My neighbours are ace
They kindly call my husband to come get me (through their giggles) everytime I drunkenly crawl under their diningroom table and won't come out.

The last time my neighbour was under there with me, her husband couldn't coax her out either. We built a fort together. ACE

I don't know why, it just happens when i've been drinking apparently.
( Tiffany Aching 's bowl of oatmeal tried to stare her down and won, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 8:51, 1 reply)

The Naked Prowler
well, he had a towel on.

The other morning, a work colleague entertained us with the story of her daughter's boyfriend arrest.

The night before, Soft Lad had been getting out of the shower when his mate rang from the gully behind the flat, asking for help with his car.

Soft Lad grabbed a towel, left the flat and walked down the dimly-lit gully, where he was spotted by a neighbour who'd probably already noted the strange car parked nearby.

Police arrived pretty sharpish and Soft Lad was carted off in his towel.

When we heard about it next morning he was still under arrest - no idea how it panned out, but I'll check the local rag on Wednesday.
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 7:54, Reply)

My flatmate, the Lithuanian:
Him: "I hate two countries in the world."

Me: "Russia and the Netherlands?"

Him: "OK, I hate four countries in the world."
( MatJ LOOK, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 1:46, Reply)

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.
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 0:56, 19 replies)

The obscene phone caller
When I was young, we had an elderly couple living next to us, the Finkbeiners. Mrs. Finkbeiner was a perfectly nice old lady until she went senile and couldn't tell night from day, and her son put her in a nursing home. This was after Mr. Finkbeiner died. This story takes place while he was still alive. Before Mr. Finkbeiner died, he was perpetually trimming the hedges that divided our yards, and he would always say hello when we passed, which was nice. Anyway, Mr. Finkbeiner's first name was George, information that will be useful in the following paragraph...

One day my mother received an obscene phone call. I don't remember if it was just one or a series of them, but there was at least one. While the caller is telling her all the perverted things he'd like to do to her, my mother is thinking "his voice sounds familiar" and suddenly realizes why. She says "George! Is that you?" CLICK. The call ended, and no more would follow. Whether or not my mother was right about it being Mr. Finkbeiner is up in the air, but consider this. Mr. Finkbeiner never said hello to her when she passed by again. Coincidence? I think not.
(mariam67, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 0:49, 2 replies)

I've always had problems with atleast one of my nearest neighbours...
but recently it's just got worse, now I have a 80-something year old belly dancing woman who seems to be allways atleast half naked living next to me. On the up side it acts as a good cause of laughter whenever a football goes over the fence I can send one of my friends to get it knowing that he will be greeted by an old woman wearing just a towel, then look at the horror on his face when he returns.

Not only that, but now I have a family of angry, drug dealing pikeys living in the house joined to the back of my garden. Recently they have decided that it would be a right laugh to throw bricks and other junk over the fence and at my house and despite getting the police involved they dont seem to want to give up.

To top it all off just last week my next door neighbour on the other side was broken into and robbed by these pikeys and just to show off they sent a drugged up woman to come back and give them their empty wallet back, which aparently still isnt enough evidence for the police to go and arrest the people we know that did it.

So my word of advice, if you are ever in and around north London, stay out of Enfield.
(sockhead I promise I'll subscribe exactly a day after, Sun 4 Oct 2009, 23:38, 3 replies)

Ah, neighbours...
I've mostly been quite lucky with neighbours, but not in this particular instance. While I don't live in the UK, it is one of my favourite countries to go on holiday. A few years ago, I booked a holiday at a charming, scenic camping pitch in the West Midlands region. After having set everything up, and seeing no other campers were around to ask, I decided to go check out the surrounding area by myself. When I returned, I was quite taken aback to find both of my neighbouring campers sat atop their fabric homes whilst rubbing their penises. As they did not seem intent on stopping even though they were clearly in my view, and I did not want to spend another minute near these masturbatung weirdos, I quickly packed my stuff and left.

