Craggy Island

Well I’m back with another post in lieu of anything exciting happening on my street this week, other than a loud domestic one evening over the week-end that is. . It’s been a busy week in general for me, but we have another Group meeting next week so hopefully more news about actual regeneration then.

This post harks back to good old London town and some little anecdotes about yet another delightful couple move into an adjoining flat. As previously mentioned the house I rented with friends down in Battersea was flanked by flats on either side. On one side the improbably awful Wayne and Waynetta and the sporadically insane Ricky and Bianca above them – ahh the joy.

On the other side the ground floor flat was occupied by a lovely elderly gentleman, who for the purposes of this post I shall call Austin, and the upstairs flat that had been empty for some time. After a reorganisation of flatmates I moved to the upstairs main bedroom, which shared a wall with the living rooms of the upstairs flats on both sides.

About this time, I think possibly before I moved upstairs, one of my housemates, or it could have been me I genuinely forget now, bumped into Austin outside our front door. He was very keen to share the news that the flat above him was going to be occupied at last, but particularly pleased that his newly proposed neighbours had knocked on his door to introduce themselves and ask if it was a nice neighbourhood. 

Austin was delighted that they seemed to care about where they lived and wanted it to be somewhere quiet. This boded well for them he thought and he wanted us to be reassured, given the trouble we had with ‘the people on the other side’.

So the gossip was passed on and we awaited our new neighbours’ arrival. Soon enough they appeared, a middle aged couple who were pleasant and friendly and seemingly keen to make a good impression. They were really polite and always up for a chat when you saw them in the street for the first few weeks. Amazing, what could possibly go wrong!?

I don’t know if you’re familiar with the telly series Father Ted, but apart from being one of the funniest things on T.V.  ever, at least one lot of characters began to feel very familiar over the following few months. John and Mary O'Leary lived in the village on Craggy Island and ran a little shop. To the outside observer they were just like our new neighbours, polite and friendly and always happy to see you. But in private they were filled with a deep and destructive loathing of each other, just like our new neighbours. Yes you guessed it, another noise abatement issue had moved in next door.

It started off with the odd raised voice, mostly overheard through the wall of the upstairs bedroom which shared a wall with their living room, but gradually these altercations became more frequent and much louder. The intermittent bouts of domestic disturbance were fuelled by lovely alcohol but without any sound proofing on the walls to conceal it from their neighbours, we all got to listen in. The rows were abusive and vitriolic and the language, good heavens the language! 

“You effing C**t”, from her to him “You b**ch”, from him to her and “You lazy C**t” from her to him. Well mostly it was from her to him as I remember it. He was a man of few words; she was a woman who more than made up for his taciturn manner.

I think her liberal use of the ‘C’ word in private was all the more unsettling given her demeanour in public, which veered towards the Hyacinth Bucket when you bumped into them outside the front door. It was difficult to match up the public and private personas of the O’Learys but also because they were SO unlike our other challenging neighbours who couldn’t have given a toss what anyone thought of them, the O’Learys so obviously did care.

Though oddly they (and by ‘they’ I mean ‘she’) were less bothered about glossing over other areas of their private lives. I don’t know what it is about some people, but if a neighbour politely asks how you are they don’t actually want to know, unless they’re sitting next to your hospital bed or a very close friend. It’s a widely recognised social norm that this is a question that requires a non specific response. 

If you see someone on the street once a week and they say ‘Hello, how’re you?” for goodness sake DO reply “Oh you know, mustn’t grumble” (my Grandma’s favourite) or, “Fine thanks”. DO NOT go into great gynaecological detail about your latest surgical exploration – I DON’T WANT TO KNOW! Don’t use phrases like “stitches in my back passage” or talk about your prostate to a virtual stranger, Hell’s Teeth people preserve a little dignity! 

OK, now that’s out of my system let’s get back to the O’Learys. After a regular run down of her up and coming surgeries and his crippling back problems that rendered it difficult for him to work (though not too difficult to lift a pallet of beer out of the car I noticed on more than one occasion) we began to notice that his attitude shifted from the quiet down trodden hubby, to a man that realised he was living next door to three twenty something women in fancy London town. 

