Love Thy Neighbour?

An honest and amusing personal insight on the complexities of undesirable neighbours.

The role of the Estate Agent window has seen better days. Though still functional, it bows to the convenience and comprehensive strength of the online property listing -  websites covering everything you could possibly wish to know about a potential new abode. Images, dimensions, energy efficiency, local amenities and even educational catchment eligibility all at one’s fingertips. Though one key feature proves elusive - a browsing option that would genuinely and immensely change the housing market and the decisions of prospective homeowners everywhere. 

A ‘desirable neighbours’ filter.

We live in York, a city generally perceived as affluent, and although house prices in the area are higher than the national average, there are some more affordable options further away from the immediate centre. Buying our first home, my girlfriend and I had a realistic budget and viewed eight houses within our price range across the City. I know the area well and thus expected some fluctuation in what the price would get you, but wasn’t prepared for the vast gulf in ‘bang-for-your’buck’ between properties. 

The price tag of some was perhaps justifiable, others not so much; the ‘Four Bedroom’ semi which in fact was two bedrooms and a cupboard-sized attic with a plasterboard partition, and the ‘house of the damned’ which sat in a desirable, leafy suburb but would require £100K+ in renovations before it was vaguely inhabitable. There was obviously logic in omitting interior photographs from the online listing.

But one house ticked all the right boxes. Whilst having a rough reputation, I knew from experience the area was actually alright and we hastily arranged a viewing on what, from the listing, appeared to be an immaculate property at a sensible price. I braced myself to be disappointed - there had to be a snag, there’d surely be a 130ft electricity pylon in the garden, just out of shot on the images. 

The photographs weren’t deceptive, if anything they did the dwelling an injustice. It was the vendor herself who showed us round, affording me the opportunity to grill her first hand, legitimate experience of the home, rather than the Estate Agent - a  cunning, polished machine designed to tell you just what you want to hear, truth or otherwise. She surely wouldn’t be as promptly armed with deflective, deceptive and dubious responses as a professional. 

At the time a close friend, a homeowner himself, was suffering with what he described as “tenants from hell” and was vehemently insistent that we shouldn’t commit to a house without first establishing the character of the neighbours. Aside from staking out a property and its inhabitants, the best I could do was to ask the vendor directly. The occupants of the detached house to the left were both retired, and the couple in the adjoining home consisted of a wife (“works at the hospital”) and husband (“retired, likes to talk”). Three pensioners and a healthcare professional? On paper it was perfect.

Five months later we had the keys.

We’d barely unloaded the van before our new next-door neighbour appeared to introduce himself - a large, balding figure in his late 50s, promptly explaining his early retirement, his wife’s long working hours, and how he knew “everything that goes on in the estate”. Over the subsequent days and weeks it became apparent that he really did like to talk - he would emerge in his backyard (parallel to our rear garden) at the slightest turn of the key in the door. If we were in the garden, so was he. My first impression was one of a lonely, good-natured traditional bloke. I laughingly disregarded his claims that a woman’s role was that of the 1950’s, that anything remotely physical was a “man’s job”, as him just being ‘old school’, but his casual racism and chauvinistic observations often made for uncomfortable listening. 

At first he presented a useful ally - he’d bring in our recycling bins along with the other five houses in the row and would offer help with any odd-jobs we might be attempting. He appeared to never venture any further than the newsagent at the end of the road and his tendency to appear at a moment's notice would surely deter any potential intruders - he’d know they were trying to break into the house before they did. 

The first two years were fine, we promptly discovered he was somewhat of a DIY enthusiast but didn’t appear too great at it. The problem lay in that many of his ‘projects’, which although technically took place on his property, would often adversely impact upon us, and it was with one of these moronic ventures that his amiable demeanour suddenly turned, and he was christened the nickname of ‘Captain Dickhead’.

Our house was at the end of the terrace row and had a small, narrow path run down the side to our garden with only an old, ramshackle gate providing a barrier to the rear. Immediately next to the path, and between the fence separating us from the neighbours on the other side, was a beautiful little (type of tree?) tree, which not only was visually favourable, but also provided a degree of privacy and partially hid the vulnerability of our dilapidated gate. 

