Who steals little picnic tables?

We arrived home from the pub and dropping our Gav off around 3:00am on Sunday. I was in a pretty good mood, despite being sick and stressed last week I think I loosened up enough to blow off some steam. As we opened the door Mr. Me noticed something was missing. Our little table. We had this little picnic table outside our door that we used for BBQs and outdoor Scrabble. It's gone now.

We suspect it was Sex Offender Steve who, for whatever reason, decided it now belongs to him. It was one of the few things we told him to leave alone but he has quite a distorted sense of what's his and what's ours. The things we asked him to leave alone he didn't, just proceeded as he pleased with no consideration for how we felt.

Here's what we told him to leave alone:

The trees. (Cut Down.)

Our chairs (were in his yard, we have them back now.)

Our paving stones (sold/given to his brother)

Our stupid little table (now missing.)

I lost it, I'm not proud. But living above this guy has me in a state most of the time now. I'm nervous in case one of the local plebs decides to exact some justice, I hate him and the very sight makes me feel ill.

A long time ago the Mr. said he could use our yard. As a result his DIY stuff is all over the place, like everywhere you look is a piece of wood or a tool of some kind. So now our little table is gone, I decided he can't use our yard anymore and tossed as much as I could manage back over the fence.

It's stupid, but the picnic table was the last straw. We hadn't done anything to him. We haven't done anything to deserve having our things stolen. But he did it anyway.

I guess 16 years inside doesn't teach you how to live with other people.

After my fit of 'get out!' we went to bed where I tried my best to fall asleep.

But that dream soon evaporated, within about 10-15 minutes I heard car doors slam. He called the police.

They came around and talked to us. I told them I was upset about our little table being stolen and Sex Offender Steve had stolen things from us before. They asked about how the yards are divided and I explained the back bit was ours. They seemed satisfied and left (after laughing when I burst into tears and apologized as I'd drunk too much gin.)

I slept poorly on Sunday. I'm so anxious, so angry, so drained, so frustrated. I hate this so much. This is my home. It's horrible, but it's mine.

American women are Barbies, British women are dogs.

Oh wow. Just when you think articles about women can't get any more ridiculous comes along Tad and his insight into the differences between British and American women.

am a massive fan of British women. UK girls, in my opinion, are the greatest natural beauties in the world . . . when they’re 17 or 18 years old. The girls I was surrounded by when I was a teenager were sublime roses with lustrous hair, flawless skin, bright eyes and lithe, athletic bodies. They dressed as if there would be a prize at the end of the night for the girl wearing the least. I then went away to Philadelphia for university. Four years later, I came back and wondered: “What the hell happened to all the beautiful girls I knew?” My first assumption was that one half of them had eaten the other half and washed them down with a crate of lager. These girls looked phenomenal when looking good took no effort. But when British women get to the age where they have to make an effort, they appear unable, or uninterested, in rising to the challenge.

Got news for you honey. Looking good at 18 is easy. I'd be curious to see what this guy looks like. Calvin Klein model?

An informal poll of my US female friends revealed that they spend roughly $700 (£350) a month on what they consider standard obligatory beauty maintenance. That covers haircut, highlights, manicure, pedicure, waxing, tanning, make-up, facials, teeth whitening etc. They will spend a further $1,000 (£500) a month on physical conditioning such as military fitness, spinning sessions, vikram yoga, Pilates, deep-tissue sports massage, personal training etc.

Who are these women? Seriously? An informal poll of my female American friends would probably find something completely different. For one thing, they don't have the time to do all that. They're too busy worrying about jobs/houses/cats/scooters/university/game development/freelancing. I've never had the time to do all that. I suspect Tad should probably stop spending time with low rent actresses in LA and maybe get out a bit more.

American women see these costs as a simple and sensible investment in their future.

Uh-huh. If they're actresses or models. As an American woman I see a retirement account as an investment in my future. Not spinning classes.