That was the last time I've booked a holiday in Stroke-on-Tent.
(Cruising Capacity, Sun 4 Oct 2009, 22:51, 5 replies)

Dunno
if this counts as a neighbour (I live in on-site college accommodation and they are across the hall.) Now most people are pretty easy to live with, and I'm very laid-back- loud music doesn't bother me at all etc, but there are some things that go beyond the pale.

Being an insomniac I am awake past the hours of other people's loud music, and I relish the quiet hours of very early mornings. So hearing the orgasmic shriek of this across the hall neighbour was disturbing. Given that my room was at least 40 feet and 4 solid doors away. Not so bad if it's once, but combined with an extreme open-ness about sexual habits that they shared, made it very uncomfortable. I had to stop using the shared loo after one of their stories (who knew you could do that with a dildo?)

Both lovely people, but I could have lived quite happily without ever knowing just what did it for them
( Amberl was stripey and dominated Europe, Sun 4 Oct 2009, 22:17, 7 replies)

sort of neighbour
when i was in college i lived with 3 people for my second year, one was a scouse one was a scotish girl and i was the geordie, then there was the french one.

it seemed everything he did got on my nerves be it him taking of his pants as soon as he shut the front door and hogging the tv in the living room, then having a fit when you told him to put them back on because your mother or girlfriend was in.

or when he decided that it would be a good idea to buy twenty litres of milk so that he could 'save money' and then cramming them into the fridge when really he was far too lazy to go to the shops once a week.

or when he just flat out refused to do any cleaning up because he apparently cleaned up everywhere he went as he was just that tidy (he never ever ever cleaned up, especially the bathroom) he didnt even clean up to get his deposit back at the end of the year although the letting agency was nice and made him pay more on the shared area cleaning bill.

but we got our revenge, he loved the tv and in france they dont have fuses in their appliances so it was rarther easy to just take the fuse out of the socket so he couldnt play his xbox, this went on for weeks untill he screaned at me to fix the tv. then we replaced his xbox with a broken one which nearly brought him to tears. and when we took the batteries out of his controller he nearly kicked down a door. most of the things revolved around messign with the tv he was that desperate to play it, eventually we just took the tv away and just pretended that one of us had bought it off the other, he then demanded that he be repayed the few pounds worth of tv license he had not used up even though it took two months to get it out of him.

he did however provide some comedy for us, his english was bad and he had 'trouble understanding us' and his vocabulary was poor too, so when we argued with him he would come out with little gems such as instead of saying i am angry he would say.. THIS IS MAKING ME ME VERY HUNGRY! which then became his catchphrase from then on

then we discovered he was homophobic too after we watched brokeback mountain, he was obviously disgusted by two men kissing and he was very vocal about this throughout the movie although he refused to leave because it was for him a free movie. we then played pranks such as gettign gay people to grind up to him during a party we had and him getting very angry about that,after that incident whenever he got really really really pissed off about anything such as us telling him to sod off for being a crap roommate or after us playing other pranks on him his last words of the argument before slamming the door would be AND I AM NOT GAY!

then at the end of the tenancy i called him a communist and that no one likes french people, especially dickish french people. the letting agency refused to have anything to do with him as we all said that there was no way he was staying at the house for another year. he said that he did nothing to us, that his life had been made difficult because he did not want to move 15 minutes away from college, even though we lived 10 minutes away and he still got the bus 1 stop everyday because he was that lazy and that cheap.

and thats why i hate french people and now check to see who will be in the house before signing contracts

sorry about length, bad spelling and punctuation but i needed to vent
(das1joker, Sun 4 Oct 2009, 21:55, 4 replies)

Mood Music
Back in the summer of last year, I was renting a house near Carleton U with a few other students in Ottawa. A good friend of mine was the only renter of the house next door to stay over the summer, so we basically had an open-door policy in terms of drinking, smoking up, using the bathroom, and barbequeing.

I'll call my friend and neighbour "Jared Fenderson."

One day I'm getting ready for a date with this cute little redhead, and Jared is giving me a little bit of a pep-talk.

"She's way out of your league."
"Her last boyfriend was a linebacker."
"You haven't got a chance with her"

With my masculinity and... erm... honour on the line, we proceeded to wager money on the fact that I could bed her that night, stacked 2:1 odds against.