Leaning into our garden for the eighth time one Spring morning, CD informed us that the tree was “obviously dead” and that he’d “take care of it” if we liked. My Father In Law is a horticulturist and was adamant the tree was perfectly fine, its vibrant leaves an illustration of its ongoing living state. The tree had absolutely no bearing whatsoever on CD and thus provided him no obvious reason to seek its removal, other than it would provide him with amusement for an hour or so. I politely expressed disagreement at his questionable diagnosis, and declined his offer to remove it, to which he seemed a little perplexed. 

We assumed that to be the end of the matter, and a week later jetted off for a few days in the sun. It was the last time we’d enjoy such innocent naivety. Home late from the airport and trudging down the path, even in the dark it was immediately evident something was amiss - our rich, spirited tree appeared beaten, a wounded soldier stood with a stoop - its vivid green leaves either a gaunt shade of yellow or shed on the paving below. Half a dozen drill-holes presented at the foot of the trunk, the inspection of which, still with suitcases in hand, coincided with CD appearing at his front door. 

“Yeah, poisoned it for yer, didn’t I, it won’t give you any more trouble”.

Confused, and lethargic from the days travelling, I could only muster a pitiful retort that I’d “have a look in the morning”, my brain often doesn’t compute fast enough to provide adequate response, particularly in a contentious situation, and I was fatigued to the extent that any conversation, let alone one of conflict, wasn’t high on the agenda. 

It was just the beginning, and over the course of the succeeding years, he slowly escalated what can only be described as an onslaught of ludicrously monumental acts of imbecility. His pleasant attitude changed when he realised we weren’t overly enamoured by his tree massacre and it was then that the tide turned and he’d do as he pleased with no consideration for anyone else whatsoever. So began his one-man weekly bonfires to dispose of any undesired goods, why visit the Tip when you can stoke the firing barrel and send billowing black smoke into the sky (and nearby homes) for hours on end?

He appeared to possess every power-tool under the sun, and would often just wield them around the yard without actually using them, like a daily maintenance check that they worked and were still able to make a ridiculously loud noise. He enjoyed doing this most times my daughter would play in the garden, where she’d often bring me huge screws that had conveniently found their way onto our lawn. He announced his prized device to be the petrol lawn mower he would routinely fire up, every time stating what he had spent on the purchase (equivalent to twice our monthly mortgage payments).  It should be mentioned that within the boundaries and entire perimeter of his property, he owned not one blade of grass. I didn’t dare question the logic. 

After two days spent clattering timber round his back yard, I opened the curtains one morning to be met by a makeshift wooden ladder attached to the roof of his kitchen (a protruding extension at the back) which he informed me was a ‘fire escape’ for his wife. You read that correctly, a wooden fire escape. Apart from being a hideous monstrosity, whilst physically being on his side of the boundary, the ladder ran from the ground up and essentially provided easy access to my toddler’s bedroom window. Lovely. 

A short time later, the day again began with visual startle as I was presented with a 60ft flagpole reaching from his ‘workshop’, I’ve no idea how or when he’d erected it. You could see it from the bloody By-pass. Eyesore doesn’t come close, and the whistling clang it made in the slightest gust didn’t add to the appeal either. Audible assaults became commonplace as despite him knowing my wife’s night shift pattern, as thus her need to sleep during the day, he would still insist on drilling at every hour imaginable.

A lovely, thick hedge separated our two rear gardens, the boundary legally belonging to us. He claimed the hedge to be dead on his side (undoubtedly attributable to his unnecessary yet incessant hacking away at it on a regular basis) and informed us he’d like to cut it down and replace it with a home-made fence of his own. Our side of the conifer was thick, a luscious shade of emerald, thus providing no desire to want rid of it, especially given the standard of the craftsmanship that would be erected in its place.  

We made this perfectly and politely clear, yet one afternoon whilst I was at work, and my wife had gone for a run, she returned home to find the hedge slaughtered by his chainsaw. My wife, an educated and articulate woman, abandoned her usual calm demeanour and let him have both barrels.

He wasn’t familiar with a strong female, immediately taken aback by a woman having the audacity to question what he perceived to be his god-given right. He attempted to argue his case but his arrogant, misogynistic tone was cut short when she informed him we had no desire to look at his wife’s size 18 underwear on the washing line every day. 

