Mrs Angry's blog has had some interesting visitors recently, it seems.
Amongst the majority of anonymous and London based ISPs of most of her readers, (don't panic, haven't got a clue who you are: no name, no pack drill) some are more unusual in origin, having distinctive servers, or have arrrived at 'Broken Barnet' by really rather unpredictable routes. Greetings, therefore, to readers in California, Berlin, Malaysia, and Dublin. And Basildon. And for those at the GLA (hello, and an especially warm welcome to you!) and other government departments: hope this is more interesting than Facebook, or Twitter, and that the boss doesn't catch you skiving. Hello to new friends at certain daily and local newspapers, oh, and by the way, you too, Anna, still on your flipping iphone ...
Only thing is, now I have been worrying about the trail left by my own internet browsing, and some of the sites I idly look at (no, not those sort of sites, thank you, although I do have to out myself as a secret Daily Mail reader, now the game is up)- as well as my buying habits on Amazon, after the recent newpaper reports listing the rather disturbing reading matter of the alleged serial killer arrested in Bradford this week. After a prolonged interval of distraction and despair caused by dealing with our neighbour problem, I have now, at last, been able to resume my previous (pre)occupation, researching and writing a book about a little known, but unfortunately rather prolific, female Victorian poisoner who had a nasty habit of despatching her husbands, lovers and children with arsenic, and then coining it in with the proceeds of their life assurance and burial club money. Much of my recent Amazon purchasing history, therefore, has been on the somewhat unwholesome subject of women who kill, poisoners, the uses and abuses of arsenic etc. Intense questioning takes place on a regular basis in the Angry kitchen, in fact, as to what, exactly, is for dinner and then is it supposed to taste like that, and Mr Angry has pointed out that if anything funny happens to him the old bill will be checking out my Amazon account with great interest. They probably won't be that surprised. But I digress.
I have noticed in the last week or so that a lot of people reading this blog have come via the 'Neighbours from Hell in Britain' website. I've linked my blog to this site, for obvious reasons, and recommend it to anyone else who may be in circumstances similar to us. There are currently 27,485 members, and the site claims to be 'The world's most popular help site for anyone with neighbour problems'. Be warned, though: looking through the forum topics is a depressing experience: stories abound with titles born out of deep despair, such as 'I have had enough, can't take any more' or 'We are at the end of our tether' etcetera. If I didn't know it already, it would no doubt be genuinely shocking to see the impact that problems like ours can have on family life, or the life of an individual. The effects are profound, and long lasting: once your home has been the location of continual harassment, or other forms of disruption by antisocial neighbours, you can never really feel safe in that environment again, and the psychological damage that the situation leaves you with, as well as the stress incurred by the difficulties you will have experienced in trying to find a resolution to the problem, is not easily put aside.
It is clear from even a brief look at this site that there is an urgent need for radical action and new legislation to support the victims of longterm ASB or 'neighbours from hell', and that currently, local authorities are the main culprits in the failure to properly address the problem. A common theme expressed in the forums is that the council response is to look for ways of avoiding formal and effective action: often no doubt because of cost, and the outlook on this tendency is bleak, due to the apparent preference of the new government in giving more responsibilties to local government at the same time as expecting huge savings to be made in spending.
There are many posts on the NFH in Britain site referring to the local government Ombudsman process which we, along with many others, have had to resort to, in despair at failing to receive what we consider to be the necessary assistance from our local authority. As our investigation is still underway, I won't comment other than to say that there should be some easier and quicker way for authorities to be held to account for any failures to act against serious cases of ASB. If, as we were, you are the victims of a long term case, the drawn out process only makes your ordeal so much more traumatic. Although there are, in theory, legal processes in which victims can engage to end the disruption to their lives, the cost is prohibitive, so in practice you are without the ability to protect your most basic human rights, and this all the more galling when your neighbour from hell can so easily get free legal aid and advice for any action she may face as a consequence of her selfish and aggressive behaviour.
If you find yourself in this situation, you may well feel reluctant to make a complaint about your tormentors for fear of the consequences. If the source of your trouble is a neighbour, obviously you will have to live with the fall out from any complaint you make, and even if a complaint is in some way successful, during the many months in which you will be told to log all problems, and then wait for intervention by the appropriate authoritities, and seeing them being offered 'support' and a chance to amend their ways, or mediation, or the signing of behaviour contracts etc etc etc - after all that, you then face more months of waiting while formal action is considered - and during all this time you are not only having to continue to struggle with the behaviour of your NFH, you have to deal with the fact that they are next door, and able to make your life even worse now they know you are complaining about them. They will of course be told in detail about the allegations you have made and will deny them and more than likely will be tempted to retaliate when they think no one is looking. You have to live with the fear that they will do something to hurt you or your family in revenge for being reported to the authorities, and after all, they do know where you live, don't they? And of course, as in our case, they will even if they are moved on.
The other terrible dilemma, should this happen to you, and you wonder what action to take, is that once a complaint is made, your home, if you are the owner, instantly becomes worthless. You cannot sell your property without declaring any dispute, and this will be on file to prospective buyers. Even if you do eventually get rid of the NFH, this may still make it difficult to sell in the future, without an awful lot of explanation. Is anyone going to compensate you for this devaluation of your home?