...Fast forward to the end of the evening, and I've got her back at my place. Things start to get heavy, and all of a sudden we hear cluttering noises outside my door, followed by a top-volume playing by the backstreet boys:

"IS THIS THE MEANING.... OF BEEEEEEEEEEEEEING LONELY"

Maybe it was N'Sync, I have no clue. He has set up hit massive stereo system outside of my room after we went into it. She thought it was funny, but wasn't interested in going at it with an audience and a boy-band soundtrack.

I lost $50 on the bet.

The stereo act was subsequently reciprocated back and forth a several times until a truce was called.
(Phaedron Dizzying epiphanies from the bottom of my pint., Sun 4 Oct 2009, 21:44, 1 reply)

Him downstairs (or, "that little fucking dirty cunt", as I have been known to call him)
Apologies in advance, this is going to be long. You might want to get a cup of tea or something...

My girlfriend Jessie and I rent the top floor (and loft) of a three-story house which has been converted into three flats. When we moved in we were the only tenants, and it stayed that way for quite a while.

Then after a few months a young couple moved into the flat underneath us - they were ace: hardly ever made any noise, were friendly, and liked a smoke in the evening so the porch used to smell of weed all the time - I like the smell of weed, so it's all good.

Then they moved out, and the flat was empty again. Not too long after that we got a letter from our landlord saying that the managing agents of the flat would be changing from Scargill Mann (an estate agent in town) to DHA - Derbyshire Housing Aid. My first comment when I read the letter was something along the lines of "I hope that doesn't mean we're going to get some chav scumbag moving in".

Sadly, it meant exactly that. We now have a young lad called Aaron living there, who is the archetypal chav dosser. Him and his mates are in and out of the place at all hours of the day and night, playing music, slamming doors and shouting. One of his mates has got a motorbike so the other morning - a Saturday, of course, and my first lie-in for about 10 days - I was woken at 8 by them apparently taking it in turns to start the bike and rev the bollocks off it. Yay.

Back in the summer our post started going missing - we phoned the DHA to say we wanted a locking post box so that our mail wasn't sitting in the porch when we were out, to which the reply was "Aaron's nicking it isn't he?". Jessie said she wasn't sure it was definitely him and was told "Oh come on. You know and I know it's Aaron or one of his mates". (We're still waiting for the box, btw - that's irrelevant to this qotw though!).

Oh, I haven't mentioned his dog - he's got a huge Alsation which isn't fully grown yet and that he can't control. If he goes out and leaves it at home it barks constantly until he returns. We've phoned the RSPCA twice now, once when he left the dog there for a whole weekend and once when it was just for the day. As well as the incessant barking (and I'm not exaggerating, he just never stops until Aaron gets back) the dog was banging into doors and sounding fretful...

Several times I've come home to notes pinned on my door asking to borrow money; he's also knocked in the evenings and asked to borrow money, borrow tools, or once trying to sell me a PS2 (which I bought actually). The following night he came round asking if I wanted to buy another one or an Xbox.

Finally, DHA evicted him - yay! But the council intervened and protested, as it was in breach of his rights. Apparently the fact that he'd destroyed the flat, not paid his rent, pulled the curtains down, and that the cleaner* hadn't been able to get into the flat due to being scared of the dog, that he'd been complained about by both of his neighbours and not attended any meetings with his DHA support-type person didn't count, but the fact that DHA hadn't given him six weeks notice did.

The flat was empty for a while with signs in the windows about the eviction and illegality of it... but now he's back, with the addition of a tag since he's been to court in the time he was elsewhere. The noise isn't quite as bad this time, and the post hasn't gone missing (yet), but the porch now smells - well, stinks of unwashed dog and piss, rather than weed, and the police were round the other night arresting his mate. Oh, and the mate with the motorbike keeps parking it right across the front door, even though there's room for 5 cars outside the house and only 2 spaces are occupied.

Yay for do-gooders, eh?