Only weeks later, after his self-installation of a woeful new wooden fence, he declared he would need to install a spring on the gate (at the end of the new, hideous barrier) as it was “always open”, to which I informed him it wasn’t necessary as I’d padlocked it closed (I chose to omit its prime purpose to keep him out). Around a week later my wife, in the middle of a night-shift week, was dozing in the sunshine one afternoon to be awoken by him, only two feet away, attaching the spring after he’d leant over the waist-high gate to unscrew the gate bolt upon which the padlock was locked. 

His decimation of any natural features wasn’t just confined to the rear though. At the front of the properties, a further established evergreen hedge ran the full length of the row, providing privacy and acting as a barrier to an open green on the other side. The grassy area acted both as a cut-through the estate and a general rendezvous for the local scumbags and undesirables to partake in anti-social behaviour on a near daily basis. Without warning and/or consultation with the neighbours, CD would fire up his petrol-powered chainsaw every few months and hack a good three feet from the height of the hedge, decimating any privacy and providing a direct line of sight into our front lounge and all our belongings.

Sensing the pattern here?

But it wasn’t all ravaging and destruction, he began construction of a ‘plantar’ in his front yard which consisted of several sizable sleepers (“nicked em from the railway didn’t I”), some breeze blocks and a considerable quantity of cement. The new brainless endeavour, spanning six weeks, morphed in nature numerous times, ending with a structure that can only be described as a tomb. He could literally lay down in it. And what do you do with your new tomb during the hottest week of the year? Fill it with manure of course, nothing else, just copious sacks of excrement to ensure no-one in the immediate vicinity could open their windows during a heatwave. The new monument was complemented by (yet another) detestable fence to dwarf the six inch bordering I’d installed just a few weeks prior. 

We had neighbours on the other side too, their garden running the length of our plot with a kind of meadow that ran round the end of ours. In a respect we were boxed in but advantageously so, as a tall hedge separated the end of our garden from theirs, then they had huge trees separating them from the elevated open fields behind, thus providing us with two 'shields’ between us and the field, which as with the green at the front, was another favoured haunt for the local lowlives.

Unfortunately, those beautiful, natural, green shields of privacy met a premature demise when CD befriended the couple and promptly insisted he slash away both the hedges and trees “for more sunlight” to which they unwittingly agreed. They didn’t appear to possess the foresight that granting such an act would mean the aforementioned miscreants could see directly into their, and our, garden and home. Groups of youths would gather on the field, shout abuse and throw things into their meadow. Upon realising their mistake and conveying this to our illustrious neighbour, he sought to address the problem by hanging what can only be described as a ‘barbed wire trellis’ complete with shards of broken glass duct-taped on as means of a deterrent - “that’ll keep the little bastards away”. It bore resemblance to a maximum-security state penitentiary, only that they’d let Primary School pupils install the wire. He genuinely thought this was helpful.  

They also had a sizable monkey puzzle tree perched in the centre of the lawn which coincidentally began to perish just weeks after CD had expanded his territory into their garden. I overheard their exchange, him explaining how he didn’t have any petrol for his chainsaw so instead would dismantle the Araucaria by a different means. I then watched in incredulity as he taped a saw to the end of a mop and attempted to cut the branches above from his position on the floor. Infuriated by the seemingly implausible failure of the endeavour, he stormed off to the nearest forecourt, returning an hour later with a swilling jerry can, before weilding his beloved instrument at the powerless plant well into the evening.

The tree-felling was typical of his hatred for any form of foliage or natural life - everything had to be concrete, or timber lathered with a shade of creosote that can only be described as ‘shitty brown’. 

To illustrate the mindset of CD’s new found companions - the couple, fellow retirees, would barbeque on a near-daily basis, the obese husband would stand topless, transfixed by the flames, his colossal gut sweating more than the meat on the grill. I had no problems with their alfresco cooking, I’d do the same in the warmer months if I had the time and energy to do so, but we weren't overly enamoured with their leaving food on the charcoal overnight, prompting a regular rodent raid - rats, mice, and other creatures of the night would scurry across our lawn to reach the abandoned banquet. 

