Student Neighbours

A long, long time ago in a galaxy, far, far away.

I was living in Manchester and having an absolute whale of a time. It was during my first few weeks down there comforting my mate Denty who's just been dumped by his GF.

We were in one of our favourite pulling palaces, The Swinging Sporran, when I noticed a striking redhead in the corner. (No body, no hair, just this red head...) So I asked Denty if he knew her.

"Oh. It's Claire. Professional virgin. She lives in the same halls as me."

Now I never could resist a challenge so I bet Denty a pint that I could lay her in less than a week and the hunt was on.

I spent all night chatting her up but didn't try anything on - I just arranged to meet her the following night. That night, we went out with Denty's crowd and we were getting on like a house on fire. I was oozing bad-boy charm and was all over her like a rash. To cut a long (and boring) story short, me and Claire eventually slipped away into the night and back to hers.

She lived in students halls. Whitworth Park to be exact. These were enormous student flats that looked like giant Toblerones - the roof came down almost to the ground. And Claire lived in one of the top flats. We went back to hers, a bit of smooching, a few promises that "yeah, yeah, of course I'll respect you in the morning" and then the deed was done.

Lying back, I lit of a fag for the two of us and there was a tap on the window. Three fucking stories up! I opened the curtains and sitting on the sloping roof was Denty holding a six-pack.

"There you go mate" he said handing me a can through the window. "You won that bet fair and square."

Then he fell off the roof. And I had a lot of fast talking to do.

Not many women have lost their cherry with a neighbour sitting on their roof watching.

Cheers


www.livejournal.com/users/legless123/
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Thu 25 Aug 2005, 16:39, Reply)

I am not saying my neighbours have any alleged criminal connections,
however:
1. He rides a Harley and wears Gypsy Joker MC colours - also about 6' 4" covered in tatts
2. He goes away for weeks at a time leaving the house empty
3. His current "partner" is an early twenties, blonde, large breasts, skimpily dressed young lady (as were the last 4 - this is in 2 1/2 years)
4. Every so often 3 or 4 clones of his partner come to the house, in seperate vehicles but usually within an hour of eachother, parking their cars on the front garden and leave 2 or 3 days later, also within an hour of eachother.
5. There are no kids in the house yet 2 of the bedroom windows can be seen from our place - often have blue lights on, despite heavy curtains, for weeks at a time.
6. Well I suppose the pots with large cannabis plants that have been stripped of leaves, placed in the garden for a week at the end of a growing cycle are a bit of a giveaway.
7. Several large chemical containers in the recycling every couple of months.
8. When not riding his bike, he has had a succession of expensive modified V8 Holden Commodores - SS and Clubsport - about 6 since he moved in.

and, best of all

9. there are usually 2 or 3 coffins in the back garden, these change regularly and I know he does not work at a funeral home

but otherwise, lovely chap




(peewee13, Fri 26 Aug 2005, 4:29, Reply)

sex crazed old people
I live in Edinburgh. I used to live in a dogey part of the city by the sea. My neighbours were the most senile, nosey geriatrics that I have ever met. They had a bloody big dog that would rip your throat out soon as look at you (in fact it attacked the old woman taking a large chunk of her leg for his dinner) She called me "sonny" even though i'm a girl and being abusive. They were in their eighties.

They used to have the loudest, filth ridden sex my ears have ever heard. But thats not all, oh no. In order to keep time pumping the night away, he used to sing "Flower of Scotland" at the highest volume possible.

I hated to hear our national anthem used in this way and the grunting and singing made me go slightly mad.

So I would bang on the wall out of time to his stroke to put him off.

It was a fantastic game, me banging on the wall, him stopping, shouting "fucking hell!" at the top of his voice then trying to start up again.

The amount of KY they must have went through is unthinkable.
(moogbook, Thu 25 Aug 2005, 16:30, Reply)

The Pyramid Family
When at university in York we lived in a desparately rough and pikey area called Tang Hall. How rough was it? Within two weeks of moving in our house had been stormed by the riot police (and my very drunken housemate slept through it, but that's another story).

Anyway, our back garden joined onto several other people's back gardens with fairly high fences between them. The third house around was inhabited by the scariest bunch of inbred weirdos you can imagine. There were about 426 of them living in that house and not one of them had a job. So how did they keep themselves busy all day? Soap operas? No. Incest? No (well, actually, probably yes, but that's not the point of the story). In fact, they spent about 6 weeks one summer entertaining themselves by building a pyramid in their back garden.

Yes, a pyramid. Practically full-size. Out of mud.

