Shed-Wars, not a case of snakes on a plane but neighbours in your face

Our shed building project has been put back after complaints from the neighbours, thankfully not the nice ones but the ones that we have managed 5 conversations with in 10 years. 3 of them have been over the shed and have taken place in the last couple of weeks. (At this rate we will be at Christmas card swapping status by about 2056).

Our first conversation with them set such a high standard that we were unable to repeat the exercise for some three or four years. To be fair it is her not him (Dave) who is the problem. I’m confident that on his own Dave would be a very nice and worthwhile addition to the neighbourhood. We would probably invite him around for BBQ’s and drinks but, attached as he is to Margaret (1), he has more chance of becoming POTUS than getting an invite around to ours.

(1) I think Margaret is her name but as we’ve only been living next door for 10 years so it would be understandable if I’ve got it wrong.


The scene was as follows. It was about ten years ago and we had just moved into our new house. The neighbours moved in a week later so Mrs B and I decided to pop around and introduce ourselves. We knock on the door and wait, a short pause and the door opens a crack, just enough for us to see a couple of eyes peering out at us.

Me & Mrs B – “Hi, we are your next door neighbours and thought it would be nice to introduce ourselves.”

Slight Pause

Margaret – “I think you need to talk to Dave.”

Door slams in our faces – Perhaps she miss heard us and thought we said that we were mass murderers looking for our next victim or even worse Jehovah’s looking for a chat…..

Mrs B (hair slight array from the force of the door) – “That went well!”

Me – “Yes, nice to know the new neighbours are friendly.”

This was followed by a slow trudge back home, which made Napoleons’ retreat from Moscow look like a picnic in the park. (If anyone happens to run into Tchaikovsky let him know that if he is ever looking to top his 1812 overture he should pop around to ours for tea and I can give him some details of a real war…..)

Now I can’t remember all the conversations we have had over the years. I did manage to borrow a wheelbarrow once, which I suspect will remain the high point of the relationship. When the shed project got underway, I had the courtesy to let them know that we would be putting up a shed and asked permission to go onto their property to fix the guttering. The only comment from Dave at the time was “The guttering had better not overhang our property”. I assured him it wouldn’t.

About six weeks later Mitch (chief architect and builder, when he is not nursing a hangover) and I received a summons to attend a hearing next door. Apparently, they were not happy about the shed. As we entered the house, the lovely Margaret verbally assaulted us with a selection of comments screamed at high volume. I can’t remember them all but the highlights were :-

“You’re just an East End wide boy” - naturally I assumed she was talking to Mitch.

“You don’t care about any one, you just march in and do whatever you want” - Was I suddenly George Bush? Is Michael Moore about to make a documentary about me? I don’t think so…..

- “It looks like something put up after the war, some prefabricated rubbish, you know what I mean, having been dragged up in the East End” - Oh gods, she was talking about me (2) and as for poor Mitch, this was his pride and joy she was dragging through the mud.

(2) While I have to admit to having purchased a house in Leytonstone (3), I was twenty and did not know any better. It hardly constitutes being an East End guttersnipe and I did sell it after a couple of years for a huge profit of about £3.35p. You live and learn…. I quietly put her straight on the East End bit - after all, my sister would never forgive me. She, being the posh one in the family, would never accept being related to a cockney, even a fake one.

(3) How did they know my life history? It turns out that my mother, the traitor (4), had been blabbing and divulging snippets of my life to Dave in cosy little chats over the fence during one of her cat sitting visits…..

(4) Is it ethically wrong to have your own mother shot for consorting with the enemy. I guess I should give her the benefit of the doubt and judge that it was before actual hostilities had been broken out. However I will closely monitoring her future conduct……

“You think you’re so much better than us” -Well yes, I don’t just scream at people and slam the door in their face. (Although I could certainly learn to make exceptions for certain people in the neighbourhood.…..)

I decided not to react and instead asked her what the problem was: “Dave, tell him” - came the silky and smooth response, that peeled off layers of our facial skin. (Remind me to let Mrs B know that there is no need to invest in expensive exfoliation treatments, when she can just nip next door for a friendly chat with Margaret…..)

Apparently, our shed was blocking their light. Not direct light mind you but reflected light, reflected off our own wall (I feel so betrayed. Imagine finding out that parts of your own home have been consorting with the enemy. I can see that I will have to put our wall "on report" along side my mother).

Putting it all into perspective the shed was no more then a foot above the existing fence. As Mitch and I stood in their kitchen, on a dull day without any lights on, we could clearly see the vitriol being poured on us. I was having trouble keeping a straight face especially when Mitch said that we had no “ Reference datum ” to work on. If looks could kill I would have been finishing the shed off on my own. “I’m not talking to you!!” Margaret screeched in that friendly tone of hers, somehow managing to increase the decibels and menace in her voice to even more breathtaking levels. Perhaps someone should notify the Guinness book of records.