To be fair he wasn’t creepy, just excitable, particularly if we arrived at the front door at similar times say just after pub closing time. On a couple of occasions we had to step over him as he lay sleeping drunkenly across the doorstep or in his miniscule front yard, ahhh I feel quite nostalgic about it now. I’ve also just remembered the time I didn’t notice he was asleep outside his own house until my housemate pointed it out after I got in, he was tucked in under the hedge – bless.

We were generally less angry with them about their shouting than our other horrid neighbours, perhaps because we’re British and therefore too polite or maybe it’s just easier to confront someone you don’t discuss the weather with on a regular basis, but also because I think they so obviously thought it was a private matter. It didn’t spill out onto the street, well the drunken snoring stuff did but the nasty shouty stuff was all inside so we all just pretended that it didn’t happen. We even got used to it, the ever indispensible earplugs came in handy as did loud music with headphones on. The O’Learys’ disturbances were nowhere near as frequent as our other neighbours incidentally, they just added a little spice and intrigue to the mix.

Here’s a lovely link to a nice Father Ted O’Leary’s quote on IMDB

I couldn’t find a clip of The O’Learys but here are some clips on YouTube of Father Ted for those who’ve never seen it.

On Holiday

Charades

A spoonful of sugar.

Wayne & Waynetta

Hot of the press, there’s another community meeting next week. It’s an opportunity to unload to the Local Authority and find out how much money we don’t have to finish demolishing and developing our street, though to give them their due they are acknowledging the lack of progress and asking for our input, but it will remain to be seen if they are willing to take us up on any of them. But I’d better pace myself, it can’t all be forward thinking and positive. So after the delights of Ricky and Bianca in my last post, today I give you Wayne and Waynetta.

This charming couple lived in the flat under Ricky and Bianca with their unfortunate offspring, or rather Waynetta did. Wayne would visit his lovely lady-friend and their ill-fated spawn wearing his school uniform on the nights he didn’t have detention, and if this doesn’t give you enough of an insight into the general tone of what’s to come just read the next sentence. I often saw Wayne gobbing copious amounts of phlegm onto the pavement as he slouched his way towards Waynetta’s with his angry little fists shoved into his easy care trouser pockets his acne pitted brow furrowed in deep thought – or he could just have looked like that generally.

W & W were the couple most responsible for the never-ending and mind melting playing of Billy Ray Cyrus at all hours of the day and night, the sound turned up so loud it distorted and hurt your ears and for that alone I can never forgive them.

It was pretty shit living next door to them to be honest. Ricky & Bianca were bad enough but their disturbances were sporadic and at least they looked shamefaced when you saw them afterwards, but not our little white trash neighbours. These enchanting little scumbags contributed little to the local community, the economy or most distressingly for their progeny, the gene pool.

I became very familiar with the Peabody Trust who managed the flat next door. Waynetta was the main focus of the noise diaries that I kept. When she wasn’t screaming at her sweet toddling baby (and he was a sweetheart), smashing things in her flat, screaming at Wayne, standing in the street and yes you guessed it screaming, she was playing loud music and staggering about like an inebriated fishwife at all hours of the day and night.

I hope you can understand why I have zero tolerance for noisy neighbours, I really do feel I’ve had my fair share. It’s coming up to ten years since I left London so some of my memories of Waynetta are a little fuzzy but I do remember that it was pretty grim.

If I remember correctly my housemate S and I decided to contact Social Services about the obvious neglect that the little boy was subjected to on a regular basis. The final straw came when we found him wondering the street by himself at about 11 p.m. He can’t have been anymore than two years old. Waynetta was unconscious inside her pit and hadn’t bothered to lock the front door, or even shut it.

I recall that my flatmate was very disappointed at the reaction she got when she called for the Local Authority for advice, something along the lines of us being judgemental busybodies.  I mean what parent hasn’t got smashed off their tits on Benylin and Thunderbirds/MD 20/20 and abdicated all responsibility for her offspring leaving them unsupervised in the middle of the road at midnight?!

My biggest memory of Waynetta was one hot summer’s evening. She stood outside her house near to Midnight with her posse drinking Red Stripe lager and smoking fags and yes you guessed it shrieking with her mates. We were in the living room with the window open to let a welcome breeze into the house.