As the days went by, we watched in disbelief as this family erected a three-metre-high ziggurat out of soil and paving slabs. It was like watching a termite colony in action as they swarmed unceasingly all over this mound. And when they'd finally finished the pyramid they embedded a bathtub in the top. As you do.

We never had the slightest idea why they did all this or what it was for, as having finished it they proceeded to act as if it wasn't there. They went back to their other favourite pastime of lobbing rocks into our garden when we were trying to barbeque. Seriously. Parents egging on their brood and everything.

There's a postscript to this story. Just before I moved out I was walking down the road to the shops when I was stopped by two Mormons (Mormen?), fresh off the plane from Utah with their silly short-sleeved white shirts and name badges. They asked me if I knew anyone who needed saving. Without hesitation, I turned and pointed to the Ziggurat House. Their faces lit up with righteous glee at the thought of bringing the word of their lord to an ungodly area of Yorkshire.

There was no sign of those Mormen ever again. I'd feel guilty, but then those white short-sleeved shirts really do irritate me.
( Olembe Refuses to write in this space, Thu 25 Aug 2005, 15:17, Reply)

Not my neighbour, but...
...my ambulance was sent to an apartment block to assess an intellectually impaired lady who could only state that she was "unwell".
I felt unwell too when I entered her apartment as a rather offensive smell reached my olfactory centre.
It was this smell that was making her feel ill, so I thought: easy, locate the smell, remove the smell, problem fixed. I checked her bins and her fridge and her laundry but couldn't find the source. I noticed that the smell was worse nearer her front door and even worse outside of her front door. It then dawned on me that the smell was coming from the apartment opposite and after a forced entry courtesy of the police we discovered the deceased and decomposing body of her neighbour.

We told our patient what the source of the bad smell was and she just looked at us poker faced. After an uncomfortable silence she said "He smells like that deliberately you know. He’s getting his own back because he didn’t like my onions”.

Of course, how stupid of me not to realise.
(emadex thinks the world will end on, Thu 1 Sep 2005, 5:44, Reply)

Oh and
My parents live in a fairly posh bit of Belfast. A few years ago, the neighbours sold up, their house was demolished and a small close of six or seven Barrett-style homes went up.

Now, there had previously been sharp words between my dad and one of the new neighbours who had taken to cutting back other people's trees & shrubs if he reckoned they encroached on "his" land (i.e. anywhere at all within the close, which does not in any way belong to him). So my old man explained a few concepts to him, such as trespass, criminal damage, theft, going equipped, various conspiracy offences etc and no more was heard...

That is, until my dad got someone in to cut the lawn a couple of weeks ago. He parked his van on the corner of the road into the close next door, and this bloke came piling out of his house to remonstrate. There was much waving of arms and shouting the odds, until the offended party came out with: "Do you know who you are dealing with here? Do you know who I am? I AM EAMONN HOLMES' BROTHER!!!" Followed by the all-too-rare sight of the gardener actually rolling on the floor laughing his arse off.
(Wong Fei-Hung - now with added flickr.com (see profile), Thu 25 Aug 2005, 21:04, Reply)

The pigeon would never know
Our neighbour to the left is six-foot-seven with interchangeable attachments for his right arm stump. He has three teeth, a false eye made entirely out of dried fruit and he sweats oil. His name is Jerry and we get on with him famously. We often lend him our wardrobe and he reciprocates by grazing on our lawn.

Our other neighbour, however, is quite odd. She moved in around eight months ago. It was just after Christmas and I was feeling rather down as I tend to do once the festive season is coming to a close. Following the doctor's advice my partner had been tucked up in bed since Boxing Day, suffering from a severe bout of Henry's Chin. She had been sucking her ankles for three days straight so I had resorted to sleeping on the couch with only a small loaf for comfort.

One night, when the snow had just about cleared, I was awoken from my downstairs slumber by a spasmodic tap at the window. I peered through the darkness at the mantlepiece as a thin shaft of cold blue light illuminated the face of our carriage clock: 4.05am. Who on earth would be tapping at our living room window at such an hour? A mischievous youth? Some creature of the night?

With only a pair of pale blue cotton briefs to preserve my modesty, I made my way creakily toward the window. I parted the curtains a fraction and peeped out. There, in the centre of the crisp, frosted lawn stood a slender woman of around thirty-five with close-cropped blond hair and clothed only in a white thong and bra. Despite her slim frame her breasts were full and healthy like a pair of dead labrador puppies in miniature silk hammocks. Her expression was blank, though she had tears in her eyes that could have been caused by the bitter cold, or maybe by a deep sorrow within her heart. Her lips already appeared blue. I could not leave this thing of beauty standing there in the dark.

