A bit council (Vol 6)
Discussion
generationx said:
Jonmx said:
Ticks a few boxes, but missing the key go fund me.
Not entirely sure a credit card constitutes 'saving for a honeymoon'.
https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-13056781/...
She appears to have married a Sontaran.Not entirely sure a credit card constitutes 'saving for a honeymoon'.
https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-13056781/...
A £1.35m house listing in the North...
Link.to Facebook marketplace... council, sorry.
https://www.facebook.com/marketplace/item/11052007...
Link.to Facebook marketplace... council, sorry.
https://www.facebook.com/marketplace/item/11052007...
I make a pilgrimage every now and again to High Edge/Buxton Raceway, up in the hills, it is indeed on a council end of motorsport, it isn't Oulton park Gold cup day with all the moneyed up silver foxes swanning round in their race gear from their million quid car back to their million quid trailer.
Its queuing for some chips and a hotdog, its standing in piss at a urinal that hasn't seemingly seen any cleaning since the seventies.
Its weird, even on a sunny day its cold, on a cold day, even if it isnt freezing its seemingly colder than anywhere on earth, you see blokes who have obviously taken a new girlfriend and not told them this and they have dressed for a nightclub, in August and are then turning blue and passing out.
Nothing makes you feel like the big, soft, middle class ponce you are than walking round the pit area, banger racers are a different breed, half man and half Scrapyard Alsatian, usually massive wearing rigger boots, dont know if its the boots or genetics but they walk different, could of course be all the injuries over the years.
No mouldy old Dough there, it is "Fanfare for the common Man" through the scratchiest and most incomprehensible PA you could buy in the fifties, you get a blast of words you cant make out, maybe the odd number of a car, then "Bump a didla, bump a didla, duh duh Duuur" of ELP for six seconds and then they are off and the music stops, so I find it very weird hearing any more than six seconds of that song now.
But the racing is good, nothing like a Primaera hitting the wall eight feet form you and a cycloptic werewolf trying to escape before it gets splatted again, steam pissing out, smell of burning tyres, whats left of a Toyota Previa dragging itself round against all the odd of it still going as its more Yaris sized now. The odd fire, the odd roll over and then the bits where you are no longer whether its racing, theatre for the punters or the culmination of three generations of families at war erupting as they plough head first into each other and you expact death, at least the medic to come on but no, they get out and one of them rides round in the back of a very old Jag with no boot lid and a handrail installed for you to wave at, despite not having a clue what actually happened.
Its weird how much work they put into the cars to smash up, paint is often better than a lot of road cars, can be weeks of prep, the classic car people bemoan banger racing but most are just shells and are something else underneath with the valuable bits sold off, and something welded up so it can race.
Start again in March, think will take a trip up, took my now wife up for one of her first dates, we went on a romantic reprise of that and suffice to say, some flowers and a meal are better, she stuck it for about two hours to her credit.
Yep, its council, but could you imagine middle class banger racing, way too polite and exchanging details after a minor prang, week off work etc ?
Its queuing for some chips and a hotdog, its standing in piss at a urinal that hasn't seemingly seen any cleaning since the seventies.
Its weird, even on a sunny day its cold, on a cold day, even if it isnt freezing its seemingly colder than anywhere on earth, you see blokes who have obviously taken a new girlfriend and not told them this and they have dressed for a nightclub, in August and are then turning blue and passing out.
Nothing makes you feel like the big, soft, middle class ponce you are than walking round the pit area, banger racers are a different breed, half man and half Scrapyard Alsatian, usually massive wearing rigger boots, dont know if its the boots or genetics but they walk different, could of course be all the injuries over the years.
No mouldy old Dough there, it is "Fanfare for the common Man" through the scratchiest and most incomprehensible PA you could buy in the fifties, you get a blast of words you cant make out, maybe the odd number of a car, then "Bump a didla, bump a didla, duh duh Duuur" of ELP for six seconds and then they are off and the music stops, so I find it very weird hearing any more than six seconds of that song now.
But the racing is good, nothing like a Primaera hitting the wall eight feet form you and a cycloptic werewolf trying to escape before it gets splatted again, steam pissing out, smell of burning tyres, whats left of a Toyota Previa dragging itself round against all the odd of it still going as its more Yaris sized now. The odd fire, the odd roll over and then the bits where you are no longer whether its racing, theatre for the punters or the culmination of three generations of families at war erupting as they plough head first into each other and you expact death, at least the medic to come on but no, they get out and one of them rides round in the back of a very old Jag with no boot lid and a handrail installed for you to wave at, despite not having a clue what actually happened.
Its weird how much work they put into the cars to smash up, paint is often better than a lot of road cars, can be weeks of prep, the classic car people bemoan banger racing but most are just shells and are something else underneath with the valuable bits sold off, and something welded up so it can race.