I don't know what the answer to all this is, other than an absolute zero tolerance of antisocial behaviour and an inflexible statutory obligation for all local authorities to have in place a properly resourced ASB team, meeting nationally required standards, able to respond quickly and effectively to cases like ours. You might think that all these things are already in place, but in practice, each local authority varies wildly in the degree of committment it shows to tackling ASB and supporting the victims of such circumstances.
In the short time since our lovely neighbours departed to their new home, we have not really readjusted to normal life. In fact, I don't think we will ever be the same. I certainly won't, I can't. I still feel like a refugee from a war zone, or a soldier with shell shock expecting to be sent back to the trenches at a moment's notice. I still can't sleep at night, or walk down the street without checking to see who is hanging about outside. I still feel panic stricken at the slightest stupid thing. My doctor, apart from trying to prescribing medication I don't want to become dependent on, isn't much comfort: of course she knows all about what has happened, and just cannot believe why we were left in such an awful mess. The counsellor she sent me to was no help either: she sat listening in horror to the story for an hour, and said afterwards that for once she could think of no positive suggestion whatsoever, and hoped it didn't happen to her. I didn't bother going back.
My home doesn't feel like home anymore, not just because of what happened but because we don't even know whether we will be able to stay here. We don't know who is going to move in now: all we know is that Barnet has stated that it 'cannot' stop using the owners for their Homechoice scheme. It's hard to explain what anxiety this is causing. All I do know is that the likes of Mike Freer, and Lynne Hillan, and all the other guilty parties at Broken Barnet Council don't give a shit. Well, as they say, what goes around, comes around, and I sincerely hope something like this happens to them in the near future. With my compliments.
Or perhaps I should invite them round for dinner?
Update, Monday: well, it seems all my obsessive worrying about return visits by the Smith household wasn't entirely misplaced. Half an hour ago. my heart stopped when I saw one of Mrs Smith's yob hangers on furtively arrive next door, with his hoodie pulled over his face, and sneak up to their old front door, hang around for a bit, and then leg it. I can't imagine what the hell he was up to. I hope he wasn't trying a key.
Showing posts with label Freer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Freer. Show all posts
Saturday, 29 May 2010
Tuesday, 18 May 2010
Fear and Loathing in West Finchley
Fear first, then.
What do I have to be fearful of now that the terrible Smith family has moved out? Not much.
Only the prospect of another terrible family moving in.
For the last couple of weeks we have enjoyed the unusual luxury of being able to live normally in our home: sleeping in a bed, sitting quietly reading, watching tv, wandering around the garden, walking up to your own front door, or going out, without having to check first who is outside in the street. All very boring and unremarkable for most people: a flipping novelty for us, though. It hasn't been easy, readjusting to the idea that at any hour of the night or day the silence won't be punctuated by the terrifying sound of Tracey Smith screaming 'I DON'T FUCKING CARE IF YOU GO INTO FUCKING CARE' at her sons, or wondering if you look out whether you will be greeted by the sight the sight of some dope smoking dosser hanging around next door, or listening out for the sound of Troy Smith and his chums partying at one, two, three, and four in the morning.
I'd almost got used to the peace and quiet - almost - when one ominous day last week, members of the family who own the neighbouring property turned up, and spent a long time inside, no doubt inspecting the damage as, despite the abuse they gave us when we tried to tell them what a terrible effect their tenants were inflicting on our life, incredibly, towards the end of the tenancy, the landlords allegedly refused to repay the deposit, and decided to demand compensation from the council for the tenants' treatment of the house!
When I saw the two brothers arrive at the house, my heart stopped, and I felt a rising tide of panic: the last time I had seen Tony had been when he and his odious sister Sophia had banged on our door demanding to know why we were daring to complain about their tenants, and Sophia had started yelling insults at us again. After a visit from the police, Sophia agreed not to repeat this behaviour, and significantly she has not shown her face here since, thank God, but with this family, you just never know what they will do next. Just before we were due to go out on Saturday night I caught sight of Tony standing outside, staring in this direction with a particularly unpleasant expression and had to wait until they had gone before venturing out. This week we have been reduced to the same sort of behaviour. Just ridiculous that we should be forced to live like this, but that is how things are. Since then, the brothers and Tina have been visiting the house, arguing amongst themselves as usual. They have not bothered to change the locks of the house. despite the type of people who were living there, and have brought in some workmen who have been banging about in the house all day, which is why we are beginning to get very worried again: we had hoped that the house would be put up for sale, but are terrified at the prospect that they might be getting more tenants. As mentioned before, Barnet have, incredibly, refused to bar the owners from having further Homechoice tenants from their housing waiting list, despite all the evidence of their complete failure to act as repsonsible landlords, not to mention the state of the property. Of course, should Barnet dare to provide further tenants, they will be facing a legal challenge from us and whatever other action we may find appropriate.
But it's hard to explain how this makes me feel. More worry, more trouble. If more tenants arrive, we will be forced out of our home. We don't want to move, but what else can we do?
Now loathing.
There seems to be a lot of it about, at the moment.
I have been wondering, quite a lot recently, what sort of person actually campaigned for Mike Freer to become our parliamentary representative, and now I have some idea.
