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This is a question Neighbours

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

(, Thu 1 Oct 2009, 12:41)
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This question is now closed.

The nice man next door
has lived there for about ten years now. He thinks my name's Emily.
It's been so long now I just can't tell him that it's not.
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 19:14, 6 replies)
I posted a brief version of this back at the beginning of the QOTW, but I decided to delete it and post the actual story now that I have some time to write it down.

Up until about twelve years ago we had a pair of Italian people living next door to us. Then they moved back to Italy. They were quickly replaced by a couple and a their son (he was a little tosser, used to throw rocks at me and my little sisters whenever he saw us, until my big brother threatened him with a spade, then he started being nice to us) who were nice enough. They had a huge garden and they used to let us go next door and play with their son and run around in it and the male half of the couple always gave us ice lollies. Stephanie (the girlfriend) was nice enough to us, but not to the extent her boyfriend was. She’d smile at us if she saw us about, she was generally friendly with us and our Dad. I don’t think she ever bothered replying to my Mum saying hello to her though.

One day, the lovely man next door just seemed to disappear.

My Dad sat us down and told us that if we saw Stephanie we had to be EXTRA nice to her and not go and call for her son for a wee bit. Yep, her boyfriend had died. In a car accident. And Stephanie really started to change, she ignored us if she saw us and not long after her boyfriend had died then her son disappeared too, she’d sent him away to boarding school. To this day, I only see him about when she seems to want something doing.

She started playing music loud at all hours of the day, having parties all the time, out in her garden shouting for all hours. When Mum went round to ask her if she could turn the music down, she just got told to fuck off. When Dad did it then she did, for all of about an hour before it was up again.

And there was ALWAYS a suspicious BANGING noise coming from her house.

I still remember the look on Mum’s face when I asked her why she was always banging and making weird noises.

It’s been a good few years since he died now and thankfully those parties seem to have stopped and we hardly ever hear the loud music coming from her house. She seems to have calmed down a lot now that she has a girlfriend. And my Dad seems to spend a lot of time staring out the window when they’re saying goodbye to each other, the dirty bastard.

The banging however has not stopped. I wake up most mornings to “BOMP. BOMP. BOMP. UNGHHH!” and I’ve started to notice that most of the men who go in there seem to park either outside OUR house, or down the road a little bit before disappearing into her house and coming out an hour later.

Mum swears that once she saw her disappear into the back of a van and come back an hour later “arranging” herself as she got out too.

Woman distraught with grief seeking intimacy because she can’t get over the death of her boyfriend? Or local sex worker?
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 18:34, Reply)
It took me years to realise
that the couple who have lived nextdoor to my folks for the last 30 years are not actually called Mr and Mrs Nextdoor.
This was not helped my the fact that this is how they sign their Christmas cards to us.
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 17:07, Reply)
I think my almost neighbors
(and by that I mean they live in a block of fancy flats within sight of my window) are grwoing drugs. they have a mysterious light on 24/7 with some kind of plant visible under it.
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 16:55, 5 replies)
Sent a Christmas Card to our old Neighbours one year and didn't get one back
I worried that I might have pissed them off somehow, we shared a garden so maybe I'd cut something he had planted or what not. Then weeks later I bump into Jim from upstairs.
"Sorry about not sending you a christmas card, we are Jehovah's Witnesses, usually we send a thank you card but we we're bogged down what with (a friends wedding they were helping to organise and host) ".
"Oh no worries, I had no idea you we're Jehovah's Wittnesses"
"Yeah well it's not like we have two heads or anything"
"It's not that, it's you've never came knocking on our door to ask if we've heard the word of the Lord"
Luckily he took it as the joke it was intended and Jim and myself became firm friends.

Length, about one year, I had to move out due to the Ex "wanting different things"
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 15:47, 1 reply)
Adverse Possession
Or how being a cunt can make you rich.*

As previously mentioned I work in the construction industry, we learn alot of useless stuff. This includes alot of stories relating to boundary disputes between neighbours, people bankrupting themselves over six inches (insert knob joke) of land.