Despite my wood, I departed from the warmth of the house and onto the lawn. The frosted blades of grass crunched delicately beneath my bare feet as a subtle, chill breeze kissed and licked at my nipples, and they responded by reaching outward from my chest like hungry anemones grasping for plankton in the ocean of the morning air. I approached the frozen lawnvixen. The cold caused me to gasp and my thick, warm breath shrouded her breasts, forming fragile crystals of ice upon her soft, moist skin. I quietly asked her why she was standing on my lawn at 4.05am on such a cold winter's morning. She gently took my hand and led me into the house next door. I asked her what was wrong and she pointed silently at the stairs just within the doorway. Her face was numb from the cold so I struck it a mighty blow with my right elbow. "Speak, o frozen harpy of the night!" I bellowed. "Divulge unto me thy reasons for moonlit winter frolicks!" She stared blankly, her only movement a vain effort to try and lick her own eyebrow. It was clear she would not speak so I thought it best to look at the stairs and try to identify the problem.

It was then that the noise began. It was the most guttural, primeval grunt, and though it emanated from the woman's wide-open mouth, her head tossed back as though catching falling ham, its origins were far deeper. I could only describe the sound as that of a gravel pancreas mounted by a bald, rectal fox with Steve Penk's disgustingly misguided sense of self-importance, and it made me sick. I distracted the groaning wretch for a second or two with a tasteless Rod Hull impersonation and fled from the house and back next door to the warmth of my couch.

I have not seen our neighbour since that morning, but every time I walk past her house I can hear that same bowel-raping, churning sound from behind the door.

My partner recovered quickly from her illness, although her chin is still somewhat gluey.
(stusut79, Thu 25 Aug 2005, 17:12, Reply)

Living in a flat, we have several 'neighbours'
First is Beryl across the hall, who can be heard loudly 'mewing' to her cat.....the fact she doesn't have a cat doesn't seem to put her off.

Then there's 'shouty bloke' upstairs, who can be heard arguing very loudly at all hours of night and day.
It must only be the voices in his head he shouts at, as there is never another voice to be heard.

'Blind bloke'(he is blind, it's not just a clever nickname) regularly goes to the nearby pub (about 30yd from the front door), get's arseholed, then spends the next couple of hours bouncing off of cars in the car park untill someone finally leads him in the right direction of the flats entrance.
When asked which lift he wanted to get to his floor, (one for even numbered floors, one for odd), and which floor he wants, he'll always answer "Any, doesn't matter"

Finally, we come to 'Crazy Pete' A man who is actually convinced he's Ozzy Osbourne's brother, and will kick the fuck out of you if you so much as hint that you don't also love Ozzy (but don't overdo it, as "no-one loves Ozzy as much as I do", promptly followed by a kicking)
He's around 5'1", has a foot long ginger beard and a bald head covered in Ozzy tattoos and scars....the scars are from where he will bottle himself for no particular reason.
(chriswakey, Thu 25 Aug 2005, 14:55, Reply)

Tank
My neighbour is a right wing, gun-toting nationalist. As well as a veritable armoury of weapons, he owns a tank. I shit you not. It's called Matilda. This is in the middle of rural Hampshire. How bloody scary is that?!

Our other neighbour - well, technically a neighbour, as he owns the next house along, which is about a mile away - is the drummer from Status Quo. I shit you not again.

Beat that!
( Peregr1n @peregr1n, Thu 25 Aug 2005, 17:59, Reply)

Me!
I have luckily not experienced much in the way of scary neighbours, other than new babies and the like. I did however become a scary neighbour myself for one night only.

It was my first year in halls at uni and one night I was awakened by the sound of my flatmate in the room to the left, the one in the room to my right and the guy who lived above me all having sex in their separate rooms. Loudly. As a bitter, twisted and lone sleeper, I belted out a few verses of 'Jerusalem" at the top of my lungs. That shut them up.

Twats.
(kitteny_goodness, Thu 25 Aug 2005, 14:47, Reply)

Bob
Ah Bob!

He lived in the same corridor as me in the first year of uni. A nice guy who just had some very odd habits...and occasionally went a bit psychotic. Perhaps it was the dogfood he ate. Perhaps it was the pints of cheap bitter or the lighter fluid he liberally imbibed. Who can say?

He had a really piercing alarm clock that went off at 7am every morning for ages. Basically a powerful NUUUUUUUUURRRRRRR that most of the block could hear. The kind of sound that cut through your duvet and woke you up, particularly annoying if you were a dossy arts student that never went in for lectures (that would be me).