We were debating whether or not to move to the kitchen to avoid the intrusive drivel from outside. Waynetta’s little boy was staggering around her and we could hear him chattering and pleading away, “Mummy tired. Mummy bed” repeating it over and over, as toddlers are want to do and trying to get the attention of a ‘responsible’ adult. He could barely stand and just wanted to go to sleep.  Unfortunately for him the focus of his pleading couldn’t have cared less.

Her response was one of the most gobsmacking things I think I have ever heard a mother say to her child without a single hint of irony.

With a half baked expression on her face, a half smoked fag in one hand and a can of lager in the other she slurred her angry response to the little fellah’s cry for attention.

“F***ing shut-up Ryan. I can’t be Mary Poppins all the f***ing time!”

Let’s be honest Waynetta, just once would’ve been nice.

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?

Rita, Sue and Bob Too

Now I’m on a roll. I’ll admit to having a short fuse when it comes to noisy neighbours, but that’s only because I’ve lived next door to more than one. Noise disturbance and nuisance come in many forms.

There are the neighbours who can’t talk to each other without shouting and screaming, those who play loud music at unsocial hours, households for who drunken festivities are a normal outdoor activity, constant and repetitive door slamming, computer games without headphones on (explosions and gun fire) and my all-time favourite deliberate harassment such as banging on walls and screaming and shouting abuse.

And it’s not just the music, apparently some people haven’t worked out that the benefit of using mobile phones to communicate over long distances is that you don’t have to shout!  Especially between the hours of midnight and 6 a.m. because believe it or not, not everyone wants to hear you arguing with your boyfriend about something unintelligible after midnight when they have to get up for work in the morning.

I particularly look forward enjoying those pleasant spring mornings or afternoons when I can turn my attention to tidying up my front yard, which admittedly at the moment is in a dreadful state, perhaps with the radio on; volume at an acceptable volume level of course. The sun will be shining. The one bird that lives in South Leeds will be chirruping from an overgrown gutter or a crap filled bin yard not far away and I’ll be waiting for the inevitable.

Because if you are a young tracksuit wearing male of questionable employment status or a cut price Colleen Rooney, these first glimpses of sunshine and temperate weather must mean that it’s time for hard core techno to be blasted out across the whole street!

It also means that once it’s warm and dry enough, you can stand outside your house all night smoking fags, taking drugs and binge drinking whilst blasting out yet more shitty music and debating the important issues of the day such as “What is your f**king problem?”, “I’m f**king wankered I am!” and the age old question “What the f**k are you looking at?”, as always at top volume. And why not if you don’t have to get up for work then why should you be concerned about anyone else getting a decent night’s sleep?

I have variously enjoyed being shouted at for the appalling affront of daring to be annoyed at a diminutive, staggeringly intoxicated, shifty eyed, fat-tongued teenager banging at my door at two in the morning and shouting “uuunnggghhhh opuuuuuuuun uuuuup uuunnggghhh”; I mean he just got the wrong door - how DARE I be angry at being woken in the middle of the night during the week!?

Also there was the time that I’ve had to listen to private conversations being shouted drunkenly to the drivers of various boy racer cars with blacked out windows (the most gangsta look for a three door Peugeot I find). Oh sorry, not the ONE time but ALL the times which are as always enhanced by the ubiquitous techno beat being blasted out of the car stereo with window shaking bass. What is it about stupid people and volume control; why can’t they just keep it sociable? It’s staggering how many people air their dirty laundry in the middle of the road at top volume and then look at you as though you’re the one aggravating them.

In a community with a steady population that was invested in the community, the people and the property you have the opportunity to build relationships with your neighbours or at the very least you might support each other to tackle problem neighbours. However despite quite a few of the properties in my street being privately owned, I doubt that many residents are owner occupiers. The population in my street seems to be very transient, in particular in houses that are next to one of the problem houses.

The residents of this house might be compared to the fabulously glamorous cast of any series of Skins, that is if the cast of Skins shopped at Primani, got drunk in Yate’s Wine Lodge on Bacardi Breezers and Wkd Blue and ate Pop Tarts for breakfast; their cheap stilettos are often heard clattering up and down the street on a Sunday evening like a 21^st Century “Rita, Sue and Bob Too”, without the incisive comedy and pathos.