However one story in particular sticks out. The case of Powell Vs McFarlane, this is the story of a small boy (Powell) who started using a field next to his house to graze his cow, which belonged to someone else (McFarlane) Fast forward through the long passage of time and many court cases at the end of which the small boy (now a grown man) was awarded ownership of the land in question. Current value of the land about £10 Million due to a proposed bypass development.

McFarlane it seems got his revenge though. Several weeks after the land was awarded to Powell he was found dead in the woods behind his house having 'committed suicide' with a shotgun. Karma is a bitch.

*Story is 100% true, google it.
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 15:03, 3 replies)
My neighbour who lives in the room next door
is currently doing my head in. I like her a lot, but she's (relatively) recently acquired a boyfriend who has all the charm, sparkle and pizzaz of a fitted wardrobe. Trying to make conversation with this man is about as enjoyable as shitting tin-tacks. He is bloody boring, and in my opinion they're not even slightly suited to each other, but whatever, have fun while you're young and all that.

The problem is that she brings him round. Every. Single. Night. He's in the damn flat more often than I am. Apparently, they can't stay over in his flat because it's 'too far away' and she doesn't want to get up earlier than she has to to go to work. They sit on the sofa and do nowt, or make massive multi-pan meals and then leave a huge pile of dishes that they don't wash up. I feel like a gooseberry in my own home, and it's teh suxx0r. The other evening I got so fed up I ended up walking around the freezing streets of Edinburgh for three hours just so I wouldn't have to be in there with them. It's bloody awful, and I've had enough.

I know I need to say something, and quick, before I end up resenting my friend. But I really hate conflict, and am scared that she'll turn on me and haccuse me of being bitter (nope) and jealous and controlling and wotnot, but it's becoming absolutely frikkin' unbearable, to the point that I wince when I hear her key in the door because I know Johnny No-Chat will be trailing along behind. But I just don't know what to say. Any advice? Please?

Not entirely on topic, for which I proffer my deepest grovellings. Just needed to vent, like.

- PS - He is also a shameless enviropig, and CONSTANTLY leaves lights on all over the flat, to the point at which if I hear him get up in the night after I've gone to bed, I have to get up myself to go and turn them off after him.

PPS And he drinks ALL the milk and doesn't buy any more. Twat.
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 15:00, 11 replies)
Turkish flutes
The old folks who live next door to my parents are really proud of this valuable old Turkish flute they own, and won't stop going on about it. They really are a pair of ney bores.
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 14:42, 2 replies)
I've got this neighbour who is a dispenser of great advice
But I've never seen his face, just his hat rising above my tall fence.

Why I have a tall fence installed on the side of a nice friendly neighbour I'll never know.

(post may not be about me and was inspired by one below)
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 14:37, 4 replies)
My current neighbour
Although this accurately describe any old man...

When I chat to him over the garden fence, he occasionally answers my questions, but occasionally he hears my question, and just looks into the distance, then says something completely unrelated to my question about a minute later.

I then feel too rude to ask it again.

He seems nice enough though.
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 14:31, Reply)
Dyb dyb dob
I was ten years old and should have known better, but I found myself in the cub scouts, and thrust out onto the mean streets of our village during half-term doing Scout Job Week.

It's something you don't get much these days thanks to all kinds of moral panics, but back in the day, we thought nothing of knocking on a neighbour's door and asking if they wanted any odd jobs done. And if you got bummed to death by a paedo, you just brushed yourself down and put it down to experience.

So I knocked on the door of number forty, the home of two very respectable elderly sisters, Edith and Mary, and gave them the whole Scout Job Week spiel.

I weeded their garden for an hour, and sweating profusely, I was invited in to accept my payment.

Both were lounging about in the nightclothes, and I commented on an unusual arrangement of candles on the coffee table, next to a number of what can loosely be termed coffee table art books of a specialist nature.

They harrumphed, gave me my 5p (FIVE PENCE! For an hour's hard labour!), said how nice it was for a couple of lovely old sisters to trust young people in their home. Another harrumph, and I was propelled firmly into the street outside.

I asked my mum about Edith and Mary.

She looked at me with that 'You'll find out one day' look and said:

"They're not sisters."