He was usually comatose from his various drink / drug combinations the night before and was the only one in the block who was never woken by the noise. Groups of angry students knocking at his door trying to wake him up never seemed to rouse him either.

One night I came in late and I noticed his door was open and he was nowhere to be seen. I decided to grab this opportunity for a good nights sleep and I nabbed his alarm clock and retired to my own room.

Around 4 in the morning I am woken by a loud slow knocking at my door.

I open it to find Bob, dressed in black, hair exploding at all angles, with an icy mad gleam in his eye. He is also clasping a sizeable carving knife.

"Give...me...my...clock."

He is gently quivering, and obviously off his head, so with a frozen smile on my face I pass him his clock and close and lock my door.

After pondering my experience for a little while I fall asleep.

To be woken at about 7am by a loud NUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRR.
( String Theory sometimes feeds the sparrows too, Tue 30 Aug 2005, 11:31, Reply)

Wanna live in a fancy neighbourhood?
I live in a complicated neighbourhood. Why? Because not that long ago it turned from one of the cheapest and seediest places to live in, into the zone where every high-profiled businessman, politician and high-society moron wants to have a home. This means the neighbourhood has ‘improved’ (sort of…) but it also means there’s a great deal of residents from the old days still stubbornly dwelling here.
What is so wrong with my neighbours? Well, let’s see:

- Multiple murders have occurred in the last years (specifically I remember one about a gay popular-song preformer being axed to death by his lover and a man who used a shotgun to kill his wife, daughter and cat, shooting himself immediately after);
- Several suicide attempts (one very notorious amongst the neighbourhood in which the man in question didn’t actually die the first three times he tried because he couldn’t quite get himself killed by jumping from his 4th floor apartment or the one about the girl who slashed her wrists twice or the guy who was found by his 12 year old daughter hung by the neck in his bathroom);
- We’re ‘protected’ by a guild of drug dealers who roam the streets but at the same time make sure no other ‘gang’ gets in their turf, so we even feel safe because of this (go figure);
- There’s a huge amount of immigrants living in bunches of up to 20 per apartment (imagine the noise) because the rents are astronomical and only gathering up can they actually pay. Among them there are Ukrainians who get drunk on Sundays and sing all day long at the top of their lungs, Brazilians who sit on the windowsills (legs on the outside) speaking on their mobiles with their families back home, local and foreign students (German, English, Brazilian and …whatever) having parties till 5 am (and they don’t even INVITE me), an African couple who have arguments so severe in the middle of the street that one day I saw the woman throw a pan of boiling water on her husband’s arm while their kids were screaming in panic zealously protected by a very young girl (I think she’s their aunt) who was trying to get them out of the way- of course, police and paramedics were involved;
- The owner of the market downstairs constantly arrases my mother (because apparently she’s one of the only women in the neighbourhood whom he hasn’t bagged (she’s 59 and he’s about 45);
- There’s an opera singer who rehearses on Sunday mornings, a cello player, a piano player and a saxophone player who practice with their windows wide open;
- It’s one of the few streets in the vicinity in which the traffic goes ‘up’ and so there’s dozens of cars going by all day and all night. Of course, this is an excellent excuse for fights among taxi drivers, lorry drivers and regular Joes (let me just mention one time I saw a man trying to defend his right to park in that extremely busy street with a HAMMER while his entire family – including baby- waited in the car, or the taxi diver running up the street crying for help while he was being chased by another driver after being punched in the face);

*Sigh* I could go on, because there’s a lot more (the pantless drug addict, the old ladies picking up fleas from each other’s legs during a freak infestation, the drunk who hid in your stairs and pissed in a plastic bag – which sometimes ruptured…

And why do the rich and glamorous want a home in this neighbourhood, you ask? I can’t tell you. Maybe it’s because you can see the river.
But I will say this: my house is worth a lot more now than it was when I was a child.
Which is good, I guess.
(Mikash, Mon 29 Aug 2005, 11:37, Reply)

Wanda Waterbuckets
Scariest neighbor ever? I lived in a rough bit of the city, the part where you could walk one block and have access to anything - drugs, elicit sex, stolen goods, your neighbor's wife. Across the street from my house was a hotel, the rent-by-the-hour type, which had weekly rates as well for those needing cheap temporary housing. One of the long-term occupants we dubbed Wanda Waterbuckets. Wanda had the intriguing habit - almost nightly - of walking from her hotel room with a full pitcher of water to the traffic light, and pouring the water on the base. She would do this for hours. We figured she was watering the light, trying to help it grow. One rainy night, she changed tactics and spent the evening trying to fling a wet newspaper inside the traffic light. She was at it for hours; and it paid off, us watching her, for the dance she performed when she actually succeeded. Brilliant entertainment, that, until one day she fell out of a truck - just fell perfectly straight like a board - on to her face. An ambulance came to get her and we never saw her again.

