March 3 2014. RETURN OF THE POLLITS
My worst nightmare returned to haunt me a couple of days ago in the shape of the Pollitts, the Neighbours from Hell who moved into the house next-door-but one in June 2010. The good news is that they will only be here for a week.
The house is owned by the council, who have been using it for the last few years as a sort of transit camp for homeless families, a place to stay until they can be allotted more permanent accommodation. At the moment it is being used to house ten families whose council houses are being refurbished – not all at once than God – and the Pollitts are one such family.
The composition of the Pollitt family has changed since they were last here. It originally comprised of the father, Wayne, his wife Liz, their children Keanu 14, Catherine-Zeta 13, a baby, Honey Nectarine and the dog You Twat (possibly not the animal’s real name but the only name I ever heard them call it by). Since they were last here Wayne has disappeared, possibly having flown the coop, or, more likely, is in gaol. Keanu too has departed for pastures new; probably a young offenders home. There are two new children. Both of them are chocolate-coloured, or maybe they’re covered in chocolate, I can’t be sure, and both are about two years old. One of them, a boy, is named Dizzee Gangsta. The other, a girl, goes by the name of Beyoncé’s Child. Mercifully You Twat has fallen by the wayside – or more probably has been abandoned by the wayside – so this time there isn’t the barking of a dog emanating from their backyard at about ninety decibels for most of the day and into the night. Instead there is the sound of music emanating from the house at a hundred decibels for most of the day and into the night. Well I say music. It is rap; what apparently passes for music nowadays. (When I heard someone from America called Tyler the Creator defining rap music, on the radio, I thought at first he’d missed a ‘c’ off the front and was talking about crap music.)
“You could try complaining about it to the environmental health people,” suggested The Trouble.
“Huh. A fat lot of good that would do,” I replied. Nowadays before people can be turfed out they have to be given a verbal warning followed by a written warning followed by a final written warning. The only thing that surprises me is that the final warning doesn’t have to be in the form of an illuminated address on the finest calfskin vellum.
The Trouble looked on the bright side. “Well they’ll only be here for a week.”
The bright side wasn’t bright enough. I gave it a day in the hope it was a one off. However the following morning it proved to be at the very least a two off when it started up again at nine. As it had showed no sign of letting up at two in the afternoon I went round there to complain.
Liz answered the door, still in her nightdress. I don’t know if the nightdress was supposed to be see-through or whether it was transparent because the thin material was stretched so tautly over her enormous breasts, but you could certainly see through it. For footwear Liz had chosen two small basset hounds, which on closer inspection, but not too close, turned out to be novelty slippers. The ensemble was completed by hair curlers. A fag drooped from the corner of her mouth.
She took a deep drag on the fag. A dollop of ash fell off the end and landed on one of the bassett hounds. Eyeing me balefully and with a curl of her bottom lip she said, “Oh it’s you. The dog molester.”
I resisted the temptation to tell her that she looked very much like she was molesting a couple of dogs herself and, trying not to look at her breasts – not easy as they almost filled the doorway – I said, “It’s about the music.”
“What music?”
I could see the sense in her words as in my book rap isn’t music at all but someone chanting unintelligible rubbish to the accompaniment of the biggest drum in the world played by someone determined to prove it, and is as much like music as shit is akin to sugar, however I didn’t think she meant that. “That unholy racket,” I said. “I hope you’re not going to play it as loud as that all the time.”
“Tell him to fuck off, Mum,” said Catherine Zeta, joining her mother. Liz’s daughter was breast feeding one of the chocolate-coloured toddlers. I couldn’t say if it was Dizzee Gangsta or Beyonce’s Child as it was naked but for a nappy, but probably the boy if it was still on the tit at that age.
“Your mother can tell me to fuck off all she likes but I’m not leaving here until she promises to turn down that infernal music,” I said.
Catherine Zeta deftly switched the toddler from one breast to the other before answering. “It makes no difference what she says ‘cos it’s me what’s playing it.”
I could now see three and a half breasts, Liz’s two giant orbs, the not insubstantial one of Catherine Zeta’s that she hadn’t bothered herself to put away when she switched the chocolate-coloured toddler to her other breast, and the half of the other breast that wasn’t obscured by the chocolate-coloured toddler’s head.
Now I’m a man who likes looking at female breasts but there’s a time and a place. (And, it must be said, there are more attractive breasts.) So averting my eyes I said, “Very well young lady, we’ll see what the council has to say about this,” and turned sharply on my heel and left.
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