Nope. Still clueless.
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 14:28, 3 replies)
Horse trading
The couple who live next door went on Dragons' Den last year with some kind of online racehorse exchange. In a fit of whimsy they called it the Neigh Bourse.
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 14:23, 1 reply)
That whole naked-neighbours-falling-off-the-roof story
So, we bought a house and the roof leaked. A relative lent me his longest, springiest ladder, and I ascended to see the damage. Whimpering, I reached the top, and found the flashing coming away from the chimney, resulting in a swimming pool in one of the bedrooms.

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

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

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

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

“Bwaargh! Yes, last week. Help!”

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

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

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

Really? Except it came out “Bwaargh!”

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

When I finally reached safety, my charming wife was quick to ask me about my first encounter with Wiggy and Laura. I told her. She was not impressed.
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 13:57, 6 replies)
Outdoor life
My uncle and aunt live in a massive old house in the Scottish Highlands. You can't actually see another dwelling out of any of the windows, so I guess their neighbours are the local wildlife. So far while visiting I've spotted deer, hares, otters, geese, and all manner of wee beasties. But nae boars.
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 13:55, 4 replies)
Goblins! Midgets! Spackers! Tescos!
My neighbour (well, a nearby resident) is a lady in her late 30s/early 40s. She's a very nice lady, but has a challenging life. This is principally owing to her Downs Syndrome son, who I shall, for the purpose of anonymity refer to as Mungo.

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

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

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

“I've been out catching Goblins!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mungo's mother is now a trembling wreck who will not leave him unattended. Mungo still seems to have a bit of a thing about short people.
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 13:47, 20 replies)
our former neighbour used to do my head in
We spent the best part of a year turning our back garden into a haven of tranquility, complete with a lovely comfy hammock hung between two trees. Every time I took a book and/or a cold beer and got into the hammock for a nice bit of R & R this total Geordie prick next door choice the exact same moment to play either football, table tennis or whatever else with his young son. But he couldn't do it quietly. Now I don't mind a bit of reasonable family type noise of an afternoon, but what used to really piss me off about this bloke is that all he did is shout at his kid about how "useless" "rubbish" etc, he was. It was pathetic. If anyone remembers Simon Day's "competitive dad" sketches from "The Fast Show" it was exactly like that. No sooner had I cracked open my can all I could hear was " NO, NO, NO, Dale - you've lost it again. I can do it better - watch me. Aw, look, I've beaten you again - you're bloody useless man". This went on for hours. Don't know why the kid even bothered leaving his room to be honest.
It was as much as I could do some days to stop myself poking my head over the wall and saying "give him a break you wanker". Wish I had.
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 13:39, 2 replies)
We used to have a neighbour called Horace
A nice friendly, tubby, bald little gentleman was Horace, always taking the time to talk to us as kids, etc. Then one day, after having inherited the house we grew up in, my brother and I noticed Horace in his garden from a first floor window. Horace was completely naked and masturbating furiously whilst looking up at us.
Didn't expect that.
Horace was also a church warden, incidentally.

about 3 inches fully erect, if you were wondering.
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 13:27, Reply)
Well, I dont know what this threads about, but Kitescreech made the mistake of leaving his profile up on the screen at work, So i'll just jump in here to say Hi! He thinks your all wankers,LMAOPLANE!!!!
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 13:23, 9 replies)
I have thought long and hard about a neighbours story, but I think my other half and I are probably some of 'those' neighbours...
When we moved in to our current house, it was the only one with enough space to park/store our five vehicles (of which I own one - the rest were his!) We also have so much stuff between the two of us that we filled two removal lorries. I'm pretty certain that we were the talk of the neighbours.

As for a story about a neighbour of mine, the wibbly lines need to take us back to the mid-eighties. I was a little girl of single figures and there was a (in my opinion) lovely old man a few doors down from us who was always working in his front garden and we always said hello and stopped for a chat. One day when I was on my own he told me that he had a tortoise who lived in the back garden. I instantly asked if I could see it and he said yes in principle, but that he wouldn't let me go back there without my Mum. We duly trundled off to my front door, collected my Mum and went to meet the tortoise.