At dinner, I found myself sitting opposite something that surely would have been happier hunting for truffles in the forests of France or grazing on the grassy marshlands of Canada. My friend’s wife had told me that Sophie still had the body of a 20-year-old. Maybe she did . . . dismembered in her freezer at home. She certainly didn’t have it on her skeleton.

Oh you're a catch you are.

Even more insulting was when my friend’s wife pointedly said: “Tad, I hear you just sold a screenplay to the producers of My Big Fat Greek Wedding.” I could not believe it. She was selling ME to HER!?

Yes, your friend was. Do you know why Tad? Because you're a dick. Sophie can always mosey off to a spinning class, but it's going to take years of brainwashing to rid yourself of what appears to be inherent assholeness.

I sat there watching Sophie tuck into a second huge plate of shepherd’s pie and realised why no self-respecting American girl consumes carbohydrates after 2pm.

SERIOUSLY. WHO ARE THESE WOMEN?

As with many societal ills, I blame the parents. British mothers do not instruct their daughters the way American mothers do. In the US, beauty treatments appear to be a large part of their growing-up experience. A trip to the beauty salon is a group event for girls, an opportunity for a gossip and a catchup.

Sure. You know, I used to go to plays with Mom. She took me to see Stomp! and the Nutcracker. Am I at all resentful that we didn't have a fun day getting our cuticles dissolved? Er, no. She was fermenting an interest in modern theatre, ballet and classical music. You want an investment Tad? Brains are good things. No amount of Botox is going to keep someone sharp. No amount of bikini camps are going to keep me in financial solvency.

I tried to engage my neighbour in conversation. She totally blanked me. I even tried to engage my manicurist in conversation, but there too failed miserably . . . mainly, though, because my Cantonese is poor.

How has this guy survived for 17+ years in England? Really? Because I'd never try and talk to English people in a Chelsea salon. It's just against the rules. It's something you don't do. But then, I think we've worked out that Tad is a bit... on the slow side.

Another part of the problem is that women in Britain do not help each other. American women have no qualms about telling their friends, in no uncertain terms, when they look like crap, or have put on weight, or are dressed like a bag-lady. They talk of the top aestheticians with a reverence usually reserved for Nobel laureates and trade cosmetic surgeon business cards the way that boys in playgrounds trade football cards.

Wait, they don't? Tad, for a screenwriter, you're a bit damned unobservant. I had a female friend tell me I looked like a maid on Saturday (accurate, I have to do something with that dress. It's cute, even if I look a bit like I'm cleaning house in a porno.) The thing is, American girls go 'YOU LOOK LIKE A HOOR,' while a lot of English girls go, 'I don't knoooooooowwwww.'

A beautiful English ex-girl-friend of mine was, at the age of 29, as uncomfortable operating an eyelash curler as I’d be operating a crane. She approached beauty salons the way men approach buying porn – with darting glances and prayers of “Dear God, I hope no one sees me”. For some reason, being seen to make an effort with one’s appearance is regarded as shameful among British women.

Perhaps English women don't see the point of such a vile contraption. Eyelash curlers are one of the great frauds of grooming products. They effectively do sweet FA in the most painful way possible. I also think perhaps Tad (what the hell kind of a name is that anyway?!) hasn't ever ventured north. In Manchester grooming is a necessity. The things I see walking around this business park are utterly, utterly insane. I could never hope to groom as much as women do in the Greater Manchester area because I value my sleep too much. And in Portland, women look a lot less dolled up. But then Portland is one of those places where beauty standards tend to be, dareIsayit, a bit less Hollywood and a bit more homegrown. Tad wouldn't like it.

In return, they will immediately want to know “all” about you, ie, how much you earn, how much you have earned in the past, what your future earning potential is, whether you own property, whether you have an investment portfolio, where you shop, where you “vacation”, what you drive and how large your parents’ house is. I once got to the end of a date in New York, pulled out my credit card to pay and the girl solemnly remarked: “A green American Express card? I didn’t know they still made them in that colour.”

