Our noisy, drunken, drug-addled, and a general blight on my otherwise joy-fuelled existence…

Bins? We don’t need no steenkin’ bins!

Large commercial waste bin at back of house + soiled nappy in open bag on front doorstep = another set of classy individuals who have singularly failed to grasp the concept of not living in an open septic tank.



Arsehole Neighbour Update

Well, I think three times in five weeks allows it to be classified as a regular occurrence!

It would seem that the inhabitant of the downstairs front bedroom has thrown up out of his window again. I came home at lunchtime to find that someone had made an attempt that I can only describe as half-arsed to clean it up, by throwing a bowl of soapy water at it. Of course, this has just swished it around, and hasn’t cleaned up anything of any note. Before I couldn’t stand to look anymore, I noticed that it had spilled down over the window sill as well.

As the soft spring breeze caught the aroma, I almost … well, I assume you can imagine?

The other morning, as I was leaving for work, I heard shouting (of the gutteral “OI!” variety) coming the downstairs front window. When I turned around, I was greeted with a flick of fingers and a hearty “fuck off”. I’m not sure what I did to deserve such a send-off, but it’s always nice to be thought of as I begin my working day, to provide supported living facilities for my inconsiderate, ungrateful, swamp-donkey neighbours.

Have I mentioned how much I love this town?


I Want to Live in a Sound-Proof Bubble

Our neighbours are a constant source of stupefaction to me. One evening last week, I was sitting at my laptop, clinging to the last vestiges of the ability to work, when I decided I simply couldn’t ignore the distraction of the screaming and shouting any more, and wandered my way over to the wall to get a better listen (sometimes it’s like my very own personal Corrie Enderdale, only without the cheap accents and constant chip references. Oh, wait…).

Unfortunately, as my ear approached the wall in an attempt to make out the actual words buried inside the verbal melee, I discovered something rather more sinister than just the usual inane drivel: what sounded to me like a serious case of physical and/or sexual abuse. I quickly dusted off my cape, called the police, and explained what I could hear. It wasn’t quite the tactical insertion one comes to expect after a two-hour stint on Rainbow Six, but the police soon arrived in a matter of minutes (less than eight), and in some force. I retired to my usual evening’s diversions, after having returned my cape to its secret panel, satisfied that I had done what was required of me – Citizen Pinky to the rescue!

Skip forward a week, to the other evening, and the same thing’s happening again – more shouting and screaming, so I quickly have a listen to see if … yep, exactly the same thing seems to be going on, so I make a quick dive for the bat phone – grabbing my cape on the way – and do my Citizen Pinky bit again. “Job done!” I thought to myself, now we wait a few brief moments for the rozzers and watch the culprit get carted away, never to be heard of again.

This is where things took a turn for the weird. It had gone quiet by the time I’d finished on the phone, which I didn’t know whether it was good or bad, but either way Wiltshire’s very own League of Justice was about to pounce, weren’t they? I’d been told on the phone that it would be treated as a priority, which is certainly what one would expect given the gravity of the situation. I hadn’t actually used the word “rape” over the phone, but come on – it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to make what hardly amounts to a leap. Anyway, fifty-one minutes later, a single male police officer arrived at the scene. Yes, you read that correctly: fifty-one minutes. Did I disturb the chip run, do you think? Of course, whoever it was making all that din had long since left by the time PC McSaunter arrived – in fact, I saw the couple leaving together, with apparent amity. Given the confusion that must have descended over the brow of Constable McAmble upon finding no bloody corpse, and the fact that I had given my address and name when reporting the “incident”, I waited for the knock on the door in readiness to assuage his puzzlement. No such knock came. I’ve given my cape to the local charity shop. Perhaps it can do some good there.

I’ve since made enquiries with Wiltshire Police as to the reason for what can only be described as dallying when faced with the report of a possible rape/assault. Interestingly, the footer of all the email correspondence I’ve had from the police thus far reads: “… Putting People First….”
Given enough time, one would assume.

Firemen and Pineapple Brunch!

We have neighbours of the desperately annoying variety, and I’ve been meaning to blog about their exploits for quite some time. I’ll probably get round to typing up my notes more fully sometime soon (Christ – it’s just knowing where to start; they drive me nuts) – but for now this will have to do, as I simply can’t keep this one in.

There’s often some confusion about whether they’re in or not (apart from when they’re making a god-awful racket – which is most of the time, but more on that later, perhaps); lights are on, windows are open, but no-one ever answers the door. I think they may have fallen foul of that last one this morning…

I was getting a start on brunch, after being badgered into it by Paspartout (remind me – what was it that Pat Benatar said about sex as a weapon?), when I realised that the smoke alarm was going off next door (we’re a terraced house, with the retards folk in question being the end terrace). Ah well, I thought, that’s what you get for cooking up under the hallway detector – next time perhaps you should try the bathroom, dumbass! After twenty minutes I’d had enough of trying to use cooking noises to mask the whining and pinging and general shutthefuckupedness of it all and decided to go round. At this point you might think it not very neighbourly of me to wait twenty minutes before worrying about the safety of my neighbours, but they’re twats. Anyway… I’d had enough, so thought I ought to go check it out. The upstairs windows were open, the side window was open as well as the kitchen window, and I could see a light on in the kitchen. I knocked on the front door, the side window and poked my head in through the kitchen window and shouted. No answer was forthcoming, so given that there had to be a reason for the alarm, I came back in and called the landlord (next door’s a rental), followed by the letting agent, and suggested that they might want to take an interest in the possibility of something being awry, and left it at that. They each said that they’d send someone round, and the alarm continued to wail. After a brief “I’ve done my bit” moment, I suddenly thought to myself: hang on a minute, what would I do if I actually liked these people? Hmm, that’s a bit of a no-brainer, I retorted. So I called the fire brigade, toute suite.

The emergency services said they’d send the police, which I found a little surprising (though when they asked, I had to say in all honesty that I could neither see nor smell any smoke – and judging by my barbequing exploits it’s not possible to have fire without it), but an appliance did arrive very promptly. Needless to say, Paspartout became very excited. Pah – girls, eh!).

By this time, my father had arrived, so it was back to brunch (after offering the firemen a cuppa, of course – they were all so lovely, squeal! Paspartout, get off my keyboard!). Yes indeed, they were all a friendly bunch, and IMHO members of what is arguably the finest profession. But only one of them was anywhere near cute! Oh yeah – and after all that, it turns out that someone was in next door. Twats, see!?

Anyway, brunch… I thought I’d share the recipe with you:

  • zest and juice 1 lime
  • 2 tbsp clear honey
  • 2 pinches ground cinnamon
  • few gratings whole nutmeg
  • 2 tsp icing sugar , sifted
  • 200g very low-fat fromage frais
  • 2 tsp butter
  • 1 fresh pineapple , cut into 8 long wedges, skin and core removed

Mix the lime juice and half the lime zest with 1 tbsp honey, a pinch of cinnamon and nutmeg. Set this sauce aside. Stir the icing sugar and a pinch of cinnamon into the fromage frais.

  1. Heat the butter and remaining honey in a non-stick frying pan until melted. Add the pineapple and cook over a high heat for 8 mins, turning regularly until caramelised. Pour in the spiced lime sauce and bubble for a few secs, tossing the pineapple to glaze in the sauce.
  2. Serve immediately, sprinkled with the remaining lime zest and accompanied by a dollop of the cinnamon fromage frais