As listed in the Daily Telegraph and elsewhere, Mike has a supporters' blog named 'The Friends of Mike Freer' which I urge you to visit, should you be short of entertainment, or wish to know more about the Conservative party in Finchley and Golders Green. There appears to be only one friend of Mike Freer, sadly, the blogger herself, the self styled 'Mrs T', as well as, or perhaps the same person as, the only follower, the mysterious 'Amanda' who occasionally sallies forth on the comments listing of our local Times group newspapers. This Amanda must be the same person who commented once that she didn't see why I was so nasty about the marvellous Mr Freer, and why was I so angry, which apparently is a Bad Thing, and why did I not take my problem to Mike himself? Oh dear: luckily another commenter pointed her in the direction of this blog and she fell silent.
'Mrs T' describes herself as a housewife in Finchley (wait til Mrs Angry catches you behind the fruit and veg counter in Waitrose, darling) and fond of music, wine and sex in the City: sorry, Sex in the City. Well, I'm with you there, Mrs T, maybe hold back on the wine a bit though, in future, before you write the blog.
In her restarted blog on Monday, apart from the rather unexpected 'Mike Freer's fitness tip of the day - yes, really - yesterday it was something about doing pottery classes) Mrs T, flushed with post electoral satisfaction, brags about the legacy of her man, Mr Mike Freer. She tells us that Barnet Council, when he took over, was 'a largely ignored sleepy backwater' which Mike singlehandedly (sorry Rog, should that be one handedly?) transformed into a 'dynamic organisation'. And she asks, 'Do the people of Barnet like it? You bet!' 'Mike has shown he's got the guts to make tough decisions, the skills to implement them and the charisma to take the people with him' (Yes, Mike Freer and charisma in the same sentence). 'Mike's council legacy will be seen for generations in Barnet'. Well, that I can't disagree with, nor can 27 million pounds worth of our money now sitting in Iceland until the end of time.
In fact, this devoted friend of Mike Freer was mysteriously silent during the election campaign but has now decided to come out, or, should I say, crawl out, of the woodwork once more.
The other day, Barnet Eye blogger Roger Tichborne wrote a very sensitive and rather touching blog about dyslexia, and the emotional effect such a difficulty has on people who suffer from this problem. He describes the lasting damage caused by the frustration of this condition, and the humiliation and bullying that he experienced as a child struggling with an unsympathetic educational system.
For some reason, 'Mrs T' decided to post a comment on this particular blog in which she said:
'Hey thickhead, how did you get on in the council elections?'
Rog, in case you didn't know, recently stood as a Libdem candidate in Mill Hill.
I don't know why anyone would think it is acceptable to address someone who has a learning difficulty as 'thickhead'. I only know that as a parent with children who have related difficulties I find it impossible to believe that anyone would use such a term. Obviously 'Mrs T' seems to think that children with this condition are stupid, and worthy of being laughed at. Isn't that nice?If you have had to spend years encouraging your children to overcome the obstacles that such problems put in their way, 'Mrs T', you would know how easily their fragile sense of self esteem is destroyed by this sort of stupid, insulting comment. Such a remark is indefensible, and if you had any decency, you would instantly apologise, to Roger Tichborne and anyone else you may have offended.
In her blog, this Freer fan mocks Tichborne's attempts to stand, on a point of principle, as a candidate in his local ward and then alleges that there was a 'vicious campaign' targeteted at her pin up boy by 'malcontents and bloggers' and, outrageously she claims that 'the friends of Mike Freer' believe that much of this was, wait for it 'homophobically motivated'. In other words, she feels she is entitled to refer to someone with dyslexia as a 'thickhead', but anyone who dares criticise the political views and career of a man who happens to be gay can be therefore accused of being homophobic: a completely unsubstantiated slur. Absolutely appalling.
If there is anything more repugnant than bigotry and hate crime, whether it is homophobia or antisemitism, or racism of any sort, it is the cynical use of false accusations of such behaviour in an attempt to smear someone's reputation. Apart from the sheer nastiness of such an action it devalues the true horror of genuine mindless intolerance and its consequences. But this is a tactic used by certain other Tories whom we all know and love in this borough, when necessary, to denigrate those who dare to stand up to his bullying. And this, dear residents, is the horrible face of a certain strain of Conservative party activists in our area. Don't know about you, but I feel rather nauseated by the whole damn lot of them. I hope that Mike Freer will disassociate himeself from this blog, and this woman's comments: if not, I think that tells you all you need to know about him, and his supporters, don't you?
Whatever issues I have with Freer are strictly related to his leadership of Barnet council and the impact his policies and actions - or inactions - had on our family over this last year and more. I have not got the slightest interest in his personal life, nor should anyone else. The problem is that a certain type of Daily Mail reading Tory supporter is so used to viewing the world through a veil of preset prejudices that he or she can only imagine that everyone else does the same. They don't, Mrs T.
Someone else who is evidently sickened by the Tory pary, both nationally and locally, is the blogger Don't Call Me Dave, writer of 'Not the Barnet Times'. In fact, he is so revolted by the whole direction of Conservative politics he has resigned from the party and has said he no longer wants to continue the blog. This is a shame: the Tory party need decent, liberally minded members like DCMD: the fact that he feels so alienated from the party is a very worrying sign of something going badly wrong in the Conservative movement, if there is such a thing. It leaves the field open to the lunatic fringe and career opportunists and takes the spirit of genuine political debate out of the democratic process. It's a black day again, here in Broken Barnet.
What do I have to be fearful of now that the terrible Smith family has moved out? Not much.
Only the prospect of another terrible family moving in.