* - yes, his cleaner. Apparently, although we pay our full rent every month and he only pays some nominal amount, he gets someone to come round and clean the flat for him every week. I'm seriously thinking about phoning DHA and asking them why our cleaner hasn't been in touch.
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Sun 4 Oct 2009, 19:12, 21 replies)

Spa-Francorchamps race track in Belgium is currently waiting to find out if it will ever be able to host another race...
...while an investigation is done into complaints by the neighbours that there's too much noise there from the cars racing.

The track's been there since the 1800s, so every single one of the neighbours moved into their house knowing it was next to a race circuit.

O_o
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Sun 4 Oct 2009, 18:43, 14 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.”
(twistngo, Sun 4 Oct 2009, 18:05, 1 reply)

This is really boring if you don't understand cricket
The old man's on the committee of the local cricket club, which is just celebrating its centenary and is surrounded by houses of the red brick, turn-of-the-century, half-a-million quid type. Anyway, as happens in cricket, occasionally the wee red ball hits off the willow (fnar fnar) and hurtles out of the ground and meets the red brick or Dutch slate of one of the aforementioned houses. The vast majority of residents are aware that this is, really, a hazard of buying a house next to a cricket ground and are easily placated by free membership, a few pints in the bar and free entry to the Christmas party.

There was one bloke though, who got mightily annoyed as one six sailed out of the ground and into his window. Into the secretary's office he stormed and demanded to know "what is the club going to do about it?"

He then asked why the club couldn't protect his house/garden and put up a fence "like you have for the other houses". Rather perplexed, as there's no fence around the club, just a privet hedge and a low wall, the secretary looked blank until it slowly dawned on him that the man was referring to the sight-screens...

At village cricket matches, this story's bloody hilarious.
(suxamethonium, Sat 3 Oct 2009, 23:27, 3 replies)

Last year, the woman living opposite
happened to be rubbish at driving. She couldn't get her car out of her drive if there was a car parked in front of my house. We, on the other hand, had no problem getting out of our drive if there was a car outside of her house. So, she'd occasionally knock and tell us to move the car. Tell us to move it, not ask. She'd say we had to move it because she was a nurse, or that her son was ill (he had epilepsy).

Now, I'm always happy to argue back. If she'd have asked me to move the car I'd have had difficulty saying no, because I'm nice like that. However, because she started with "You HAVE to move your car. I'm a nurse! My son is ill! Move you car!" I'd ask her questions like why she parked in front of her house yesterday (when she knows it's hard to get out of the drive with a car parked opposite), or I'd suggest that if she reversed in then she'd have an easier time getting out. She'd usually get really annoyed and stomp off, then I'd go move the car.

Once when I'd gone away for the weekend I'd left my car parked in front of my house. She'd come over and ranted at my housemate because he wouldn't move the car. She told him he was stupid for not having keys, then called him a liar. He tried to point out that he didn't have the keys because it wasn't his car and he couldn't drive, but she was having none of it.

The final time we had an altercation was when I'd been arguing with her for a few minutes when my housemate decided to wade in and take over. The neighbour stomped off after a minute or two and my housemate yelled "UP YOUR ARSE!" at her as loud as she could. After that she was lovely! If she needed our car moving she'd come over and ask politely.
( CowJam, Sat 3 Oct 2009, 22:34, 2 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.
(frankspencer, Sat 3 Oct 2009, 20:40, 22 replies)

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.
( rgordon00, Sat 3 Oct 2009, 19:23, 1 reply)

Them next door
Have always been pissed, noisy, and chavvy, and are now going through a violent and shouty breakup.

I think my favourite incident was when the husband was beating the wife up, helped by their teenage son standing on her neck for him to keep her down.