WHO ARE THESE WOMEN?!! Tad, I have news for you, I think you're being vetted. Having proven yourself as an asshole they're probably trying to ascertain if you could at least buy them a meal. Like maybe you have one redeeming quality amongst all that chest thumping crap.

It's pretty telling that the best known non children's film this guy wrote is about two brothers trying to get laid. It's also fairly revealing the producer is his, er, brother. So, nepotistic asshole then? Great. Can't imagine why he's on blind dates.

Just in case you want to read Tad's drivel

Edit: I think we found the TADSTER's photo.

http://www.facebook.com/people/Tad_Safran/657111861

He could do with an eyebrow pluck. Maybe some time at the gym? He looks a little scrawny. Is that a receding hairline? And those shorts. Oh Tad.

The vigilantes are here

When I found out about this I went through a fair spectrum of negative emotion. The most dominating one was fear. What had Steve done to get 16 years? The rumor on the estate is it had something to do with disfigurement. What did the girl look like now? Suddenly he changed from being the inconsiderate DIY fanatic to being a sinister figure of violence.

But mostly the fear wasn't from him directly. Our neighborhood isn't a Guardian reading middle class party. It's more working class, the types that gladly take justice into their own hands. I could almost hear the rallying cries around me from last Tuesday. Though they may be friends with thieves and drug dealers, they aren't rapists. And rapists are different.

We thought we'd made it through the worst. It's been a week since we had a note slipped to us from a friend about what he is. Since then the police park outside our flat a lot. It comforts and scares us. I'm not used to such a high police presence. We thought they came to check up on Steve, make sure he was where he said he was and not because of any external threat. What we didn't anticipate is vigilante-ism can start quietly.

Last night was a literal breaking point. I was playing Civ IV and listening to Have I got news for you. I've had difficulty unwinding at home lately, I need a lot of distraction to relax. And just as I fended off the barbarian hordes an almighty crash shook the floor. We hoped it was just stupidity from downstairs. It's common enough for our neighbor to fall on something or knock down a shelf. He enjoys DIY projects, but isn't particularly graceful about them. When he tried to hack into a tree in our backyard he broke his collarbone. We looked out the window and saw nothing but an empty street and our neighbor across the road peering out of his window. It's that kind of place.

From our angle we couldn't see anything wrong. My first concern was our car. It sat directly in front of his door. But it looked fine, the evening frost was undisturbed. A little while later I saw headlights shine on the small brick water building next to our block of flats. A policeman got out and went downstairs.

We investigated and found two large holes in our neighbor's windows. He was bricked. A clear message for him to get out. The police officer came to our flat and suggested that though this kind of violence against him is kind of satisfying, we're in danger. I know. Our consolation at this point is we haven't received any kind of threatening letters or phone calls. The footprints in the grass suggested they'd come close enough to aim accurately. They know who they're after and it isn't us.

What concerns me anyway is we might get caught in the crossfire. The more this escalates, the more perilous living in our home becomes. The more fearful I become. But not because of what the man downstairs did, because of the people trying to do good by driving him out. I'm sure that's what they want. It's what I want too. I just wish there was a way to make that happen with out endangering innocent people. Like me.

My neighbor is a rapist.

Tuesday evening Andy-Across-The-Road delivered some strange news. News you could verify.

My neighbor is a convicted rapist.

Specifically, this neighbor.

I'm very, very conflicted about this. On one hand, he served a 16 year sentence. His time is done, finished, debt to society served. On the other hand, the part of me that fantasizes about kicking him in the nuts for cutting down the trees in our yard wants to beat him over the head with a shovel. And a 16 year sentence for rape seems pretty steep.

I'm not really sure how you resolve feelings like this. Petty criminals I can handle. Our neighborhood is rife with car thieves, robbers and drug dealers. I know. But the drug they deal is pot. The cars they steal are from other parts of Wigan. The robberies were of post offices and banks. I can deal with those things.

But sexual violence makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It's a primal thing, one you can't overcome just by being educated. And if anything, it's the education that sickens you.