For the last couple of weeks we have enjoyed the unusual luxury of being able to live normally in our home: sleeping in a bed, sitting quietly reading, watching tv, wandering around the garden, walking up to your own front door, or going out, without having to check first who is outside in the street. All very boring and unremarkable for most people: a flipping novelty for us, though. It hasn't been easy, readjusting to the idea that at any hour of the night or day the silence won't be punctuated by the terrifying sound of Tracey Smith screaming 'I DON'T FUCKING CARE IF YOU GO INTO FUCKING CARE' at her sons, or wondering if you look out whether you will be greeted by the sight the sight of some dope smoking dosser hanging around next door, or listening out for the sound of Troy Smith and his chums partying at one, two, three, and four in the morning.
I'd almost got used to the peace and quiet - almost - when one ominous day last week, members of the family who own the neighbouring property turned up, and spent a long time inside, no doubt inspecting the damage as, despite the abuse they gave us when we tried to tell them what a terrible effect their tenants were inflicting on our life, incredibly, towards the end of the tenancy, the landlords allegedly refused to repay the deposit, and decided to demand compensation from the council for the tenants' treatment of the house!
When I saw the two brothers arrive at the house, my heart stopped, and I felt a rising tide of panic: the last time I had seen Tony had been when he and his odious sister Sophia had banged on our door demanding to know why we were daring to complain about their tenants, and Sophia had started yelling insults at us again. After a visit from the police, Sophia agreed not to repeat this behaviour, and significantly she has not shown her face here since, thank God, but with this family, you just never know what they will do next. Just before we were due to go out on Saturday night I caught sight of Tony standing outside, staring in this direction with a particularly unpleasant expression and had to wait until they had gone before venturing out. This week we have been reduced to the same sort of behaviour. Just ridiculous that we should be forced to live like this, but that is how things are. Since then, the brothers and Tina have been visiting the house, arguing amongst themselves as usual. They have not bothered to change the locks of the house. despite the type of people who were living there, and have brought in some workmen who have been banging about in the house all day, which is why we are beginning to get very worried again: we had hoped that the house would be put up for sale, but are terrified at the prospect that they might be getting more tenants. As mentioned before, Barnet have, incredibly, refused to bar the owners from having further Homechoice tenants from their housing waiting list, despite all the evidence of their complete failure to act as repsonsible landlords, not to mention the state of the property. Of course, should Barnet dare to provide further tenants, they will be facing a legal challenge from us and whatever other action we may find appropriate.
But it's hard to explain how this makes me feel. More worry, more trouble. If more tenants arrive, we will be forced out of our home. We don't want to move, but what else can we do?
Now loathing.
There seems to be a lot of it about, at the moment.
I have been wondering, quite a lot recently, what sort of person actually campaigned for Mike Freer to become our parliamentary representative, and now I have some idea.
As listed in the Daily Telegraph and elsewhere, Mike has a supporters' blog named 'The Friends of Mike Freer' which I urge you to visit, should you be short of entertainment, or wish to know more about the Conservative party in Finchley and Golders Green. There appears to be only one friend of Mike Freer, sadly, the blogger herself, the self styled 'Mrs T', as well as, or perhaps the same person as, the only follower, the mysterious 'Amanda' who occasionally sallies forth on the comments listing of our local Times group newspapers. This Amanda must be the same person who commented once that she didn't see why I was so nasty about the marvellous Mr Freer, and why was I so angry, which apparently is a Bad Thing, and why did I not take my problem to Mike himself? Oh dear: luckily another commenter pointed her in the direction of this blog and she fell silent.
'Mrs T' describes herself as a housewife in Finchley (wait til Mrs Angry catches you behind the fruit and veg counter in Waitrose, darling) and fond of music, wine and sex in the City: sorry, Sex in the City. Well, I'm with you there, Mrs T, maybe hold back on the wine a bit though, in future, before you write the blog.
In her restarted blog on Monday, apart from the rather unexpected 'Mike Freer's fitness tip of the day - yes, really - yesterday it was something about doing pottery classes) Mrs T, flushed with post electoral satisfaction, brags about the legacy of her man, Mr Mike Freer. She tells us that Barnet Council, when he took over, was 'a largely ignored sleepy backwater' which Mike singlehandedly (sorry Rog, should that be one handedly?) transformed into a 'dynamic organisation'. And she asks, 'Do the people of Barnet like it? You bet!' 'Mike has shown he's got the guts to make tough decisions, the skills to implement them and the charisma to take the people with him' (Yes, Mike Freer and charisma in the same sentence). 'Mike's council legacy will be seen for generations in Barnet'. Well, that I can't disagree with, nor can 27 million pounds worth of our money now sitting in Iceland until the end of time.
In fact, this devoted friend of Mike Freer was mysteriously silent during the election campaign but has now decided to come out, or, should I say, crawl out, of the woodwork once more.
The other day, Barnet Eye blogger Roger Tichborne wrote a very sensitive and rather touching blog about dyslexia, and the emotional effect such a difficulty has on people who suffer from this problem. He describes the lasting damage caused by the frustration of this condition, and the humiliation and bullying that he experienced as a child struggling with an unsympathetic educational system.
For some reason, 'Mrs T' decided to post a comment on this particular blog in which she said:
'Hey thickhead, how did you get on in the council elections?'
Rog, in case you didn't know, recently stood as a Libdem candidate in Mill Hill.
