did find out where the parties were.

Edit/ Sorted spelling, etc.. I'm sorry I have a cold..
(Beer Elf Thought this was like a campfire, anyhow, on, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 9:10, Reply)

As Ye Sow, So Shall Ye Reap
As I live in a rough area, I interviewed some of my neighbours for my criminology Master's dissertation research. Very interesting people!

One used to buy stolen property from burglars. His house, across the road from where the burglars regularly met up to find buyers for their stuff, was full of quality nicked stuff, worth thousands, for which he'd paid a pittance.

Over the years he became well-known among the local criminals. This understandably made him a bit paranoid.

So he moved to a house further from the pub and fortified it like a castle. High fences, big dogs, floodlights, sturdy gates, CCTV: if you want to visit you ring in advance and then again on the doorstep, and he looks at you on the CCTV and leans out of the upstairs window to make sure.

One of my conclusions was that a consequence of offending behaviour may be an increased fear of victimisation later in life.

It was hard not to moralise. But hey, whose fucking fault was that then, Dickhead?
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 8:43, Reply)

Neighbours: just like assorted chocolates, that are well past their use-by date
One neighbour kept an immaculate house, including a light on a pole - yes, they had their own floodlight for their pretty house. I drove an appalling, 20 year old car. We lived on a narrow street where two cars could not be parked on opposite sides of the road - otherwise no cars could get through.

So, if someone parked across from my house, I had to park my scrap heap outside his house. On about the third occasion he actually confronted me, as I was getting out the car, demanding if I had to park in front of his house. I was later told that he went to the council to try to prevent me from parking in front of his house.

I've had a noisy neighbour. Nothing works, except moving. On one occasion I blasted them with music at 9 am after they had just gone to bed. Then, after I had to go to work, I programmed my stereo to blast them again for another fifteen minutes, two hours later. Later that night I actually heard them shouting at each other about 'doing something', and one was shouting 'we are cool man, we are cool!' At that point, I went out for a quiet walk.

The only thing I have learned from neighbours is that I must never buy a house.
(stuntsmile, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 8:27, Reply)

I live in between a Korean restaurant and a veterinary clinic
You do the math.
(oball needs Satan more than he needs me, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 7:19, 4 replies)

one lot
are always fighting, another one's a miserable bastard. I can't understand what the third one's saying, and the fourth one thinks she's better than everyone else.

Signed,
England.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 7:12, 1 reply)

I guess I can just stick this back in here then
My flatmate Daisy and I have got crazy neighbours above and below.

Above: an alcoholic, sexually frustrated former athlete whose always having screaming rows with her daughter (who i've never seen, only heard). My mate Mike now lodges with her, he's a brave man...altho he has stolen a tank or two in his time so i'm not sure who the real mentalist is.

Below: eccentric, mental, emotionally detached artist who sometimes uses his penis instead of a brush and is very good at designing banners.

Its an strange mix, but we all get on ok :)

Worried about length? Then skip to the end...
(Zutroy started without you, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 6:17, 6 replies)

Apologies
to anyone who lives in Lincolnshire, but I can safely say it's the only place we've had really weird neighbours. Property prices were absolutely dirt-cheap up there, and so in exchange for a nice/alright house in Surrey, we got a massive manor-house like place for about the same amount. Result, was the general consensus until we met the neighbours.
Since we were from the South we were considered foreigners. Really weird foreigners who spoke 'posh.' Two days after we moved in, the Georgian windows at the front of the house were smashed by a gang of kids from the neighbours behind the house (because of grounds no other house was nearer to us than 300m or so.) We saw a fire break out in an old woman's potting shed down the left of the driveway and my dad being a nice man got a fire extinguisher and went running. He put it out, she gave him the filthiest look I've ever seen. Turned out she was trying to claim the insurance on it. Stuff was stolen, windows smashed, car smashed. The neighbours were the purest distillation of chav it is possible to get, and simply didn't grasp the idea of restraining their children.

Luckily my brother had an air-gun or two. No revenge could be sufficient, but strolling around with this faintly realistic looking gun, and occasionally taking pot-shots at the buggers seemed to help a bit

A few years of hell, proving that bloody Location, location, location really is key.
( Amberl was stripey and dominated Europe, Fri 2 Oct 2009, 6:02, Reply)