In that time, I don't think people were nearly so careful about correct behaviour with children. So was I in the back garden of a reformed paedophile or just a very vigilant man? I don't ever want to know, but I do wonder...
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 13:21, 2 replies)
Being woken up at eight in the morning on a Sunday in late October by a fucking bone shuddering, big bastard, ball clenching motherfucker of an earthquake. The walls of my house were shaking so violently that I considered diving underneath the Mrs so she'd take the full brunt of the soon-to-be collapsing masonry.

But instead I shot out of bed, shook the Mrs awake and said: "Its a fucking earthquake! Get up! Its a fucking earthquake!"

My Mrs pointed out we don't get too many earthquakes in leafy Northamptonshire and rolled over to go back to sleep. As she gave me the brush off she mumbled something about it being the kids next door.

Perplexed, I suddenly realised the photo frames and other various womanly shit on the dresser was bouncing - rythmically as a dull THONK... THONK... THONK... THONK... sound twatted through my house faster than a dose of syphilis riddles a horny sailor on his first shoreleave in six months who's ship's docked in Liverpool.

Feeling quite angry now (Sunday's are my day of rest and casual masturbation in the shower or), I shot out of bed, went to the window and, yes, there they were.

Next doors bastard spawn playing football against my wall. MY FUCKING WALL! Their own house was comprised, in no small part, of walls, so this really pissed me off.

I couldn't just go out there and twist their heads off. That would've been seen as unreasonable. But I decided to give them the fright of their lives. As I've mentioned, it was late October. I had the kit for the party the Mrs. and I were attending in my wardrobe.

Five minutes later my Mrs was woken by a high pitched squeal: "AAAIIIIEEEEEEE!!!" And then the thumping stopped.

I came back into the bedroom: "What you been up to?" asked the Mrs.

"Oh, nothing," I said, as I hid the full on Scream outfit (complete with mask, cape and fuck off huge rubber knife) I'd bought for Halloween back out of sight in my sock drawer.
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 13:12, 2 replies)
I had some really rank neighbours a few years back.
Big extended family. Single mum, some doddery old man who was an uncle or something, teenage boy, teenage girl and preteen girl.

The boy used to play the drums, very badly, all day and night in the back shed right by our kitchen.

They would smoke so much dope that the fumes would waft over and cloud our whole house.

They blasted Marley music all day and night and had big massive parties constantly.

One night all the neighbours rushed out in a panic at the sound of yelling and smashing, and when we saw that it was their place, and that they had pissed someone off badly enough that they'd run up their driveway to smash up their car before driving off, we all tutted at each other and waved goodnight before heading back inside, avoiding the assailants rushing off into their cars and studiously avoiding any license plate numbers that could involve us in vindicating these selfish assholes.

The absolute worst though.

Our study had heavy velvet drapes to try and block out the noise of their screaming fights and raucous partying, as it was the one wall that faced directly onto their property, and as such were rarely opened.

I pulled them apart to clean the windows once, and there, directly in front of my nose, was a used tampon, stuck the the window by the mutual forces of the gunk encrusting it and the force at which it was flung from their bathroom window.

I had to go outside, get on a stepladder, and peel the now-dry fucker off with a plastic bag over my hand. Then pick up the pairs of stained undies I found down there as well. Dirty little fucks.

When my landlord went to chat to the mum about it, they said that they'd had a slumber party and it must have been a guest. Charming.
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 12:45, Reply)
Not sure if I've already posted this...
Anyway, cast your mind back to the head days of 2003...


I was a young fresher, newly arrived at university, for the experience of a life time.

I moved in, waved my parents good bye, and thought about hitting the bar for all of the raucous fresher-related antics that I had been told about. It was now that I met my first university friend - Shahid.

A thoroughly lovely bloke. He was a former Muslim, so didn't/couldn't drink a great deal, but never mind, we got on fine, and went on a bar crawl with the rest of our floor/other randoms, doing 'Kerrrazy' student things...

Anyway, things got a little weird at the end of Freshers week when he got drunk and started giving some ad hoc poetry recitals, it was pretty dark stuff, but it was also pretty poor. We laughed it off as teenage angst, after all, he was a former muslim goth, who one trip to HMV bought a Marilyn Manson album, and a Britney Spears album. 'Nuff said really.

As the term progressed, he got more and more angst-y, to the point where one night he threatened to kill himself after a night on the town. He was prepared to grate his wrists with a cheese grater, and we wrestled it out of his hands, and locked him in his room for the night.