I don't know why anyone would think it is acceptable to address someone who has a learning difficulty as 'thickhead'. I only know that as a parent with children who have related difficulties I find it impossible to believe that anyone would use such a term. Obviously 'Mrs T' seems to think that children with this condition are stupid, and worthy of being laughed at. Isn't that nice?If you have had to spend years encouraging your children to overcome the obstacles that such problems put in their way, 'Mrs T', you would know how easily their fragile sense of self esteem is destroyed by this sort of stupid, insulting comment. Such a remark is indefensible, and if you had any decency, you would instantly apologise, to Roger Tichborne and anyone else you may have offended.
In her blog, this Freer fan mocks Tichborne's attempts to stand, on a point of principle, as a candidate in his local ward and then alleges that there was a 'vicious campaign' targeteted at her pin up boy by 'malcontents and bloggers' and, outrageously she claims that 'the friends of Mike Freer' believe that much of this was, wait for it 'homophobically motivated'. In other words, she feels she is entitled to refer to someone with dyslexia as a 'thickhead', but anyone who dares criticise the political views and career of a man who happens to be gay can be therefore accused of being homophobic: a completely unsubstantiated slur. Absolutely appalling.
If there is anything more repugnant than bigotry and hate crime, whether it is homophobia or antisemitism, or racism of any sort, it is the cynical use of false accusations of such behaviour in an attempt to smear someone's reputation. Apart from the sheer nastiness of such an action it devalues the true horror of genuine mindless intolerance and its consequences. But this is a tactic used by certain other Tories whom we all know and love in this borough, when necessary, to denigrate those who dare to stand up to his bullying. And this, dear residents, is the horrible face of a certain strain of Conservative party activists in our area. Don't know about you, but I feel rather nauseated by the whole damn lot of them. I hope that Mike Freer will disassociate himeself from this blog, and this woman's comments: if not, I think that tells you all you need to know about him, and his supporters, don't you?
Whatever issues I have with Freer are strictly related to his leadership of Barnet council and the impact his policies and actions - or inactions - had on our family over this last year and more. I have not got the slightest interest in his personal life, nor should anyone else. The problem is that a certain type of Daily Mail reading Tory supporter is so used to viewing the world through a veil of preset prejudices that he or she can only imagine that everyone else does the same. They don't, Mrs T.
Someone else who is evidently sickened by the Tory pary, both nationally and locally, is the blogger Don't Call Me Dave, writer of 'Not the Barnet Times'. In fact, he is so revolted by the whole direction of Conservative politics he has resigned from the party and has said he no longer wants to continue the blog. This is a shame: the Tory party need decent, liberally minded members like DCMD: the fact that he feels so alienated from the party is a very worrying sign of something going badly wrong in the Conservative movement, if there is such a thing. It leaves the field open to the lunatic fringe and career opportunists and takes the spirit of genuine political debate out of the democratic process. It's a black day again, here in Broken Barnet.
Tuesday, 20 April 2010
To have, and have not
Late one night last year, there was a fight between Troy and Travis Smith which spilled out onto the street, and ended up on top of the bonnet of their mother's car. Travis Smith saw us looking out at them and ran in front of our house, sticking his fingers up and yelling FUCK OFF, FUCK FUCK FUCK over and over again. We shut the curtains and tried to pretend he wasn't outside, although he began to bang on our wall to attract our attention. After a while of this I looked out and saw he was sitting on the wall, reaching into our tiny front garden and pulling out the few flowers which were growing. 'Can you please leave my flowers alone, ' I asked. He looked at me perfectly calmly. 'They're not your flowers, ' he replied, 'They're the government's.'
I looked at him. He was quite serious. He knew somehow that his family's lifestyle - income, housing, everything - was entirely provided by some sort of remote, abstract authority, and that was how he imagined it was for everyone. 'Er, no, ' I told him, 'Actually, I grew those flowers myself ...' He looked at me blankly. I stared back at him over a gulf much wider than the metre and a bit of concrete between me and the wall.
You know, I have to admit that, despite the horror of living next door to the Smiths and their associates, there is a very funny side to all of this. And if it was happening to someone else I would be the first person to laugh.
Look at Mrs Angry, sitting primly on the sofa watching Newsnight, tutting because she is having trouble hearing Jeremy Paxman grill some weasel worded politician mouthing off about the breakdown of society, while inches away, on the other side, an enraged, tattooed, toothless Tracey Smith is threatening her son with another 'whack' and screaming obscenities at him.
A lot of the time, these days, I seem to be stomping about in an advanced state of bourgeois outrage, like Audrey from the Good Life finding herself knee deep in Tom and Barbara's pigshit, or God help me, on full time net curtain twitching alert rather like, as my impertinent son once dared to suggest, Hyacinth Bucket, condemned to eternal damnation in a never ending episode of the Jeremy Kyle Show. And, let's be honest, it is funny.
This same son, it should be noted, used to hold political views that were somewhat to the left of Robespierre, and in fact at one time, when he was younger, seriously proposed to me that the entire Royal family should be publicly executed in Trafalgar Square, for the good of the country. An idea for Boris and the fourth plinth, I suppose. Since living next door to the Smiths, however, he has moved almost full circle and become an expert ranter on the subject of benefit scroungers and yob mentality.