The next request was to lower the shed. Why did we need it so high? Apparently, her cousin had a shed that he "happily" ducked to get into and if it was good enough for him, surely it was good enough for us. Mitch and I retreated from the onslaught before we collapsed laughing.
Who would have thought that these would turn out to be the foundations for a War?
I returned later on a solo suicide mission and offered to put up some wood facing on the side of the shed to match the fence, this was surprisingly well received and I almost got away without further abuse. Unfortunately, Margaret then asked me if the water butt was going to be returned to the back of the shed. This was a bit confusing as there never had been a water butt there. It suddenly dawned on me she meant the compost bin. I made the mistake of telling her this. I thought my ear drums were going to burst as her shrieks reached new highs that even dogs would have had difficulty picking up. I tried to explain that the compost bin had been there for over eight years and had never caused her any trouble, but by this time she was heading for meltdown, all she could do was babble about snakes living in compost bins. Apparently, she was not just afraid of snakes but allergic to them to boot.Once Dave had managed to cool her down, risking life and limbs as he manually untwisted her undergarments, Margaret demanded to know if I was intending to keep anything dangerous in there. I assured her that Mrs B had been banned from taking unsupervised trips to the shed. Margaret was clearly not amused; although I’m sure I saw a slight smirk break across Dave’s face.

I was very tempted to put a note through their letterbox asking if any one has seen my pet Boa Constrictor which had escaped, while Mrs B was more for the direct approach and wanted to put some grass snakes in her garden, especially when she heard that Margaret had called our fat cat fat. The damned cheek of the woman, as if her own daughters don’t strain the scales and shop in the over sized section for the less than petite.

Wrap up – what has happened since
Shortly after these events, Mitch emigrated to Canada. Although he has never admitted it, I firmly believe that his shed building pride took a severe battering during the war. To date he has never designed or built another shed.

Dave never even made the short list for POTUS. I believe the thought of having Margaret as first lady was even too much for the American public.

Please note that no snakes were actually harmed during the creation of this Blog, although McG may have eaten a couple of earthworms during the foundation-digging phase of the project.

And finally, no peace treaty has ever been signed, so officially the shed war continues…….

Mitch and I prepare an assault ladder to take on the dastardly Margaret, turns out we would have been better off using ear muffs


McG not as innocent as he looks.

That’s it for another BlackLOG - historical – if you have enjoyed it please pass it on to anyone you know who might also enjoy it or anyone you don't particularly like and would like to see suffer. You can also tune into the up to date version BlackLOG.

The one with the Country Fair

Mrs B decided we should take a trip to Hatfield House (birth place of McG, for fans of the little porker) to attend a Country Fair, this did not sound totally unreasonable at the time so I obediently tagged along. Things were not going to badly, I spent a small fortune on some sausages (but nothing that our overdraft couldn’t handle), until an accident of location saw us eating lunch next to where the Sheep judging was taking place (aside 1)

The first sheep came out and strutted confidently into the centre of the arena, to the announcement from the compare that it was part of the lesser shaggy four footed rare woolly mountain something or other category. Said sheep was fully inspected and after some deliberation and heated discussion between the judges awarded first Prize? I can tell you I wish I’d put money on that result.The clear winner in the well hung category

The second category had more of a contested feel about it and comprised three, yes count them three sheep. Two black & white and just a plain white one, I can only presume that this category was the “Daz sheep challenge” category as the white sheep waltzed off with first prize.McG attempting his ginger sheep impression, in truth he makes a more realistic pig

All three sheep were led from the ring, only to return a few moments late under a new category, (I’m sure the white one was now wearing a wig), this new category was obviously not the bad wig category as the result was reversed.Mischief, the black sheep of the family

Things were getting way too exciting for Mrs B and myself so we made our excuses and left before any non sheep animals turned in the arena covered in cotton wool or the judges were forced to make a difficult decision over a category with no actual entries.
Top tip :- if you are going to attempt to pass your animal off as a sheep, at least make an effort and apply some Cotton Wool.