We’re trying with a community group, but not too many regular members are attending, and why would you if you only rent???? I certainly didn’t. But that’s for another post. Anyway I meant to write about the people I lived near when I lived in London, who believe it or not proved to be even more entertaining than my current neighbours in South Leeds, but I’ll save that for another post.

Thanks for reading.

Greetings Pop Pickers

Greetings pop pickers

Hello again here’s a post about noise abatement and nuisance neighbours.

A lot of the time where I live is pretty quiet, but when South Leeds wants to party they turn it up to 11.

By far the majority of people on my street are quiet and keep themselves to themselves. Ok we don’t really mix a great deal but I don’t think we upset each other either.

A couple of years ago I became very familiar with the out of hours noise abatement team from Leeds City Council due to a couple of particularly noisy neighbours.

There were two households that contributed to mine, and I would have thought everyone else’s misery by generally being what I like to call a ‘bunch of bastards’.

In back to back terraces the sound proofing is pretty thin so you can hear an awful lot of what’s going on either side and at the back of you; particularly as every room in your house touches a room in someone else’s. You can hear vacuum cleaners, computer games, chatting, laughing, shouting, music, telly, people walking up stairs, snoring, giggling in the bath and alarms going off in the morning.

Most of these noises are pretty normal, and as you’re moving about your own house, you don’t really notice it and most likely contribute to it, in fact I’d probably miss the day to day stuff if it wasn’t there; it’s just the sound of ordinary people going about their lives.

I should also point out that I’m not averse to a party, in fact I’ve thrown a few of my own (and been at a few where the neighbours have called the police to get us to be quiet in my younger days), however never night after night at the same house.  Everyone’s entitled to throw a party now and again. It’s the persistent offenders that really cause the problems.

A big gripe with persistent offenders would be about the quality of the music played at full volume. Why do you never hear Tchaikovsky, Bowie, Joni Mitchell or Roxy Music blaring out from their stereos? It’s always something excruciating like Scooter or some other dreadful techno crap, either that or Country and Western.

I like a bit of C&W by the way, but it’s not the good stuff that gets blasted out, oh no! Apparently if you’re an anti social drunk with volume control issues the good stuff isn’t what you want to listen to over and over again at 2 a.m., you want to listen to Billy Ray Cyrus’s Achy Breaky Heart, and you want everybody else in a 500 metre radius to listen to it with you!

Also why is there never a selection of tunes, no it’s too much like hard work to drag yourself up off your booze addled backside and change the CD. Simply put Billy Ray on repeat, preferably just the one song for hours and hours and hours . . . . . . at full volume. Or pull your car up outside your pre pubescent girlfriend’s house and play your shitty techno at full blast in the street. Everybody loves that.

In one spectacularly disturbing incident a persistent offender, previously reported to and witnessed by the Noise Abatement team, selected a series of appropriate karaoke tunes over which to shout racist epithets and threats at full volume from midnight to 2.a.m.

Now I’m not a racist socially incompetent loser so I’m not sure I’d have picked the same play list, however let’s have a guess at what aural treats bombarded my delicate ears that evening; a touch of Screwdriver perhaps? No?

What about some thrash metal or hardcore rap, no?  Some Wagner perhaps? No, not Wagner either.

You’re right of course, the perfect accompaniment to an evening of racist ranting is yes, you guessed it, ‘Lucky’ by Britney Spears; a simple tale of one starlet’s struggle to find comfort in the harsh realities of showbiz.

Then what to follow? Yes it’s an obvious choice; Leanne Rimes’ ‘Can’t fight the moonlight’, that well known right wing anthem. It’s even better if you know all the words and can sing along in a drunken slurry fashion (but not in tune), those cheeky racist drunks and their karaoke machines.

This was a fairly typical occurrence, at least twice a week for months and months and months. And as if the random music choices and racist shouting weren’t enough it was often accompanied by door slamming and wall banging. And sometimes if I was lucky the music would come to an unexpected halt when their CD player got stuck on one note, at full volume, for 20 minutes at a time – imagine that if you can. Like I said earlier, bastards!

However all of this torture did abruptly come to an end when they set fire to the house and were re-housed.  Shame that.

Thanks for reading.

Picking over a carcass.

A general rant. Enjoy.