One day, after one of these outbursts, to save him from a lifetime of shame as a Daily Mail reader, I sat and lectured him on the necessity of the Welfare State. I reminded him about my mother, who grew up in a world of abject poverty, despite her father's backbreaking working life of forty years down a coal mine, with never a day's sick pay, or compensation for one of the three serious injuries he had. In the 1930s, my mother's young brother and sister died within days of each other from diptheria, in an epidemic that swept through the slum terraced back streets where they lived. There was no affordable medical treatment for them, no 'hand outs', no benefits, no unemployment money: you worked, or you starved. Sometimes you worked and you nearly starved anyway. I pointed out how the Welfare system was created to prevent such social injustice. He wasn't entirely convinced, though, perhaps because he could sense the lack of conviction creeping into my wet liberal arguments.
And anyway, how do you explain the journey from the terrible poverty of those days to the present day, benefit dependent culture of the Smiths? They are not poor, in the sense of my mother's family: they have a home provided for them, and financial support, they are given access to decent schools, they have tvs, games consoles, alcohol, recreational drugs and holidays, and there is no question as to whether or not they should be entitled to this level of 'support'. Perhaps it is a mark of a civilised society that we do not question their entitlement. If the Smiths had not made our lives hell this last year and more, I probably would have thought so, anyway. But now I just think they have taken the Welfare State by the neck and screwed it, and us, for everything they can get.
Mrs Smith has played the welfare system astutely; brilliantly, hats off to her. Having a son labelled as having ADHD has helped enormously, of course. On the only occasion Mr Angry spoke to her, in the early days of the tenancy, after we were kept awake all night - literally -for several nights in a row by her oldest son and his friends, a gang of drunken, foul mouthed yobs in the bedroom next door, she said in a tragic tone of voice 'yeah, ya see, my boy Travis, he can't help it, he's got ADHD ...' 'Oh dear,' said Mr Angry, 'that's a shame, but it isn't Travis that makes all the noise, is it? It's your other son.' This was a waste of time, as Tracey Smith has learnt to use Travis as an excuse for everything, and this enables her to play the hard done by, unemployed, 'vulnerable' single mother, struggling to cope with her 'boisterous' sons. Not anti-social, you understand, normal boys who are a bit lively ... Thinking again about my mother's father, at the age these 'boisterous' youths and their friends are now, he was already living in the hell of the trenches of the First World War, and indeed, while they spend most of their days and nights fooling about on their Playstations, young guys their age are losing their lives, on their behalf, in Afghanistan.
Something has gone badly wrong somewhere, but I'm not sure where. We really have reverted to the state Disraeli once identified, one of 'Two Nations' :
'between whom there is no intercourse and no sympathy; who are ignorant of each other's habits, thoughts and feelings, as if they were dwellers in different time zones or inhabitants of different planets; who are formed by different breeding, are fed by different food, are ordered by different manners, and are not governed by the same laws ...'
Margaret Thatcher notoriously once claimed that there was no such thing as society. David Cameron, in his bid to find an electable face for a party tainted with her perceived lack of humanity, has tried the cringe making 'hug a hoody' tactic before discovering 'Broken Britain' and seeking to exploit voters' fears of social breakdown. But who broke Britain? When did it start? Yes, I'm looking at you now, Margaret.
In the twenty first century we are struggling to be a functional multicultural society, yet the real divisions, I would argue, lie not in culture or ethnicity so much as in education, attitude and employment. Even within the Tory party there is still a conflcit, a difference of class: stand Posh Boy and George Osborne next to Brian Coleman and Mike Freer, compare and contrast. It's like looking at the difference between a Regency terrace and a concrete, Brutalist car park from the 1960s. What do all Tories have in common, then? A feeling that the individual's rights take precedence over social responsibilities, in other words, a feeling that what they want is what they should have, regardless of others. Yob mentality is no different. It suits the Tories to keep the new poor in their place with the provision of benefits, shoved into any old accommodation, left with the worst state schools, the least access to good medical care. Out of sight, out of mind. The Victorians believed that the lowest classes were the undeserving poor and that it was all somehow their fault. Modern day Tories don't care if they deserve it or not: in their world they are irrelevant. Broken Britain, Broken Barnet: we get the society we deserve. If you don't like the sound of it, think before you vote the architects of easyBarnet and Futureshape into power, either nationally or locally.
I looked at him. He was quite serious. He knew somehow that his family's lifestyle - income, housing, everything - was entirely provided by some sort of remote, abstract authority, and that was how he imagined it was for everyone. 'Er, no, ' I told him, 'Actually, I grew those flowers myself ...' He looked at me blankly. I stared back at him over a gulf much wider than the metre and a bit of concrete between me and the wall.
You know, I have to admit that, despite the horror of living next door to the Smiths and their associates, there is a very funny side to all of this. And if it was happening to someone else I would be the first person to laugh.
Look at Mrs Angry, sitting primly on the sofa watching Newsnight, tutting because she is having trouble hearing Jeremy Paxman grill some weasel worded politician mouthing off about the breakdown of society, while inches away, on the other side, an enraged, tattooed, toothless Tracey Smith is threatening her son with another 'whack' and screaming obscenities at him.
A lot of the time, these days, I seem to be stomping about in an advanced state of bourgeois outrage, like Audrey from the Good Life finding herself knee deep in Tom and Barbara's pigshit, or God help me, on full time net curtain twitching alert rather like, as my impertinent son once dared to suggest, Hyacinth Bucket, condemned to eternal damnation in a never ending episode of the Jeremy Kyle Show. And, let's be honest, it is funny.
