Dive, our grumpy neighbour loathes my partner, also me
From his baldy head to trainered feet he hates us violently.
He has a tale to tell the wurr-wd in semi-human grunts
Of endless wrongs what’s done to him by next door’s stuck up cunts.
A Vauxhall Astra is this wily burgher’s cha-ri-ot
Predictably he also drives a white van what he’s got.
He needs it for his part-time job – it suits his sharp demeanour –
It’s filled with Harpic, brushes, bleach – for he’s a toilet cleaner.
He likes to park his ve-hic-les always in front of us
And should we dare to park ours there he’ll holler and he’ll cuss:
“You fink you own the bleedin’ road!”, he rants, full to the brim
Of apoplectic fury – for the road belongs to him.
His territ’ry is sacred, so he swops the van and car
Both engines ticking over, for he knows that we’re not far –
Might leap into our Mini and park it where our home is
Dive can’t let that thing happen ‘cos he’d lose both his cojones.
One day someone wrote ‘wanker’ in the dirt upon his van
And childishly we laughed – indoors, “Take that, Dive… if you can”.
See – our behaviour’s circumspect, we dare not raise his ire
For we could face an outcome of a nail in every tyre.
Dive lives in social housing, hence his indignation flowers
That we should live next door inside a house that’s (mostly) ours.
His garden is a paradise created by his spouse –
Fair Izoo fills it full of gnomes behind their terraced house.
Their ever growing family all go round there every day,
Lob stones into our garden ’cos we buggers ought to pay.
Our tasteful yard’s offensive – a shameful local blot
With no fluorescent yellow walls like Dive ’n’ Izoo got.
Izoo and Dive have bred well good and grandkids now abound –
They’ve all got council houses on the other side of town.
The eldest she has done the best, she’s got a double drive
A source of deep resentment in the soul of father, Dive.
But does she thrive on benefits, a free house and a car
Provided by the council for her offspring? Does she? Nah!!!
The road’s too bleeding busy and the car’s too bleeding small
And she can’t upgrade her iPhone ‘cos her child support’s fuck all.
She shares with mother Izoo all ’er raging impotence
Intensifying adjectives with “fucking” o’er the fence.
A serial dog-owner, Dive, each kept a year or so
And then the bother’s all too much and up the pound they go.
At least that’s what we hope for them, that they’re up there, alive
And not a mess of blood and fur on the M25.
Once, when relations got too strained we sent a long report
To our local borough council – their reply was curt and short
They found the list offensive, no foundation, quite uncouth
You bet it was offensive – it so often is, the truth.
The council and the local plod have put it down to ‘fuss’
Let Dive and Co continue – ‘cos it’s not them – it’s us.
Meanwhile we live in fear and dread of what Dive will do next:
To block us in or puncture tyres, or both? It leaves him vexed.
To carry more than one thought in his mind must be immense
And make him even more inclined to do us great offence.
And what effect does all this have on Martyn and on me?