The next day, everything was fine, in fact, he seemed to have forgotten the whole incident. We decided to not pursue it with the uni people, probably a mistake in hindsight, as he started doing it more and more after nights out.

It ended up being common, he would attempt to kill himself, we would talk him out of it, ring the porters, they would take him for a walk, the next day it was as if nothing happened.

It became clear he was doing this for attention, so we started ignoring him, taking whatever weapon it was in his hand from him, and sitting him in a corner somewhere...

That is until one fateful night, he came in screaming he was going to end it all and started scoffing a handfull of pills.

The rest of the floor dived at him to wrestle the pills and other stuff from his hands, as he munched away... It was then that I noticed that the pills and weird powder he was trying to eat were vitamin C tablets and Lemsip!

Now, I am no chemist, but I don't think his aim was to become the healthiest guy on campus, but he was giving it his all.

Oh how we laughed! He never tried it again, and so we could all relax knowing it was just a cry for attention, I don't think he would dare try to do it again after the last attempt.


As a small post script, in his second year, after all of us choosing not to live with him, he got booted out of Uni for stalking some girl, and got diagnosed with Paranoid Schzioprenia.

Now, I am not one to make light of such a horrible thing, but it just a shame that this wasn't diagnosed earlier, so we knew we lived with someone who had problems, rather than someone who was just a bit weird and goth-like.
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 12:11, 7 replies)
"Luckily, a bush broke my fall"
Fnarr fnarr chortle chortle
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 11:39, 1 reply)
When I was a little nipper
my dad used to burn rubbish in a big metal barrel in the garden. (Not very environmentally friendly, but this was the sixties and my dad used to own a bottle opener which was a taxidermied rat with metal jaws that used to sit on his study dresser looking like a bionic mutant killing machine; my dad was not into kissing trees and hugging flowers).

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

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

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

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

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

My dad appeared perplexed.

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

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

It was one of my sisters old and knackered dolls.
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 11:03, 3 replies)
my fat neighbour RIP - or is she?
I had a strange one. We had some lovely neighbours, and they decided to move and rent their place out. We are in a village so know most people to say hello in the street and most are friendly if a bit mental.

23rd December they moved in. Both of them were late twenties. She was about 28 stone and a little simple. He was a proper nasty b*stard. When told that parking in the middle of the A road we live on is a sure fire way to lose a wing mirror at the very least his answer was "F*ck off, i can afford it - are you saying i can't f*cking afford it". Not bad considering it was a 78 year old lady. Anyway....

..moving it along - he dissappeared after about a week. never seen again. But they had a child. This is where it got a little odd. We have no pavement outside our house, and there are steps down to the road - straight onto it. One afternoon, the lady - whom couldn't make it 300 yards to the car without a 5 minute stop - was taken out on a stretcher, by about 4 ambulance men. She wasn't moving.

Then her child was taken from the village school - and this is where we found she had died as that was the reason the child was taken out of school.

Then the odd bit. About 3 days later, the saturday morning her whole family turned up, they emptied the house and told us "you haven't seen us right, you don't know where anything has gone or how to get hold of us". Strange, as we didn't know them and didn't have their phone number. They then left, they were not grieving - in fact they seemed pretty ordinary. They went straight to the rental agent and threw the keys in shouting "the lady at 135 is dead" as they simply dissappeared.

So - is she dead? Is it a family cover up? It seems pretty elaborate unless they were escaping the father for whatever reason.

All very strange, another ghost to add to the property possibly but i still think she may be alive.....
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 10:44, 3 replies)
ah the joys of university
this brings back many memories of living in university "halls of residence" (for the merkins = dorms)

First year of university, move into my little room on a corridor with 7 other chaps.

the highlights:

The god-botherer guy from Iowa, funny guy but no particular stories.

Stavros. The greek guy named Panos, we of course christened him Stavros which annoyed him greatly.

The cleaners had to have a quiet chat with him, this is Britain, our sewage system, unlike the greek system, can handle toilet paper, please don't put used toilet paper in the little bin by the toilet!