Still it could have been worse; we might have been at a Craft Fair. Very much like a Country Fair except the strangely dressed country folk (farmers I believe they are called, who are eager to show the results of some weird interbreeding programs), are replaced by some extremely untalented people. These talently challenged individuals sit around a marquee trying to embarrass other people, (who should know better than to have attended the event in the first place) into spending their hard earn cash on hand crafted dross. This stuff is so bad that even the shopping channel would struggle to flog to its most drunken viewers. Otherwise sensible people, who attend these events (so clearly not that sensible), seem to lose control over their wallets and return home with rubbish that your average dustbin men would refuse to take away. Once the hypnotic effect of the Craft Fair has worn off the only option left to them is to take the purchased item to a Car Boot sale (at this point there is a real danger of them getting dragged into the even more sleazy world, that of the ebay user)(aside 2)

Midlife crises continued.
Following previous revelations of my midlife crises I have discovered that I am not the only person who has entered the dangerous world that is open top motoring. Just in case there are others of you out there risking your very lives going topless at the drop of a switch, here are some survival tips for you. Use ear muffs, blankets, flying goggles, ski gloves, long johns and spray your entire body (including the crotch area) with deep heat. This can get you through most journeys of up to a mile or so. i.e. your local Tesco’s, as long as you don’t purchase anything from the frozen section. If you don't have enough self control to keep out of the freezer isle then you might need to set fire to the blankets on the return journey. If you are very lucky you might just make it home with some of your extremities still attached. I now know why Captain Scott did not take an open top car to the pole, or if he did then Oats probably borrowed it to nip to the local supermarket, which would at least explains one mystery ….

Well done, you have survived another BlackLOG - historical – if you have enjoyed it please pass it on to anyone you know who might also be lacking a life. If you tune into the BlackLOG on Monday morning I will be revealing just how stupid I can be.......
























(1)I felt slight pangs of guilt as I tucked into my minty lamb baguette (Like a sandwich with the ability to bite back, if you don’t eat them carefully you can end up with lacerations of the gums, equivalent of chomping your way through a barbed wire fence, boy those French like to make us suffer).
Wwwwooouuuullldd yyyyouuu lllliiikkkeee mmmooorrreee mmmiiiinnt sssaauuuccee

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(2)If you or anyone else you know have experienced addiction problems covered in this weeks blog please contact the writers of East Enders, don’t expect a reply or to even have your story feature in an episode it’s just the East Enders story lines are so depressing the writers could do with a good laugh.(Return to text)

Avoiding Guy Fawkes

I managed to avoid this years celebration of the "Gunpowder Plot" (aside 1), as I took Mrs B and some friends up to the Cambridge Corn Exchange(aside 2) to see "Athlete"(aside 3). Another triumph and at just £16 pounds a ticket, quite the bargain. The only problem was, the room was so hot my sweat was sweating; it was certainly apt when they sang "It's hot in here, must be something in the atmosphere". The only downer on the night was that while talking to Mrs B, waiting for the band, I discovered that she had discarded my Lycra keep fit shorts (black with a luminescent pink stripe down either side, hmmm, very nice). Now I'm the first to admit that they were hardly flattering and they certainly clung to all the wrong bits, but that's not the point. I've had them since my early 20's and they are about the only item of clothing that I could still get into, from those long distant days (Lycra is forgiving like that, although members of our local gym might not agree) other then my cloth cap.(aside 4)



That’s it for another BlackLOG - historical – if you have enjoyed it please pass it on to anyone you know who might also enjoy it. Why not tune into the up to date version BlackLOG.


























(1) What was all that about, Guy Fawkes born into a Protestant family leading a Catholic rebellion to overthrow a Catholic king James 1st, because he was not Catholic enough for their tastes, very strange. If my history is correct he turned out to be the last true Catholic king (although Charles II converted on his death bed, but 16 seconds of catholic rule hardly counts and besides I suspect he was just hedging his bets. After siring so many illegitimate children he was probably running out of women so though he might expand his horizons and try and lure other dress wearing members of society into his bedchamber, it was a straight choice between conversion to Catholicism and having a crack at a priest or attempting to seduce a kilt wearing Jock), so that went well then. (Return to text)






































(2) A poorly named building if I'm any judge, I brought along a bushel of corn, but could I find one person willing to exchange it, could I heck. This never happened on the Multi-Coloured Swap Shop, you could take along a box of dead frogs and get something for them, even if it was just someones half eaten gob stopper (that takes me back, Keith "Cheggers" Chegwin saying to some poor little sod "Jamie, someone from your school has offered not to beat you up again next week, if you give him yours and Julia's dinner money, it sounds like a fair swap to me, although you will be missing out on the delights of turkey twizzlers". As MaggiePhilbinlegs it into the distance, offering to swap not only her husband but her job on the show for a short stint presenting Tomorrow's World. (Return to text)















































(3) After two great albums and supporting U2 in the summer, I predict great things from them, so expect to hear about their demise shortly. Other great favourites of mine have included, The Icicle works, Love & Money (a demised incarnation of Friends Again before demising themselves) and the Big Dish. The Beatles can count themselves lucky that they had disbanded before I got into them, although John Lennon may not consider himself that lucky as he was shot shortly after I decided I preferred him to Paul McCartney. If only I had got into Westlife, Boyzown and Take That before they were allowed to trashed the music scene. (Return to text)























