They were also the victims of a burglary, though any sympathy was short lived when it transpired they’d left their door open overnight, not merely unlocked, but actually physically wide open, in a neighbourhood synonymous with crime and degenerates.

In short, we were surrounded by morons, and now both sides had united to reach new summits of imbecility. 

He’d take the dog (that would bark all day every day as though being purposely provoked) on his walk to the Newsagent religiously every morning, an endeavour which would take over an hour to cover the grand distance of around 400 metres. Not that he’d shuffle that slow, but would commandeer any willing (or unwilling) victim to bombard with his drivel. He’d often be seen spouting to teenage schoolgirls, oblivious to the connotations of a creepy old stranger rambling to reluctant young females. It was on these hikes that he would share (shout) information, with absolutely anyone who would listen, at which the other residents of our row would perhaps be somewhat disgruntled. “Dorothy is away you know, nobody in her house for two weeks, yeah it’s number eleven with the yellow door”.

Any time we went away on holiday, for the weekend, or simply any period longer than a few hours, exiting the house was a stealth operation and had to be undertaken under the cover of darkness. If he got the slightest sniff the house was unoccupied, not only would the entire estate know about it within the hour, but he’d be free to embark on more intrusive DIY nonsense without any resistance as we’d physically not be there to provide any.

However, all these seemingly inconceivably-idiotic deeds were surpassed the day a numatic drill was delivered to his house, his pièce de résistance. I was home most of the day and, from 6.30am, the decibel, and sheer ferocity of the drilling had reached unprecedented heights. 

Curious as to what he could actually be doing, and concerned for the structural integrity of our own house, I hung around in the garden until he appeared to have one of his 200 cigs a day. Rather than confront him I adopted a somewhat softer tone and said I was “worried he’d do himself a mischief”. The tactic worked and he proceeded to both explain, and show me, the reasoning behind the noise.

His wife had purchased a £6 doormat from a well-known discount homeware store to sit in their front hallway. It’s worth mentioning they very rarely used the front door, the door to the rear being their main port of access. Upon returning home with her new polypropylene pleasure, it transpired to be too thick for the door to open over it. This presented somewhat of a conundrum.

The solution? For the sake of a £6 doormat you’d just get another (slimmer) one? Oh no, that would be the logical option that any individual possessing an ounce of common sense would take. The desirable solution was apparently to rip up the carpet, AND the floorboards, and drill a (very rough) rectangle into the concrete foundations of the house, before replacing the floorboards (now featuring a very prominent ‘dip’), then carpet, before proudly placing the doormat in its new found home. 

He gleefully swang the door open and shut many many times over the doormat, elated at his triumph over the 600 pence adversary. I stood, lost for words, dumbfounded.

If his physical escapades weren't bad enough, the drivel that spouted from his mouth was just as abhorrent. His immense bullshitting featured highlights such as his dealings with the mafia (“he put a gun to my head but I put him on his arse”), his consumption of bourbon (“I drank three bottles of whisky and drove home from the Scottish highlands”) and his numerous tales of yore on how everyone feared him and he was “the second hardest man in the city”. He’d reference random people, ‘Big Dave’ and ‘Mental Daz’, as though I should know who they were and be impressed by his fictitious connections. He was the ultimate TommyTopper - if you’ve been to Tenerife, he’s been to Eleven-erife.

I wondered if he’d been peddling this tripe for so long he was unaware it was actually a fabrication. 

Our naive initial impression of a good-natured, old-school rogue had long since departed. We were now presented with the long-term prospect of living with a bitter, spiteful, racist and bigoted ogre. Never admit fault, my way or the highway, answer to no-one, I’ve served my time and now I’ll do exactly as I please. We learnt to be tactical when addressing him, for any hint of confrontation would end in a child-esq screaming fit. He was ignorant to any form of conflict resolution that didn’t involve bellowing or the threat of repercussion. 

The fact he didn’t respond to any form of rationale, was constantly at home, had extensive time on his hands, was bored senseless and of the belief that he could do as he wished and should answer to absolutely no-one, made him an unconventionally dangerous man. We had lives to live and jobs to attend, we couldn’t stay at home all day every day to prevent his latest idiotic venture.