Godspeed, Wanda Waterbuckets, you entertained us all.
(tragerstreit, Sun 28 Aug 2005, 5:32, Reply)

No matter where I live, my neighbours and I tend to scare each other mutually.
About 7 years ago my neighbour was an aspiring bass player who was only limited by his lack of talent. We were reasonably tolerant of this, being the nurturing musical types we were, however this all changed one morning after a big party when the house was jolted awake to a hamfisted attempt at the bassline from "Killing in the Name of" by Rage Against the Machine.

We (about 10 of us, all in that blissful stage where you wake up just before the hangover kicks in) migrated to the back yard, outside his window and tried to help him by singing the bassline as sarcastically as possible (dun-dun-dun DUN-DUN-DUN etc), and lobbing rotten passionfruit from the vine in the backyard through his window.

He actually put up with this for about 15 minutes before putting his head out of the window (and copping a passionfruit in the face - it didn't explode) and yelling at us with a voice of complete exasperation that will forever be burned into my memory, "SHIFT MY WANK!" before slamming his window shut.

Within a certain circle of friends, the phrase "shift my wank" is used to this day to cover a wide range of emotions (confusion, boredom, anger, excitement - the list goes on), to settle arguments and on one occasion it was even used to start one.
( gronkpan https://twitter.com/VomitingLarry, Sat 27 Aug 2005, 10:00, Reply)

Upstairs Downstairs
I've 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 who 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 26 Aug 2005, 16:35, Reply)

Not scary so much as dangerously foolish rednecks.
My closest neighbors (quarter of a mile across a field) are some of the most dangerous rednecks even the Deep South would stay away from. Just a couple weeks ago I encountered them in the local hardware store buying PVC pipe and Butane. This did not bode well.
The next morning I was rudely awoken at the crack of noon by an ear-splitting bang, the classic Dukes of Hazzard "Hoo-yah!", and a terrible shriek (in that order).
I jumped out of my hammock, threw on some clothes, and ran out the door. The scene that met my eyes was one of wanton destruction. These chainsmoking hard-drinking redneck bastards had, using a monstrous potato cannon, shot an iron bar into my brick barbecue pit! Even though it took me awhile to get outside the brick dust still had not cleared; one dust-covered figure was lying on the ground nursing a serious pipe-inflicted groin wound (but there was no time to gloat now) and the other was standing next to the pit with an expression of horror. I shouted something along the lines of "What the dollar sign number sign, you fucking asterix percent ampersands!" at him. He said nothing. For the first time I looked at the brick structure closely. The chimney seemed about two feet shorter than usual. In fact as I walked closer it became apparent that what was once a beautiful (built by me, I might add, with about as much difficulty as in the Simpsons)barbecue pit was just a pile of rubble. I mean, it was absolutely destroyed. If it hadn't been mine, I would have been impressed. As it was, I was flaming mad.
This small incident soon escalated into an all-out cartoon-style war. The main weapon: spud guns. It was fairly run-of-the-mill in terms of damage, dents in houses, garage doors with holes through them, etc. but then a friend came over and we built the most fearsome weapon ever known to man or Silastic Armorfiend of Striterax: The Shopping Cart Tank. I won't go into detail, but imagine a howitzer and a machine gun mounted onto two welded-together monster shopping carts (trolleys), all powered by a 10hp go-kart motor, and you'll get the idea. We fired a few warning shots into their front door to inform them that the jig was up, and that they could stop trying to antagonize me. Strangely enough, considering I had just heard loud crashes, they weren't in. We motored 'round to the back at a good clip (25!) and found the rednecks finally destroyed. While testing their latest weapon of evil, they had shot two four-foot spears of 3" PVC pipe straight up in the air, with sharp knives strapped to the ends. The poor aerodynamics of these missiles resulted in one coming down at ridiculously high speed and smashing through the windshield of their prized truck and coming out the bottom. Apparently it just missed the transmission but they would need a new seat and windshield and were missing a chunk of dashboard. It was marvellous. We had to ask them where the other went, as it wasn't readily visible.
You wouldn't think that a mere knife attached to plastic would go through a roof. You would think that somebody would notify their daughter-- who had an attic room-- if they were testing something incredibly dangerous in the backyard. But these rednecks were not normal people.
The daughter of one had been peacefully sitting on her bed when a giant spear crashed its way into her room, in an eerily Donnie Darko-style shower of plaster, shingles, and wood. It came down about 6 feet from her.
You can imagine the rednecks weren't that bothered about this, but then a wife emerged. I've never heard such howling.
That day still brings tears to my eyes.
Later I went back and shot up all their potato cannons using the tank. Sometimes I wish I had more neighbors like that, at least so I had an excuse to destroy more things.