He's in the nick now pending trial, as is the boy. She's shacked up with a fat fuck who's been inside for manslaughter and GBH and is systematically smashing the house up and all the husband's stuff, and burning it in the garden - including 42" plasma TV, stereo system, wedding photos, furniture, kitchen units... as it happens, a pile of tracksuits burns like an Iraqi oil fire.
(fridgefreezer inserted a topical reference into his sig on, Sat 3 Oct 2009, 18:38, 2 replies)

Sign here please
As I work shifts I often get asked to take parcels in. Next door on one side don't even say hello so I was quite pleased to have a parcel for them. I was taking a delivery for next door but one when I saw next door come out. I grabbed the parcel and ran out to him. He muttered something that could have been thanks or fuck off and drove off. Next door but one collected his parcel in the evening apologising and quite angrily saying "they didn't have to do that." Maybe I'm odd but the local distribution centres for where I live are 20 miles away. I would far rather walk a few yards down the road than have to drive all that way. Also be nice to have neighbours who at least acknowledged your existance but we can't have everything.
(jvz, Sat 3 Oct 2009, 16:59, 4 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.
( HSDriver was probably still at work on, Sat 3 Oct 2009, 13:35, 6 replies)

my father in law
my FIL used to live next door to harold shipman as a kid (fred shipman as he knew him) and would regularly walk to school with him and play with him after school - the FIL hasnt confirmed or denied if they ever played doctors. theres even a picture in one of the harold shipman books of them at school.

strangely enough, my FIL also went into the medical profession, although in a slightly more caring, less granny killing way. (having said that, he worked at the stafford "hospital of death" so his total could actually be higher than shipmans!)
(Singo69, Sat 3 Oct 2009, 12:26, Reply)

I hate my neighbour
I have a dog. Lovely thing she is, alsation/belgian shepherd cross. Like most dogs, she likes a bark.
My neighbour has dogs. Two dobermans and a terrier thing. Like most dogs, they like a bark.
His dogs bark whenever mine is in the garden (mines a bitch his are dogs). Mine barks back. Normal dog behaviour? No, apparently not.
He is now threatening me with environmental health/police action because of the noise from my dog.
Despite the fact his dogs bark more than mine, and mine is just replying to his dog's barking.

I hate him, he is a cunt.
(animal252 last activated his kitten hammer on, Sat 3 Oct 2009, 11:30, 5 replies)

I live in my own pub
Therefore, according to the neighbours, this makes me THE neighbour from hell.

When the new licensing laws were coming into effect they objected to the rather modest hours extension that I applied for.

The complaints against us ranged from the fact that they regularly had to put up with noise until 2 in the morning (2 hours after I had closed up and gone to bed) there would be more cans littering the streets (I don't sell cans of beer)and the best, that there had been a murder opposite the pub (the magistrate who has lived there for 40 years had somehow missed this).

All I wanted to do was shout at them "Did you not see the four story, bright yellow fucking building when you moved to town?!", but instead I was very polite, kept my shit eating grin on and got every complaint thrown out and my license granted.

I celebrated with a fuck of big, noisy party, using my full extended hours. But I was kind enough to send them all an invite.
( monkeyboyalpha jumping on the bandwagon since, Sat 3 Oct 2009, 11:14, 4 replies)

Back Door Neighbours
We'd just moved into our new house, so still didn't really know the neighbours all that well, and I was just finishing my chemo so wasn't working all that much, even though I generally worked from home.

Feeling a bit better one afternoon, I got it into my head to pop into the office, and surf some smut - plus the waist height shenanigans that you'd associate with one handed surfing. Mid stroke I heard her from behind mutter about calling the police, then him saying not to be so fussy and look the other way.

About 6 years later, I found out that they moved because the house was repossesed, and not because she was scared of my cock.

Length? About normal, then a fair bit longer, then shrunk back to it's normal 12"
(nobbyd is wanking furiously to industrial grade porn on, Sat 3 Oct 2009, 9:59, Reply)

Lesbians! Motorbikes! Flags! Accordians!
Back in the days of student-dom, Lady Doom lived with a group of her mates on a relatively quiet road in Peckham. Aside from the odd party, they generally kept themselves to themselves and did nothing to disturb the neighbours.

Just as well really as the neighbours were rather disturbing.

The house next door was shared by three women of a certain age, which immediately made everyone suspect a little bit. We all knew pretty quickly though...