Maybe we should have rung the police at the first instance with his poisoning of the tree, and we certainly had grounds to do so on the countless subsequent acts of domestic terrorism, but it was never going to be our ‘forever home’ and selling a house is ardous enough without the legal obligation to declare any disputes with potential buyers.  

As mentioned - any attempt at a mature, adult conversation was utterly futile, and such was his degree of spite and malice that asking him to persist wouldn't de-escalate his rampage, but only further stoke the furnace of his nonsense. Some folk seemingly thrive on drama and confrontation but we don’t have the time, energy or inclination to be at war with the person just a few feet away. It would be an exaggeration to say we were living in fear, but a lingering, exhausting low-key anxiety perpetually hung around, and over time even the smallest burdens can wear you down.

Five years had passed, we were emotionally drained and decided the time was right to move. Financially it made sense - careers had progressed and the house had made £40k in equity since we’d moved in, but more significantly we wanted to expand our family. Such was CD’s spiteful instance on upping the decibel anytime we made the slightest noise, it would be incomprehensible to bring a newborn into the equation whilst still in a house where any hour was fair game for power tool roulette. Putting the property on the market proved to be a military operation, if he were to discover our intentions he’d undoubtedly escalate his reign of terror. 

As great fortune would have it, we overheard his boasts of the booze he’d be consuming on an upcoming (and rare) weekend away and knew we had a golden window of opportunity. We opted to forego a ‘For Sale’ sign and opt for an ‘Open House’ approach in which multiple prospective buyers would visit on the same day, rather than spaced out over several days/weeks. Our initial contact with Estate Agents, receiving valuations, having photographs taken, and having the house on the market occurred in the space of just nine days. Eight couples visited on the Saturday and by the time our illustrious neighbour returned on Monday, we’d accepted one of the three offers that exceeded the guide price. The escape was on. 

Our buyers were in rented accommodation and ready to go, whilst the house we were buying was advertised with no onward chain, the solicitors claiming we could be in within six weeks. From experience, I knew this wouldn’t be the case, but didn’t expect the completion date to end up seven MONTHS later, such was the miraculous materialisation of a chain once we’d committed. Our anxieties switched focus from his relentless ridiculousness to the worry that the whole thing would fall through - his behaviour bore less indignation knowing that it soon wouldn’t be our concern, yet the unease that our buyer would lose patience was a constant burden.  

We managed to keep the move schtum until two weeks before, CD’s six chins wobbling fiercely when he saw us packing up the contents of our home, how could such an event unfold without his knowing? After all, he knew “everything that happened on this estate”.

I was fearfully positive of a final sting in the tail but the day of completion arrived and CD was nowhere to be seen, exhausted perhaps from his own dickhead dynasty and aware he’d best conserve energy before unleasing a fresh wave of terror upon new, unsuspecting victims. 

Boxes were still stacked high a few days later in our new home when the door rang and our new neighbour appeared with a bottle of red wine - an upbeat, relaxed character with a young family. He appeared nice, normal even, and five years later there’s still nothing to suggest to the contrary. Birdsong isn’t routinely shattered by jackhammers and there is a stark absence of diesel fumes, creosote and chauvinistic   aggression. It’s the way it should be.

Such was the unease provoked by our infamous former neighbour, we’d been in our new home 18 months before I stopped wincing when turning into the road - an impulsive reaction born from our previous dwelling, in fearful anticipation of an absurd alteration to our property whilst we weren't there to do anything about it. 

We were previously ignorant to the influence a neighbour can have on simple daily emotional well-being, and thus consider ourselves somewhat fortunate that we now have rational, decent, normal people next door, not only that we get along with, but choose to socialise and share a sound rapport with. 

Unfortunately I can’t offer an overriding moral to our story - one can only go so far in ascertaining the character of new potential neighbours before purchasing a property. We are however, aware that our own unpalatable experience will pale into insignificance in comparison to the hardships others have faced with the other side of the fence, those who have suffered far greater and more serious acts of domestic turbulence. Looking back now we laugh, it’s an amusing tale, but at the time it was anything but. Some folk may not look back with humour.

For them, I give my wholehearted sympathy.