Rickaaaayyyyy!

So it looks like I’m focussing on noise for the next few posts; mainly because it’s too depressing to post about how Leeds City Council still hasn’t managed to clear all of the rubbish from their neglected bin yards yet. I mean it’s not like they have any influence over the refuse collection department is it . . . . . . oh.

Anyhow.

I lived next door to some of the more persistently annoying neighbours when I lived in London in my twenties. I shared a three bed roomed terraced house with two other splendid ladies on a quiet street in Battersea.

On both sides of our rented house the houses were converted into one bed flats, so we had two sets of neighbours on both sides, three lots of them were entertaining to say the least. Today I’ll concentrate on Ricky and Bianca. Not their real names.

Ricky and Bianca lived in one of the upstairs flats that flanked our house. Their living room bordered onto the main bedroom upstairs in our place. Ricky was a 40 plus year old black guy who thought he was a real gangsta – a real gangsta who drove a Lada and bought his trainers from ASDA that is.

Bianca wouldn’t say boo to a goose if you saw her in the street but when Ricky was resident in-between his many absences; she was a seriously forceful character. Reading between the lines, and not being able to avoid the eardrum ripping arguments that would occur, it seemed that Ricky was not the greatest boyfriend ever and to be honest he may not have even been her boyfriend, he could have been her deadbeat brother for all we knew.

Bianca seemingly had a regular job and possibly worked normal hours etc.

Ricky had a duvet in the back seat of his Lada.

There are two incidents that I can remember reasonably well. One was on one of the few visits my mum made to London.

I love my mum, but it was always interesting when she visited Fancy London. Bravely refusing to bow down to London peer pressure on the Tube by avoiding eye contact with complete strangers lest they be a serial killer or a religious maniac like any seasoned London traveller would, my mum’s right in there with full eye contact and a big smile and questions like “What’s that smell?” and “Why are there no bins at Kings Cross?” (The answer in case you’re wondering is that there are no bins in London so the IRA and latterly Al Qaeda can’t put bombs in them. Reassuring isn’t it.)

Anyway back to Ricky and Bianca. My Mum arrived in Battersea and we settled down for some tea, a natter and some lovely booze but as Ricky made one of his sporadic and unwelcome visits to next door and the fun started. We had to endure a hellish night of thumping music, screaming, shouting and the usual bangs and crashes that went on until the early hours, however we did eventually get to sleep.

The next morning we got up; wrung out from lack of sleep and nerves jangling I went to open the front door to find the most bizarre scene outside the house. The first thing to greet my weary eyes was a pair of (ugly) platform boots tossed haphazardly on our doorstep. As I ventured a little further into the street I saw that Bianca had been a busy girl during the night’s festivities.

Strewn across the road and draped over hedges and front yard walls were just about all of Ricky’s possessions. These included CDs, clothes (George at ASDA no doubt), foot wear and I’m pretty sure a telly – all topped off by a bleary eyed Ricky peering sheepishly from under a duvet on the back seat of his Lada.

I didn’t need my mum to see that first thing so I resignedly shut the door on the apocalyptic scene outside and went back to get the kettle on. Tea makes everything better.

By the time mum and I had caffeined up and set off on whatever cultural/retail activity we had planned for that day the street had been mostly cleared, not by a shamefaced Ricky I hasten to add, but by some kids with a shopping trolley. I like a young entrepreneur, and we had a number of them in Battersea.

The second memorable incident was another extraordinary public display of discord. I have no idea what led to the surreal tableau that was witnessed by residents and guests of our happy little home that evening, but it was glorious.

After hearing yet another Ricky and Bianca row spilling out into the street we peered out to see Bianca enthusiastically attacking Ricky’s beloved Lada with a large (and possibly rusty) hand saw and Ricky in turn defending his battered yet treasured car by tentatively hooking a golf club over Bianca’s saw every time she started in on the Lada’s bonnet, or he could have been aiming for her head.

I can’t remember how it resolved itself, I have a vague memory that she was screaming for help and we obliged by calling the police who trooped down and intervened.  Then we went back to whatever we were doing; waiting for the next enthralling episode to unfurl no doubt.

It sounds like we didn’t care but to be honest when it’s a regular occurrence you begin to lose any sense of moral outrage about domestic abuse and just start inwardly screaming “Leave him! Stop letting him in! Let me get some sleep!”

I look back on these incidents with sort of hazy fondness and a sense of detachment now, but at the time it was desperate. As I write this I can remember the diaries I kept for the Peabody Trust (the Housing Association that managed the bordering flats) and the disappointment I felt when their intervention turned out to be about as effective Nick Clegg/Viagra for pandas/a chocolate teapot.

Another testament to the dreadful impact noisy neighbours can have. Well at least I’ve got a few funny anecdotes out of it, lucky me eh?