I'd apologize for length, but that would be giving in to the overwhelming peer pressure. Oh wait...
(I'm Owen McLove, I could have you killed., Thu 25 Aug 2005, 21:53, Reply)

Don't Move
3 doors away from us when I was younger lived a family who had a girl the same age as me. When I was about 7 I was sitting in the dining room eating my breakfast when my dad who had popped to the shops was pushed into the house by two very very large policemen wearing bullet proof vests shouting at him "get your fucking i.d and don't try anything funny"

I didn't have a clue until much later what had gone on.....

The girl had been bought a doll by her Gran that had a tape player in the back, one of the tapes was an information tape explaining how to call 999 if there was ever any fire and also how to ask for the police if there was ever any trouble etc etc.

Cue my neighbour lets call her Nikki ringing up the police half 8 in the morning telling them her daddy had just murdered her mummy and about 10 police cars with ARMED police came racing to my street.

My dad had dropped in their paper to them on his way back from the shops and cos the police could see his reflection in the frosted glass they went mad telling him to get on the floor etc, he said there was about 3 guns on him and all the time my Nikki's mum was screaming what the hell was going on.

The slap mark was still visable the next day on Nikki's face!

I wasn't allowed to play with Nikki after that!
(Fran, Thu 25 Aug 2005, 13:48, Reply)

Only thing scary about my current neighbours.....
....is that one of them looks like Dr Shipman, and the other is a Chinese takeaway. Which is making me a right fat cunt.

Me old neighbours however, well that was something else. We had a neighbour called Karl who thought he could get away with anything, and openly threaten us if we questioned him. He was about 6 footish too, so we didn't bother to question him and leave him to himself. Until....

This 20 yr old bird used to live opposite us in a 1st floor flat. Lovely girl, except she was about 6 foot 5 (good at netball, she held the fecking net). One day, she walked down to her flat to borrow some sugar off her friendly downstairs neighbour. While she was literally gone for two mins, Karl spotted a nice new mountain bike in there. So he legs it over, grabs the bike, and runs back to his house. The netball post goes back upstairs to her flat, where lo and behold, there's an empty space where her bike was. She calmly places her sugar on the table, and walks straight over to Karl's house and knocks on the door. Karl answers.
"What you want?" he growls.
"My bike please."
"I aint got your bike bitch" and goes to close the door. She stops him doing this, and says "Funny that, as it looks identical to the one in the hall behind you." Sure enough, that's where it sat. At this point, she grips Karl and drags him by his neck outside all of our houses, while calling us all out. We go outside, and witness her beat the living shit out of him, then grab her bike and go home.

We never saw Karl again after that :)
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Tue 30 Aug 2005, 19:21, Reply)

Scary Neighbours
My next door neighbour used to be a middle-aged woman who was a science teacher at my school. My bedroom window gave me a perfect view of her sunbathing topless in her garden.

Now THAT was scary.
(Fuiru Sting, where is thy death?, Sun 28 Aug 2005, 9:21, Reply)

hammers!
my neighbours are always doing DIY, banging away at the wall with their hammers.

Yesterday they called me a paranoid freak. In morse code.

Bastards.
(soma9766, Sat 27 Aug 2005, 15:02, Reply)

Charlie Uniform November Tango
A former neighbour of ours was a bundle of laughs. Not only would I spend many a cheerfull hour tending the wounds of his girlfriends head after he beat her, but I would also try to teach his disfunctional son how to talk like a normal three year old, and not like he has been raised by a twat.
The man threatened to stab me, stab my mom, burn our house down and kill my dog, between smashing up our cars and generally upsetting the locals.
Imagine our joy and rapture when the police rang us up to tell us (the officer was laughing at the time) that the stupid cunt had hung himself. I danced on his grave, and shat on it.
No.
Really.
Pants down and coil out a good 'un.
Oh, and as his corpse hung from a lonely tree in the woods, someone robbed his trainers.
I love neighbours.
( nnnndave, Sat 27 Aug 2005, 0:20, Reply)

My teacher's neighbours
The man used to sit in a deckchair in the front garden, crying because his girlfriend hadn't kissed him goodbye the night before. His wife, bizarrely, used to comfort him.