There was a large object under a tarpaulin in their front garden. It was well tied down so it was hard to make out what lay underneath, but there were funny shapes poking out at all angles underneath it. Come the day of the Pride march in Brighton and off came to the tarp to the sight of a gleaming Harley Davidson and sidecar, complete with enormous rainbow flag the size of Dawn French's parachute on the back, looking like the biggest, campest take on Easy Rider you've ever seen. It was a slice of technicolour mechanical excellence, thrumming away in the heart of South London.

From that point on, everyone, myself included started to take a lot more notice of next door, not entirely by choice. The well-to-do, middle class, future lecturer of Lady Doom's houseshare happened to have her family visiting her (they probably thought a visit to Peckham was an excellent opportunity for some anthropological field work). As they were standing in a cramped bedroom admiring the authentic African masks on the wall, the youngest sister noticed something odd out of the window. Something odd next door. Through the window, the whole family could see a naked, middle aged woman doing some kind of wibbly, saggy, tribal dance. This spectacle was greeted by a saggy arse blocking the view, then joining in with the dance... Sadly, a rather flushed student swooshed her curtains closed at this point so I have no idea what happened after the saggy dancing...

The final oddity came near the end of the year. Returning from lectures, one of the housemates spotted something on the pavement outside Sapphic House - an accordian! Being the dutiful student, and spying something for free, she carted it back into her own kitchen to examine further, with a little help from the rest of the group and myself. Being a musician, the instrument was despatched in my direction for testing. Gathering up the beatiful grey pearled antique, I opened up the bellows, picked a few notes to start with and WOOOMPH!

A cloud of dark green powder errupted from the thing. Taking a few moments to register what had happened, I then realised it smelt... it smelt of... rotten fish. A kitchen engulfed in dark green rotten fish powder ensured that the butch dancing lesbians accordian found its way back onto the street pronto. And that's a sentence I never thought I'd be writing....
( Sonic James Doom forgetting the date since... umm..., Sat 3 Oct 2009, 9:33, 3 replies)

"The Tron" in the late 70s......
The city of Hamilton is known affectionately as "The Tron". I was born and lived there for my first 13 years.
On the Eastside there were some wonderful old 'California Bungalows' and Victorian Villas with quarter-acre sections (work it out in metric yourself!) until the late 60s - early 70s, when the council changed the zoning and development regulations.

Within a year, many of the old houses down my street has units put up behind them, or in some cases were flattened for blocks of flats.
In 1973, such was the case of the property next to us, and the one directly across the road from that.

Now the initial tenants were normal people, and this continued until about 1975... when for some reason, the gangs moved in.
Mongrel Mob moved in next door, taking a few flats - within three weeks, everyone else had moved out and the other gang members had moved in. Same thing happened with Black Power across the road.
By now I think you can see where this is going......

We were pretty much left alone - the only disturbances being the fight every second week, with sounds of the gangs beating several shades of shit out of each other with the weirdest of weapons and the sirens announcing the imminent arrival of Plod. Whereupon all their weapons would be dumped into the neighbouring gardens in an attempt to look innocent.

Dad never had to buy a slasher for years, nor an axe; but we didn't have much use for the motorbike drive chains with the nails in them... and he wouldn't let me keep the softball bat with the 6-inch nails driven into it.

On a school visit to the Police Station, they showed us their trophy cabinet with examples weapons they had seized, and I had commented that I had seen most of them. When a cop asked me where I lived, I told him - he replied "Ah."

When one drunk/stoned dude banged on our door at 3am one night and wanted someone to get him a taxi, Dad told him in no uncertain terms to fuck off - no uncertain terms being pointed his double-barrel sawn-off at the guy's nads through our frosted glass front door. Luckily for the guy, he could take a hint. But we lost every rose-head down the driveway....

Eventually they moved out/got evicted/did a runner/got arrested.
And Eastside became a sleepy backwater suburb again.

Length - 5 years of nightly entertainment, and free tools.
(Sebulba continues to fight evil with evil....., Sat 3 Oct 2009, 9:09, Reply)

The man downstairs...
Not sure if I ever found out his name, but the gentleman I lived directly above during one of my many-and-varied stints in university halls was a cock-end of the most insidious kind.