This same son, it should be noted, used to hold political views that were somewhat to the left of Robespierre, and in fact at one time, when he was younger, seriously proposed to me that the entire Royal family should be publicly executed in Trafalgar Square, for the good of the country. An idea for Boris and the fourth plinth, I suppose. Since living next door to the Smiths, however, he has moved almost full circle and become an expert ranter on the subject of benefit scroungers and yob mentality.
One day, after one of these outbursts, to save him from a lifetime of shame as a Daily Mail reader, I sat and lectured him on the necessity of the Welfare State. I reminded him about my mother, who grew up in a world of abject poverty, despite her father's backbreaking working life of forty years down a coal mine, with never a day's sick pay, or compensation for one of the three serious injuries he had. In the 1930s, my mother's young brother and sister died within days of each other from diptheria, in an epidemic that swept through the slum terraced back streets where they lived. There was no affordable medical treatment for them, no 'hand outs', no benefits, no unemployment money: you worked, or you starved. Sometimes you worked and you nearly starved anyway. I pointed out how the Welfare system was created to prevent such social injustice. He wasn't entirely convinced, though, perhaps because he could sense the lack of conviction creeping into my wet liberal arguments.
And anyway, how do you explain the journey from the terrible poverty of those days to the present day, benefit dependent culture of the Smiths? They are not poor, in the sense of my mother's family: they have a home provided for them, and financial support, they are given access to decent schools, they have tvs, games consoles, alcohol, recreational drugs and holidays, and there is no question as to whether or not they should be entitled to this level of 'support'. Perhaps it is a mark of a civilised society that we do not question their entitlement. If the Smiths had not made our lives hell this last year and more, I probably would have thought so, anyway. But now I just think they have taken the Welfare State by the neck and screwed it, and us, for everything they can get.
Mrs Smith has played the welfare system astutely; brilliantly, hats off to her. Having a son labelled as having ADHD has helped enormously, of course. On the only occasion Mr Angry spoke to her, in the early days of the tenancy, after we were kept awake all night - literally -for several nights in a row by her oldest son and his friends, a gang of drunken, foul mouthed yobs in the bedroom next door, she said in a tragic tone of voice 'yeah, ya see, my boy Travis, he can't help it, he's got ADHD ...' 'Oh dear,' said Mr Angry, 'that's a shame, but it isn't Travis that makes all the noise, is it? It's your other son.' This was a waste of time, as Tracey Smith has learnt to use Travis as an excuse for everything, and this enables her to play the hard done by, unemployed, 'vulnerable' single mother, struggling to cope with her 'boisterous' sons. Not anti-social, you understand, normal boys who are a bit lively ... Thinking again about my mother's father, at the age these 'boisterous' youths and their friends are now, he was already living in the hell of the trenches of the First World War, and indeed, while they spend most of their days and nights fooling about on their Playstations, young guys their age are losing their lives, on their behalf, in Afghanistan.
Something has gone badly wrong somewhere, but I'm not sure where. We really have reverted to the state Disraeli once identified, one of 'Two Nations' :
'between whom there is no intercourse and no sympathy; who are ignorant of each other's habits, thoughts and feelings, as if they were dwellers in different time zones or inhabitants of different planets; who are formed by different breeding, are fed by different food, are ordered by different manners, and are not governed by the same laws ...'
Margaret Thatcher notoriously once claimed that there was no such thing as society. David Cameron, in his bid to find an electable face for a party tainted with her perceived lack of humanity, has tried the cringe making 'hug a hoody' tactic before discovering 'Broken Britain' and seeking to exploit voters' fears of social breakdown. But who broke Britain? When did it start? Yes, I'm looking at you now, Margaret.
In the twenty first century we are struggling to be a functional multicultural society, yet the real divisions, I would argue, lie not in culture or ethnicity so much as in education, attitude and employment. Even within the Tory party there is still a conflcit, a difference of class: stand Posh Boy and George Osborne next to Brian Coleman and Mike Freer, compare and contrast. It's like looking at the difference between a Regency terrace and a concrete, Brutalist car park from the 1960s. What do all Tories have in common, then? A feeling that the individual's rights take precedence over social responsibilities, in other words, a feeling that what they want is what they should have, regardless of others. Yob mentality is no different. It suits the Tories to keep the new poor in their place with the provision of benefits, shoved into any old accommodation, left with the worst state schools, the least access to good medical care. Out of sight, out of mind. The Victorians believed that the lowest classes were the undeserving poor and that it was all somehow their fault. Modern day Tories don't care if they deserve it or not: in their world they are irrelevant. Broken Britain, Broken Barnet: we get the society we deserve. If you don't like the sound of it, think before you vote the architects of easyBarnet and Futureshape into power, either nationally or locally.
Monday, 12 April 2010
Black Monday
I am losing the plot. But that's hardly surprising.
I have just chased a delivery boy down the street in order to hand back to him the copy of a Tory party promotion - complete with Mike Freer's ghastly grinning face - which he had foolishly stuck through the Angry family letter box. 'Take this back!' I yelled at the poor deluded Young Conservative youth, 'I don't want it and as far as I am concerned you can stick it ...' and here I lost my nerve, 'In the bin where it belongs!' He looked at my enraged face and gulped: 'Oh. Ok then ...'