Start again in March, think will take a trip up, took my now wife up for one of her first dates, we went on a romantic reprise of that and suffice to say, some flowers and a meal are better, she stuck it for about two hours to her credit.
Yep, its council, but could you imagine middle class banger racing, way too polite and exchanging details after a minor prang, week off work etc ?
thetapeworm said:
A £1.35m house listing in the North...
Link.to Facebook marketplace... council, sorry.
https://www.facebook.com/marketplace/item/11052007...
It’s a semi, so Council as standard. Link.to Facebook marketplace... council, sorry.
https://www.facebook.com/marketplace/item/11052007...
J4CKO said:
I make a pilgrimage every now and again to High Edge/Buxton Raceway, up in the hills, it is indeed on a council end of motorsport, it isn't Oulton park Gold cup day with all the moneyed up silver foxes swanning round in their race gear from their million quid car back to their million quid trailer.
Its queuing for some chips and a hotdog, its standing in piss at a urinal that hasn't seemingly seen any cleaning since the seventies.
Its weird, even on a sunny day its cold, on a cold day, even if it isnt freezing its seemingly colder than anywhere on earth, you see blokes who have obviously taken a new girlfriend and not told them this and they have dressed for a nightclub, in August and are then turning blue and passing out.
Nothing makes you feel like the big, soft, middle class ponce you are than walking round the pit area, banger racers are a different breed, half man and half Scrapyard Alsatian, usually massive wearing rigger boots, dont know if its the boots or genetics but they walk different, could of course be all the injuries over the years.
No mouldy old Dough there, it is "Fanfare for the common Man" through the scratchiest and most incomprehensible PA you could buy in the fifties, you get a blast of words you cant make out, maybe the odd number of a car, then "Bump a didla, bump a didla, duh duh Duuur" of ELP for six seconds and then they are off and the music stops, so I find it very weird hearing any more than six seconds of that song now.
But the racing is good, nothing like a Primaera hitting the wall eight feet form you and a cycloptic werewolf trying to escape before it gets splatted again, steam pissing out, smell of burning tyres, whats left of a Toyota Previa dragging itself round against all the odd of it still going as its more Yaris sized now. The odd fire, the odd roll over and then the bits where you are no longer whether its racing, theatre for the punters or the culmination of three generations of families at war erupting as they plough head first into each other and you expact death, at least the medic to come on but no, they get out and one of them rides round in the back of a very old Jag with no boot lid and a handrail installed for you to wave at, despite not having a clue what actually happened.
Its weird how much work they put into the cars to smash up, paint is often better than a lot of road cars, can be weeks of prep, the classic car people bemoan banger racing but most are just shells and are something else underneath with the valuable bits sold off, and something welded up so it can race.
Start again in March, think will take a trip up, took my now wife up for one of her first dates, we went on a romantic reprise of that and suffice to say, some flowers and a meal are better, she stuck it for about two hours to her credit.
Yep, its council, but could you imagine middle class banger racing, way too polite and exchanging details after a minor prang, week off work etc ?
Love it up there, went for the F1 stockcars last summer, just incredible.Its queuing for some chips and a hotdog, its standing in piss at a urinal that hasn't seemingly seen any cleaning since the seventies.
Its weird, even on a sunny day its cold, on a cold day, even if it isnt freezing its seemingly colder than anywhere on earth, you see blokes who have obviously taken a new girlfriend and not told them this and they have dressed for a nightclub, in August and are then turning blue and passing out.
Nothing makes you feel like the big, soft, middle class ponce you are than walking round the pit area, banger racers are a different breed, half man and half Scrapyard Alsatian, usually massive wearing rigger boots, dont know if its the boots or genetics but they walk different, could of course be all the injuries over the years.
No mouldy old Dough there, it is "Fanfare for the common Man" through the scratchiest and most incomprehensible PA you could buy in the fifties, you get a blast of words you cant make out, maybe the odd number of a car, then "Bump a didla, bump a didla, duh duh Duuur" of ELP for six seconds and then they are off and the music stops, so I find it very weird hearing any more than six seconds of that song now.
But the racing is good, nothing like a Primaera hitting the wall eight feet form you and a cycloptic werewolf trying to escape before it gets splatted again, steam pissing out, smell of burning tyres, whats left of a Toyota Previa dragging itself round against all the odd of it still going as its more Yaris sized now. The odd fire, the odd roll over and then the bits where you are no longer whether its racing, theatre for the punters or the culmination of three generations of families at war erupting as they plough head first into each other and you expact death, at least the medic to come on but no, they get out and one of them rides round in the back of a very old Jag with no boot lid and a handrail installed for you to wave at, despite not having a clue what actually happened.
Its weird how much work they put into the cars to smash up, paint is often better than a lot of road cars, can be weeks of prep, the classic car people bemoan banger racing but most are just shells and are something else underneath with the valuable bits sold off, and something welded up so it can race.