So how have thing been over the last few weeks in general: a few sleepless nights due to odd car behaviour in the street (more on that later), unsecure abandoned buildings, rubbish filled bin yards and the commencement of demolition. All good stuff.

Linked to this is the thought in my head, “am I the only person who calls the police and reports stuff?”

I’m sure I’m not, as I get regular updates from our Neighbourhood Watch co-ordinator and these tell me that other people have been arrested and stopped mid crime due to calls from residents. Both reassuring and disturbing in equal measures.

I’m never sure when you stop being a concerned member of the community and become an irritating loon because you report things to the police or the local authority because you ‘think’ you’ve seen or heard something.

I suspect I fall somewhere between the two.

Legitimate calls or emails to the police or the neighbourhood watch coordinator I’ve made over the last few months have been made up of:

•  reporting the stealing of bin yard metal work (left there by the council because NOBODY would think of nicking fixtures and fittings from abandoned buildings!);
• reporting a witnessed vandalism/attempted breaking on an abandoned property on my street;
•  reporting a suspected act of vandalism/attempted break in on one of the streets along from me (heard but didn’t see breaking glass and general smashing late at night) and last but not least
•  people rummaging through rubbish bins and tipping the contents out on to the ground of the bin yards on 3 separate occasions.

I think I should have called the police over a couple of other things, but had no real information to give them other than; “I’ve seen a weird man driving around our streets at night with no headlights on. He wasHeHe was stopping and starting his car and changing parking spots regularly, so generally behaving in a suspicious way.”

Perhaps he was just socially inept, people sometimes are you know, but I don’t think ignorance of your inconsiderate behaviour is a good enough defence for behaving like a thoughtless knob.

Added to this there are people standing in abandoned bin yards at night for no good reason, people driving up and down the street in-between the bin yards at night with their headlights off (different car this time) and people gunning their car engines to reach maximum warp at all times of the day and night (it’s hardly Silverstone in South Leeds – no one needs to go above 20 mph in a residential area). 

However because the street lighting is poor on our street and no one lives opposite me anymore, (I don’t even get ambient light from their houses, woe is me) I can’t see clearly enough to make a note of useful information such as make, model or the number plate of repeat offenders without going and standing directly in front or behind these cars with a pad and pen. Not likely to happen!

I suspect they are fly tipping or at the very least assessing their options for fly tipping, though the bin yard opposite me stays relatively free of trash since I called to have it cleared last year (LCC very quick to respond to this by the way). 

I suspect this in some way due to my ostentatious curtain twitching and arms crossed front-door-step stance that I take-up whenever I see anyone suspicious lurking unnecessarily near my house  - I’m really am only three curlers, a house-coat and a hairnet away from becoming Hilda Ogden.

But this does highlight for me the general anxiety I feel now when at home. Every noise, car engine, smash, bang and alarm has me leaping up to have a look. I Shhhhhhhh people on the phone and wake in the night and so I can nervously twitch my curtains (not a euphemism by the way) every time I hear an unusual sound.

I watched a telly programme the other week about an elephant carcass in Africa, killed by poachers I believe, and the predators, scavengers and organisms that picked over its flesh and bones. In a matter of days it was a deflated elephant skin suit except for a writhing, bubbling mass of maggots. The larger predators had quickly arrived and taken the softer easier targets (I was particularly impressed with the first hyena’s choice of entry point! That must have been what Local Authorities felt like when the budget cuts were announced! See link to video on YouTube below) and finally the insects and other small things rapidly consuming what was left of poor old Dumbo. 

I thought at the time; welcome to my world where my street is a dying pachyderm; a monument to prehistoric housing and bad investment. The neighbourhood is quite literally being picked clean by predators and scavengers. Except unlike poor predated Dumbo from the telly, my community isn’t dead and its constituent parts are not being redistributed to nourish the flora and fauna of South Leeds. The remaining residents have to watch whilst this attack spreads like an infection. This diseased area will not be picked clean quickly; it’s being left to rot.

I’m not sure I know where the blame lies, everyone seems to be holding up their hands and saying ‘don’t look at me. We’re doing the best we can’. But they don’t live here so let’s hope the Big Society works and we can reclaim our streets

 Poor old Dumbo’s sticky end meets what can only be described as a ‘sticky end’.