Perhaps I should have explained to him that I have spent the evening in tears - yet again - due to the latest twist in the nasty cat and mouse game that Barnet Council have been playing with us over the removal of our neighbours from hell.
On April 1st - oh yes, readers, and I fell for it - we had been assured, on the highest authority, that the Smiths were picking up keys to a new property and were at long last being moved out to a monitored tenancy in council accommodation far away from us. We were assured this, in good faith, by a third party, acting on information from the council itself, both last weekend and the weekend just past. Nothing happened, and Mrs Angry's instinct was that something was wrong. Mrs Angry's instinct is usually right.
For around five weeks now, despite guarantees of weekly updates of information from the Council, we have been told absolutely nothing of any developments, despite several requests. We were given a new named senior officer as a point of contact some time ago: she has not bothered to contact us at all, so first thing today we contacted her, expressing our concerns at the lack of information, reminding her of the vulnerable position we are in, and the recent serving of a notice on Travis Smith after the latest incident of harassment. Late in the evening, she sent an abrupt response of 19 words:
'We are progressing the letting of the property and the Smiths will be moving within the next few weeks.'
And that was it.
The only word in that message which holds any credibility is 'we' and possibly 'the'.
I am not sure what progressing means, other than 'we do not want to tell you exactly what is going on as you will not like it', but in Barnet-speak, 'next few weeks' means nothing and anything: sometime never, somewhere over the rainbow, where happy little bluebirds fly, and safely after an election, and hopefully after the Ombudsman has completed their assessment.
Next few weeks: two weeks? Four weeks? Nine weeks? More? Well, what's that after the sixty five weeks we have already lived like this ... I've spent, what, the last twenty weeks unable to sleep in my own bed, - well, actually unable to sleep properly at all for worrying about this shit you have landed us in, so what's a few more, eh? No hurry. Take your time.
The idea of this new tenancy we were told, belatedly in January, had been agreed upon last November. It will be six months soon since this alleged proposal was put forward. Six bloody months. Do they really not understand what it is like, having to go through all this?
I often wonder which is the more traumatic experience - living next door to the dysfunctional, disruptive, foul mouthed and violent Smiths, or having to do constant battle with the incompetence, tortuous game playing, and machinations of Barnet Council. If I was a less resilient character, I might very well have been driven to some desperate act by now. Ok, I started a blog, which is pretty desperate. But there are other forms of action to explore as well, and this, I suppose, is the way to go now.
I have just chased a delivery boy down the street in order to hand back to him the copy of a Tory party promotion - complete with Mike Freer's ghastly grinning face - which he had foolishly stuck through the Angry family letter box. 'Take this back!' I yelled at the poor deluded Young Conservative youth, 'I don't want it and as far as I am concerned you can stick it ...' and here I lost my nerve, 'In the bin where it belongs!' He looked at my enraged face and gulped: 'Oh. Ok then ...'
Perhaps I should have explained to him that I have spent the evening in tears - yet again - due to the latest twist in the nasty cat and mouse game that Barnet Council have been playing with us over the removal of our neighbours from hell.
On April 1st - oh yes, readers, and I fell for it - we had been assured, on the highest authority, that the Smiths were picking up keys to a new property and were at long last being moved out to a monitored tenancy in council accommodation far away from us. We were assured this, in good faith, by a third party, acting on information from the council itself, both last weekend and the weekend just past. Nothing happened, and Mrs Angry's instinct was that something was wrong. Mrs Angry's instinct is usually right.
For around five weeks now, despite guarantees of weekly updates of information from the Council, we have been told absolutely nothing of any developments, despite several requests. We were given a new named senior officer as a point of contact some time ago: she has not bothered to contact us at all, so first thing today we contacted her, expressing our concerns at the lack of information, reminding her of the vulnerable position we are in, and the recent serving of a notice on Travis Smith after the latest incident of harassment. Late in the evening, she sent an abrupt response of 19 words:
'We are progressing the letting of the property and the Smiths will be moving within the next few weeks.'
And that was it.
The only word in that message which holds any credibility is 'we' and possibly 'the'.
I am not sure what progressing means, other than 'we do not want to tell you exactly what is going on as you will not like it', but in Barnet-speak, 'next few weeks' means nothing and anything: sometime never, somewhere over the rainbow, where happy little bluebirds fly, and safely after an election, and hopefully after the Ombudsman has completed their assessment.
Next few weeks: two weeks? Four weeks? Nine weeks? More? Well, what's that after the sixty five weeks we have already lived like this ... I've spent, what, the last twenty weeks unable to sleep in my own bed, - well, actually unable to sleep properly at all for worrying about this shit you have landed us in, so what's a few more, eh? No hurry. Take your time.
The idea of this new tenancy we were told, belatedly in January, had been agreed upon last November. It will be six months soon since this alleged proposal was put forward. Six bloody months. Do they really not understand what it is like, having to go through all this?
I often wonder which is the more traumatic experience - living next door to the dysfunctional, disruptive, foul mouthed and violent Smiths, or having to do constant battle with the incompetence, tortuous game playing, and machinations of Barnet Council. If I was a less resilient character, I might very well have been driven to some desperate act by now. Ok, I started a blog, which is pretty desperate. But there are other forms of action to explore as well, and this, I suppose, is the way to go now.
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