Thursday, 21st August, 2003 – Bum Notes (When you have read this entry, you will realise that the title is a pun. And you will steeple your fingers under your chin, and go “Ahhhhhh”)

Several weeks ago, we met our neighbours for the first time. Perhaps I am a uniquely pathetic social-phobe, but I have never had any kind of relationship with any of my neighbours, anywhere I have lived, ever. This is mostly through laziness, and a thoroughly modern attitude toward human relationships - that the momentary anxiety and awkwardness of introducing yourself to someone for the first time is too great a price to pay for a potentially long and rewarding friendship.

I've often worried about what would happen if Jane severed an artery, or broke a bone or something one day, and required emergency care of some kind that we could not provide ourselves. Obviously we would call an ambulance, but the mental image that I am left with is of myself standing outside our neighbours' door for 10 minutes - knuckles in rapping-position -practicing what I'm going to say:

Me: "Hi, I'm Jon, I live upstairs. Sorry we haven't said hello as yet, but it's been a really hectic 2 and a half years…..anyway, it’s a bit embarrassing, but you don't happen to have some gauze, a couple of metres of bandages and a defibrillator do you?"

Neighbour: "How rude. What a cocksucker you are. You don't say a word to us for over two years, and now you want our help? You can go fuck yourself mate."

Me: "Right-o then! Sorry!"

Jane (Haemorrhaging profusely onto rented carpet): "Was there anybody there?"

Me: "No, they must be out"

Me (to self): "Oh my God, we'll have to move now!"

Anyway, we were lucky enough to run into our (downstairs) neighbours unexpectedly at the (obviously, now famous) Three Pigeons Monday Night Pub Quiz. We were a bit drunk, they were a bit drunk, we had just pocketed £23 and were in high spirits. The conversation flowed, and they turned out to be very nice people.

Or so it appeared. Looking back, it seems that perhaps they are evil geniuses who hate us violently, and have secretly hated us ever since they moved in some months ago. Only that could explain the tiny seeds of paranoia they managed to plant in our heads (my head) in the short time we spent with them. Seeds planted there with the clear intention of forcing us to move out.

Why else would so-called 'Gary' (if that is his name), say out of nowhere, "So, you play the guitar then?" This is clearly his underhand way of telling me that he KNOWS I play the guitar, and that I am shit at it, and that he hears every badly executed note I play, and flinches theatrically to every strum, to his girlfriend's endless, shrill amusement. Not only that, but they hear EVERYTHING that happens in our flat.

In fact, re-reading that last paragraph, it looks a little bit floridly insane, but his throwaway comment has made me super-aware over the last few weeks of what we do and say in our flat. Particularly troubling is the notion that our neighbours might have heard us singing.

We sing all the time around the house, and there is really no shame in this. What might seem odd to someone listening is the frequency with which we will change the lyrics of the songs we sing, in order to incorporate the word 'bum' somewhere. To me, it is a hilarious comic device, full of shrewd irony and playful, knowing juvenilia. To an outsider, it might seem pathetic, even

worrying. I wouldn't want to live underneath a couple who appear to be obsessed with bums - obsessed to such an extent that the notion of bums appears to unconsciously permeate their speech.

Please believe me, we are not in any way obsessed by bums. I can go for hours and hours at a time without even thinking about bums. If you are reading this for the first time, please believe me that these pages almost never feature the word 'bum', and certainly never with the frequency that it appears today. This is a one-off.

The bum-song thing is just a silly game we play for our own amusement. Perhaps it is our way of coping with the barrage of trash that we subject ourselves to by listening to Radio 1 everyday, as it certainly makes singing bad songs more fun. For instance, Westlife's 'Words', becomes (wait for it) 'Bums'. With the lyric; "It's only Bums / and Bums are all I have / to steal your heart away" See?

Similarly, Whitney Houston's 'I Will Always Love You' becomes 'I Will Always Bum You'. Amazing, isn't it?

Not that the word 'bum' alone is satisfactory. A number of variations on the theme are acceptable. In fact, the more artfully you can introduce the notion of bums into a song, the greater the kudos afforded. Thus, Coldplay's 'Trouble' might go: "I never meant to be a bummer…etc."

And so on.

Until recently, this was something that we could enjoy. A super-private joke between two people who - perhaps - have a bit of growing up to do. But now, each time I hear myself unconsciously drifting into a bum-song, I stop, imagining our neighbours shaking their heads at each other, and checking that the baseball bat is still by the front door…..

Today my Entrance Music must reflect the maddening frustration of searching the web for ages and ages to find something that will allow me to add a commenting function to this stupid website, beyond the pop-up crazy guestbook. ‘Coattails’ by Low, if listened to loud enough and long enough will induce the same feeling of numbness and befuddlement I am experiencing now. My. Eyes. Hurt.