Wore the same clothes for weeks on end and frankly stank.
The rooms were surprisingly well insulated, but in the middle of the ngith, we'd often hear him running the tap in his sink for hours on end.

One day he proudly tells me that he has discovered that his key opens my door. Not sure how he worked this out but he then tells me how nice the chocolate bars in my room were! Maintenance man had the lock changed within an hour.

I think he studied Computer Science which explains a lot.
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 10:07, 9 replies)
My parents' next-door neighbour used to happily sit on the Commons' back benches for many a year until being ousted by one of "Blair's babes" (bit of a misnomer) in 1997. He was a rich source of the kind of stories that would get national newspapers frothing at their metaphorical mouths these days, as most Parliamentarians of his generation seemed to regard the Palace of Westminster as a heavily-subsidised club (well, it still is). One thing he told me is that, quite apart from the Cabinet, Shadow Cabinet etc., there were as many different cliques and mutual appreciation societies as you'd find in an English public school, which usually had more to do with length of "service" than party politics, with the elder statesmen generally being the more likely to behave badly in debates, shouting down speeches, throwing papers everywhere etc. One group of crusty Old Harrovians were particularly renowned for constantly trying to derail motions by rudely heckling and badgering other MPs heading for the "Aye" door (in complete disregard for the House's etiquette and protocol). They were known as the "Nay boors".
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 10:02, 1 reply)
When I was 15 years old, my parents decided that we needed an exchange student. Upon receiving a dossier full of potential new temporary siblings, my sister and I did what any teenage girls would do: we chose the cutest one.

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

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

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

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

Then Rocky pulled down his trousers and shat in our front garden, like a dog.
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 9:58, 12 replies)
Our almost new neighbour
So my gf and I are flat hunting atm. We did find this one place that looked amazing:

In our price range.
Near the shops.
Near to work.
Near to my gf's kid's schools.
Near to friends.

Until the estate agent mentioned that the OAP downstairs neighbours had made some noise complaints about the previous tenants.

We decided to see what they had to say. We went round for a chat and they seemed nice. Their complaints about the previous neighbours seemed reasonable (blocking the OAP car in with theirs, destroying the front garden, large motorbike at 6 am. Lots of parties etc.) We,, we thought, we're not going to be like that. Everything started going ahead.

Then we found out about the extent of the OAP's complaints. I don;t konw how but my gf got some copies of police reports about these neighbours.

At their best they had averaged 6 calls a day to the local police station, normaly 3-4. They'd complained so much that they had been threatened with arrest. They weren;t just complaining about the noise when the neighbours where in but were complaining about parties while everyone was at work. Turned out the nice and reasonable OAP's were less than sane and looked for any opportunity to kick up a stink.

Goodbye lovely flat, hello sanity.
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 9:27, 3 replies)
not so much of a funny one here...
I was about 3 years old when my parents decided that now my sister had just been born, it was time to move to a more suitable place - more rooms, and a nice big garden to play in.

We moved in and all seemed well. Next door, however, lived a family, (Christie & Christine, and their kids who were bout ready to fly fromn the nest) that had two quite loud and active dogs that didn't care for anyone near their back garden. To top it off, the neighbours, had a very low wire fence.

Naturally, with a new born, and 3 year old who liked nothing more than trying to explore this new amazingly large landscape I had been presented with, my parents were concerned about the dogs as they tried to jump the fence every chance they got.

After some discussion, the fence was taken down ans a new one put up, but this was just the start of many years of arguements. They were mainly minor ones, but bad blood none the less, and often a wall of silence between our two families.

After about 15 years of this, we suddenly found out Christie had just developed cancer. It was very quick, and he died in a matter of weeks - maybe a few months.

Christene, quite understandably, was broken by this, and for the first time since we had moved in we all started talking again. Before long, we were all good friends; it was just a serious shame that it took the death of someone to bring the families together.

Christene soon after moved away, but kept in touch and would often visit us; she also spent a lot of time on the phone to my Mum. Sadly, only about 3 years later, she died suddenly from a heart attack.

We may have all had 15 years of unpleasantness between us, but the 3 or so years that we were all friends was worth it; I just wish that our respective families had not been so stupid at that start, and realised how much in common we had.
(, Mon 5 Oct 2009, 9:09, Reply)

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