Eventually, she realised that perhaps she shouldn't be quite so understanding about the fact he was openingly cheating on her, so she beat him to death with an iron frying pan.
(Pachey, Wed 31 Aug 2005, 9:24, Reply)

Hey big spender...
My boyfriend, back in Uni, lived next to a total muffin of a farm-boy. He wore the same clothes every single day. He washed once a week (if you were lucky) and all he ever ate were disgusting sarnies - chocolate spread, ham, mayo, jam, peanut butter - it all went on.

Most disturbingly, though, was his spending habits. His parents, obviously terrified he might move back to Wales (yes, he was Welsh), paid off his debit card monthly for him. Being the nosy bugger we all are, my boyfriend sneaked a look at farm-boy's debit card bill when he left it in the communal kitchen.

Every single Friday, at 2am, farm-boy removed £40. Why? What did he need £40 for at 2am? The clubs were shutting, and no-one spends that much at the 24 hour garage...

So my boyfriend and another chap followed him. Farm-boy went to the cashpoint, got his £40, and, looking around, walked over the other side of the Uni.

To the red light district.

Farm-boy managed to lose my boyf and his mate, and continued to visit the ladies of the night long after that.

Dirty fucker.
(Northern Lovely, Tue 30 Aug 2005, 19:20, Reply)

I was the scary neighbour, but not really.
A few years back I was renting a flat in a Northern City, My job gets me moving on a regular basis and I knew in advance that I'd only be there for a year.

The woman living in the flat above must have been a "care in the community" type. During the course of the year I was visited by council health inspectors 3 times and the police 5 times. All as results of complaints this retard had made up about me.

According to her I had:

Deliberately run her dog over: I don't even drive.

Had rubbish bags stacked to the ceiling in every room: checked three times by the health inspectors. You'd think that the second time they came round would have convinced them that she was full of shit.

Played music at top volume late at night constantly: I work shifts. On the last occasion that the police came round It was 8 in the morning and I was just getting back to my flat after a night shift. As I said to the copper "If she could hear my radio playing from my office on the other side of the city she must have fucking awesome hearing, and seeing as how you've SEEN me coming and also that there was NO noise from the flat when you knocked, what are the chances?".

She then took to wandering outside at night in a dressing gown staring through my kitchen window.

Mad bitch.

No apologies.
( stuj (^(^;;^)^) GO TEAM SPIDERS!(^(^;;^)^), Tue 30 Aug 2005, 16:45, Reply)

Old Man In Homemade Vacuum Bag Having a Wank
In the next village up from us (Spondon if any of you are from Derby) lived an elderly couple, every Wednesday night the lady of the house would go into town to play Bingo with the girls.

One of these nights she returned home to find a noise coming from their garage/games room. It was the sound of the hoover sucking away.

She thought the old man was just having a late night clear out, but when she tried to go into the garage, she found all the doors locked, and the windows covered up. She shouted the man's name but there was no answer. The sound of the hoover was obviously blocking out her weak old lady voice, so she switched it off at the plug inside their house. Still no reply when she shouted. Her next door neighbour was called and after another 5 minutes of shouting the neighbour kicked down the side door.......

They found the old man INSIDE an inflatable beach lilo, with the vacuum attached, sucking all the air out. The man died of suffocation, and later forensic tests revealed traces of semen inside the lilo and inside the hoover!

This story is completely true, I work as a special police officer and I crack up laughing everytime i hear my collegues mentioning it.


No apologies for bla bla bla
(silkysean pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis, Mon 29 Aug 2005, 17:56, Reply)

Yabbadabbadoo!
Apart from twunty neighbors as mentioned in a previous post, all of the others in our little 14 house grove were lovely.
Except the ones next door where very vocal when it came to sex. We none of us ever said anything about it to them, until the time they were going at it quite vigorously and as he "reached his peak" he yelled Yabbadabbadooooooooo.

Next day, my brother and I saw him in the street and started singing the Flintstones theme tune, and every time they had sex after that, they knew we knew.
( Batshitmentalist is sane for once, Sat 27 Aug 2005, 1:26, Reply)

I live next door to stusut79
I win.
(Pachey, Thu 25 Aug 2005, 17:26, Reply)

Not my neighbours
... but my cousins' neighbour ... liked to play loud music at any hour, but would call the coppers if her friends (who live on the other side of him) played anything. (Which they would, just to piss him off - goffik stuff, usually.)
His music would be so loud, it'd make the floorboards in her house shake!
One weekend, her mates had had a gutful. So, they went away for the weekend, and left the stereo on full volume. After standing at the side fence screaming at an empty house for a while, this nutter ends up standing in their driveway, waving a CHAINSAW and swearing his head of (to the delight of the other neighbours, who were standing around watching!)
Our neighbours are fairly normal, but the woman in the apartment above ours has a VERY loud vibrator. Her bedroom is directly above mine, and we live in crappy, non-insulated/noiseproofed Japanese housing. So, I can hear her take a bath, walk across her bedroom floor, open a drawer, then ... "hummmmmmmmmmm"
Cue slight discomfort ... especially when it starts changing speeds, tempo etc.
(Celerydemon, Thu 25 Aug 2005, 14:28, Reply)

Hobbitt Freak Brothel Man
At my last residence we had an absoloute loon living next door.