(4) Another Item of clothing that is strongly disapproved off by certain members of the Black household, but since I was wearing it when I first met Mrs B (I suspect If I had been wearing the Lycra shorts along with the cloth cap at that first meeting, Mrs B would not be Mrs B) it is safe on historical grounds, besides I've taken to hiding it when not in use.(Return to text)

The Halloween Blog

Saturday was party night as Mrs B and I went over to Windsor to see my sister and her tribe. The kids were all setup to play Halloween party games so it was only polite that I should join in, unfortunately after I thrashed them at eating the donut off the string game, I was banned from further competition - so much for teaching under 10's the concept of defeat. It was just as well though as I did not fancy half drowning myself in an effort to eat health food. (I thought apples were for eating, not bathing with). My sister then decided to play around with the formula for the flour and sweet game, with the type of meddling that would not appear out of place amongst the constant changes that are happening with the qualifying format for Formula 1. Instead of having one flour mound with a sweet in the middle and 4 half-crazed kids (Looking like over indulgent coke addicts ready to snort the white lines down the middle of a road) carving great swathes out of the flour in an effort to force one of the others into toppling the sweet from its lofty position. This version has the great advantage of taking only minutes, my sister, bless her, had the bright idea of spinning it out. So out came 4 flour mounds, one for each kid (note none for me), along with instructions to take it in turns cutting away at their own flour heap, the winner being the child that has the last sweet still in place. What my sister had failed to take into account is the ability for small kids to shave minute particles of flour on each go, particularly when their bedtime is looming. As you can imagine, this version took hours and everyone, including the kids, had lost interest in the result, long before the end.

Having been out celebrating Halloween on Saturday night I completely forgot that Monday was actually the night that all the little tykes around our way chose to come visiting, threatening grievous bodily harm on anyone foolish enough not to supply them with enough sugar to keep them climbing the walls of their parents’ house for a good week or so. In general, I’m all for it, the more E numbers you can get into the little buggers the less opportunities and inclination their parents will have to produce more of the little ASBO candidates for future years. Moreover, it’s a particularly good excuse to stock pile enough sweets to see me through to Christmas. Unfortunately, this year I found myself alone in the house (Mrs B taking the sensible precaution of working extra late) with an empty candy jar and two missing cats. It was like a scene out of a bad Zombie movie (Before any one says, all Zombie movies are bad, I recommend you see "Shaun of the Dead") as out of control little people wondered aimlessly around the streets.

I tried the trick of hiding under the kitchen table with the house lights out, but the constant knocking and cackling (plus the discovery that the cats had got there first and were in no mood to share this particular bolt hole) eventually drove me out of the house and off to the health club for a circuit session (aside 1). My body has still not got over it. Next year I shall try a different tack and invest in a pair of finest quality earmuffs while I hunker down and attempt to eat my own body weight in sweets. This just leaves the problem of avoiding the very same bunch of snotty nosed Stepford children, for the next week, only they are now hyper on candy and demanding £20 for the Guy (aside 2)
, well that's inflation for you.
If you think this might be you, please come and collect your broom ASAP

Air-hockey disaster
Shock news, Mrs B finally beat me at Air-Hockey, on the table I bought for her last Christmas, how ungrateful can you get. While Mrs B has undoubtedly improved her skills over the course of the year, I felt robbed, especially when seconds after she declared it illegal to hit an airborne puck she scored from this very manoeuver and conveniently forgot about her new rule. To make matters worse, a short time later one of Mrs B’s shots leapt over the side of the table deflected off a chair and into my goal. Clearly, this was not going to be my day. All that was left to do was sulk for 24 hours and work out how to get rid of the damn thing, just as Mrs B has taken a real shine to it. I think my best bet is to leave the back doors open one night and claim the table legged it….

That’s it for another BlackLOG - historical – if you have enjoyed it please pass it on to anyone you know who might also enjoy it. Why not tune into the up to date version BlackLOG.
























(1) Foolishly I still had the roof down on the Mini, which meant I could not afford to stop and was forced to roar out of the garage leaving in my wake a mixture of enraged toddlers clutching their bags of swag and fearful parents counting up the number of sleepless nights their little treasures were collecting towards. (Return to text)

You have got to hope that they look after their second set of teeth a bit better........






























(2) Which will probably turn out to be some poor trussed up neighbor, who neither had the sweets or sense to get out while he still could. There but for the grace of a fast getaway car, could have been me. (Return to text)