GARY-GATE

Good morning campers! So an unusual start to the day was had today, this very merry morn began with a cup of tea with a police woman. And no, before you ask, I have not joined the Sapphic quarter of uniformdating.com.  What I have joined is the OAPs. That’s right. It’s Grandma time.

I have been having a little bit of trouble with a certain noisy neighbour of mine. Now don’t get me wrong, I love a party and a boogie but to be woken up at 4 in the morning on Thursday, Friday, Saturday and SUNDAY nights on three consecutive weekends is NOT ok. I repeat- NOT OKAY.

It would be fine if it was to the dulcet tones of SClub7 or the sweet sweet harmonies of Blue (I was a teen of the Naughties, what can I say!?) but the nonsensical crap that emanates from Gary’s walls, (YES OF COURSE HIS NAME’S GARY), is absolutely unforgivable/unfathomable/and every other UN word in the Oxford English Dictionary. WHICH HE HAS PROBABLY NEVER READ BY THE WAY.

So to quote beloved Grandma’s of ages gone by, I have been forced (“forced” who am I kidding, I’ve been waiting for this moment my entire life) to use the timeless phrase: ‘TURN THAT RACKET OFF NOW!!      YOU W***ER!’  That’s what my Grandma says anyway… but then she is from Wolverhampton after all…

The worst part is, that when I do go round to bang on his door (lovingly attired in my Primark pyjamas and with my face covered in the remnants of Sudacrem- good for visages as well as vages- who’d have thought?!) to tell him to shut the BLEEP up, the douche bag has the gall to try and flirt with me. ‘You’re shoooound you are… you are sound…’ he slurs, trying to look at my face but the booze and gravity inevitably drag his eyes and jowls slowly but surely towards the floor/my boobs.

Yes Gary, yes I may be what you call “sound” but I’m afraid your SOUND is currently corroding my right ear drum, destroying my various internal canals and stampeding out the other end, having destroyed my inner child, plundered my soul and pillaged me out of all hope for the future. In short, your music has turned my innards into George Osborne. George Gideon Oliver Osborne. THANK YOU VERY MUCH GARY.

It doesn’t help that every time he returns home from work the corridor between our two flats is choked with the pungent stink of Lynx Africa (OF COURSE HE USES LYNX). So that not only are my eardrums being assaulted but my nostrils are simultaneously being forced into some unwanted nostalgic time warp where they suddenly believe they are back in a school hall, snogging a boy with curtains who uses too much tongue, whilst sporting a pair of Adidas poppers.  THANK YOU ONCE AGAIN GARY.

Luckily, Gary’s contract is up in approximately six weeks, turns out the rest of the building and the landlady aren’t too happy with him either. So not long and he will be OUTTA THERE! 

However, until that day… it is war. Grandma war. I propose to use all the Grandma tactics known to man. I will acquire a stick, charge at him on a mobility scooter and finally, send him a hamper full of tins and bottles of squash way past their sell by date. GARY, YOU ARE WELCOME.

So watch out. Grandma’s coming for you.

P.S It's TOTES my birthday on Thursday EEEEEEEK!