He looked like a hobbittt who'd lost a headbutting contest with John Merrickk and had some of the worst home made tattoo's, including the obligatory love & hate on the knuckles, ever seen.

Over the four years we lived there he;

told us of tales of how he loved to spend hours in his loft reading his war magazines and drinking vodk as, quite fucking rightly, his missus wouldn't let him drink. If that wasn't worrying enough me and the missus could hear him scurrying around at all hours in his loft. Anyone ever seen shallow grave?

took great joy in bringing round a very decomposing rat after it was found that that had been the reason our drains were blocked.

Greeted me at our street party during the Queens golden jubilee with the immortal words "don't worry if you've seen a few strange women round my house, I've been getting some pro's in as the wife doesn't do it for me'

After finding out that my big brother had joined the pigs he went into great lengths detailing his criminal record. Which included a series of stabbings when "he wasn't very well"

Once turned up at my door, at 3 am, with flowers from MY garden and half a bottle of blue nun. When asked WTF you doing here he asked if he could ask out my wife's best mate who was staying the night. He'd seen her out the window and she 'looked his type'. Plenty of loft scurrying that night I can tell you.

Regularly rummaged through my bins as, after I finally caught him red-handed, he admitted I "threw away better shit than the missus bought" before i caught him he blamed foxes.

Regularly littered the gardens in our close with broken glass and rusty nails to stop the local kids playing football

But the best was when he turned his house into a bonafide brothel - I kid you not. I was once asked by some mac wearing nonce whether or not I had an appointment as, since he had an hour before the wife got back from tesco's, he wanted half hours worth with the new girl.

I put my house on the market the day I found he got sent down for 6 months - just long enough to move without him knowing where I was going and the new owners meeting the guy first.
(Let's all have an asbo, Thu 25 Aug 2005, 13:42, Reply)

Lovely Brian.
When I was at university, my housemates and I were often visited by our next door neighbour Brian. He was an aged gent of around 60 years, and although he was pushing pensionable age, his demeanour and life attitude was always of a sprightly mid twenty year old.

He would come at seemingly any point throughout the day (or night) and tell whoever was about at the time a tirade of tales that would put Baron Munchausen to shame. He would regale us with tales of his hikes throughout the Nepalese mountains in bandit country with only a samurai sword for protection, his hunting expeditions of his youth in the Masai Mara and of his skill in martial arts, now lost due to age and physical decay. No matter what time of the day he arrived, we were always happy to see him, as the stories he told, whilst being clearly lies, were always weaved in a way as to completely enchant us.

One day, however, certain members of the house started asking for proof of his tales, some tangible evidence of that which he spoke. Brian, with a shrug of his shoulders wandered next door and bring back in a large canvas sack a veritable arsenal of antiquated swords and rifles. The bag was huge. Quite how he managed to drag it in at his age I don't know. What made it worse, was that whilst the items were clearly old and unusable, no-one knew if they were ornamental - the props an old man had amassed to give credence to his tales, or if he was actually speaking with a grain of truth. He would then go though each one and with a grin that I hope never to be one the receiving end of again, would inform us of the best ways to kill, main or incapacitate a man with each one. Usually with very descriptive mimes as accompaniment.

Our immediate reaction to this new development was to feign sudden tiredness and inform Brian it was getting a little late. Afterwards, we would suddenly become very busy whenever Brian came around, the only time he would make it past the front door being if our excuses we too feeble, and he had proven to not be carrying anything sharp.

The last time we saw Brian was just before we left university for good. He knocked on the door, and asked us to keep hold of his fishing rods.
'Why?' we asked of him.
'I'm going to kill my other next door neighbours for playing the music too loudly, and I don't want the police impounding the rods if they arrest me.'
And then he was off, waving us a cheery goodbye as he went to wreak havoc over his unfortunate neighbours.

Aaah Brian. But what I'll mostly remember is the laughter. That and the gut wrenching fear.
( Prof. Slocombe, Thu 1 Sep 2005, 14:28, Reply)