We first men under the most acrimonious of circumstances. His music was too loud, but it was the end of freshers week, so I would have been quite the bellend had I asked him to turn it down immediately. This was, of course, until it became obvious that the CD was skipping. It was playing the same half-second loop, over and over and over again. Knocking produces no answer. Fearing for his safety, that something bad may have happened, I get the building guy, and he enters the room, to find no dead or injured students, just a garish stereo and a scratched CD. Hardly an auspicious encounter, as it turned out that he had gone for a night out to London, and felt that top-volume was just the right level to leave his CD player at.

Rounds 2 onward began a few days later, once lectures were properly kicking in. How our little encounters would work is that he would turn on his music loudly, and I would get annoyed and sulk. If it was really too loud, and really too damn late, I go downstairs and knock on his door. The cunning rogue would never answer the door, and I would have to retreat, defeated, for another restless night. One evening, however, I was really rather peeved indeed, and decided to have a little game of "bang-on-the-floor-with-a-shoe-until-your-hand-hurts". This didn't work, music-wise (although the hand did become rather painful) and so I went outside, to try and attract his attention from the ground (he was of course, not in the same room as his stereo). This worked somewhat better, but then I had to talk to him, and faced a dilemma...

point a) he's a cock who plays his music was too loud needlessly, you must tell him
point b) he lives below you, and he could retaliate, do not anger him

Our game of verbal chess begins...
"so... mate... I live upstairs, and... well... not to be a cock or anything, but your music is a wee bit loud" (I felt the 'not-to-be-a-cock' was a nice touch, lulling him into a false sense of security)
"ok, sorry mate"
"yeah, not to be a cock, but I was at my desk, and it was rattling, and i spilt tea on my shirt"
"shit, you in the flat above yeah?"
"yes, that's right, and i was wondering if you could turn the music down.. please"(all nice and manly and forceful, not begging at all...)
"man, is it loud?"
"yes, from upstairs it is very loud"
"you from upstairs then?"

At this point, I was beginning to suspect that he may not be quite the Machiavellian evil-genius that I was giving him credit for, but our verbal tangling went on regardless for some while.

"yeah man, you know, if you want me to turn it down, just knock and I'll stop it"
"okay, but it shouldn't really be quite that loud... ever... especially if you're not.. you know... actually in the room..."
"man, this is brecon court you know blud?"

This was said with enormous gravitas, as if brecon court was some trusted bastion of party-excellence, and its very name should be treated with deference. It was clearly his trump card. The fact that they were a new building, we had lived there for maybe 9 days maximum did not seem to deter his enthusiasm.

"yes.. i live here too... i know the name"
"yeah man, but this is brecon COURT!"

At this point, as he made a gesture that even Tim Westwood would cringe at, I realised that however long I spoke to this man, I would never crack the shell of this substance-abusing simpleton, so retired defeated (well, partially: the music was now off) to my bed.

I lasted a couple more weeks, and moved to a significantly quieter end of campus.
(Serotonicity was a naughty boy on..., Sat 3 Oct 2009, 8:33, 1 reply)

Best Neighbors ever!
Couldn't help it!
( Batshitmentalist is sane for once, Sat 3 Oct 2009, 4:58, Reply)

There was this former neighbour: Siren Kid.
His apparent calling in life was to run from his house to the bottom of his garden, whilst doing the best impression of an emergency vehicle that his young vocal chords and lungs could muster - There have been foghorns with less volume than he. Upon reaching his destination, he would immediately RTB, still on blues and twos.

Safely back on station, he'd immediately dispatch himself onto the next of that days many, many emergency calls; and so it would go on, more "woo"s than a month of b3ta, until what seemed like days later (but couldn't have been more than a few hours), his shift would be over and he'd go back inside - Presumably to go have a nap, and play as Make Ready Kid*.

* A service whereby non-medical staff (are meant to) clean and resupply ambulances between shifts, freeing proper medical staff to attend calls their whole shift.
(The Incredible Sulk Finally remembered his password on, Sat 3 Oct 2009, 4:06, Reply)