Start again in March, think will take a trip up, took my now wife up for one of her first dates, we went on a romantic reprise of that and suffice to say, some flowers and a meal are better, she stuck it for about two hours to her credit.
Yep, its council, but could you imagine middle class banger racing, way too polite and exchanging details after a minor prang, week off work etc ?
that's a new one. 
J4CKO said:
I make a pilgrimage every now and again to High Edge/Buxton Raceway, up in the hills, it is indeed on a council end of motorsport, it isn't Oulton park Gold cup day with all the moneyed up silver foxes swanning round in their race gear from their million quid car back to their million quid trailer.
Its queuing for some chips and a hotdog, its standing in piss at a urinal that hasn't seemingly seen any cleaning since the seventies.
Its weird, even on a sunny day its cold, on a cold day, even if it isnt freezing its seemingly colder than anywhere on earth, you see blokes who have obviously taken a new girlfriend and not told them this and they have dressed for a nightclub, in August and are then turning blue and passing out.
Nothing makes you feel like the big, soft, middle class ponce you are than walking round the pit area, banger racers are a different breed, half man and half Scrapyard Alsatian, usually massive wearing rigger boots, dont know if its the boots or genetics but they walk different, could of course be all the injuries over the years.
No mouldy old Dough there, it is "Fanfare for the common Man" through the scratchiest and most incomprehensible PA you could buy in the fifties, you get a blast of words you cant make out, maybe the odd number of a car, then "Bump a didla, bump a didla, duh duh Duuur" of ELP for six seconds and then they are off and the music stops, so I find it very weird hearing any more than six seconds of that song now.
But the racing is good, nothing like a Primaera hitting the wall eight feet form you and a cycloptic werewolf trying to escape before it gets splatted again, steam pissing out, smell of burning tyres, whats left of a Toyota Previa dragging itself round against all the odd of it still going as its more Yaris sized now. The odd fire, the odd roll over and then the bits where you are no longer whether its racing, theatre for the punters or the culmination of three generations of families at war erupting as they plough head first into each other and you expact death, at least the medic to come on but no, they get out and one of them rides round in the back of a very old Jag with no boot lid and a handrail installed for you to wave at, despite not having a clue what actually happened.
Its weird how much work they put into the cars to smash up, paint is often better than a lot of road cars, can be weeks of prep, the classic car people bemoan banger racing but most are just shells and are something else underneath with the valuable bits sold off, and something welded up so it can race.
Start again in March, think will take a trip up, took my now wife up for one of her first dates, we went on a romantic reprise of that and suffice to say, some flowers and a meal are better, she stuck it for about two hours to her credit.
Yep, its council, but could you imagine middle class banger racing, way too polite and exchanging details after a minor prang, week off work etc ?
Good lord, you've certainly sold that, sounds fantastic!Its queuing for some chips and a hotdog, its standing in piss at a urinal that hasn't seemingly seen any cleaning since the seventies.
Its weird, even on a sunny day its cold, on a cold day, even if it isnt freezing its seemingly colder than anywhere on earth, you see blokes who have obviously taken a new girlfriend and not told them this and they have dressed for a nightclub, in August and are then turning blue and passing out.
Nothing makes you feel like the big, soft, middle class ponce you are than walking round the pit area, banger racers are a different breed, half man and half Scrapyard Alsatian, usually massive wearing rigger boots, dont know if its the boots or genetics but they walk different, could of course be all the injuries over the years.
No mouldy old Dough there, it is "Fanfare for the common Man" through the scratchiest and most incomprehensible PA you could buy in the fifties, you get a blast of words you cant make out, maybe the odd number of a car, then "Bump a didla, bump a didla, duh duh Duuur" of ELP for six seconds and then they are off and the music stops, so I find it very weird hearing any more than six seconds of that song now.
But the racing is good, nothing like a Primaera hitting the wall eight feet form you and a cycloptic werewolf trying to escape before it gets splatted again, steam pissing out, smell of burning tyres, whats left of a Toyota Previa dragging itself round against all the odd of it still going as its more Yaris sized now. The odd fire, the odd roll over and then the bits where you are no longer whether its racing, theatre for the punters or the culmination of three generations of families at war erupting as they plough head first into each other and you expact death, at least the medic to come on but no, they get out and one of them rides round in the back of a very old Jag with no boot lid and a handrail installed for you to wave at, despite not having a clue what actually happened.
Its weird how much work they put into the cars to smash up, paint is often better than a lot of road cars, can be weeks of prep, the classic car people bemoan banger racing but most are just shells and are something else underneath with the valuable bits sold off, and something welded up so it can race.
Start again in March, think will take a trip up, took my now wife up for one of her first dates, we went on a romantic reprise of that and suffice to say, some flowers and a meal are better, she stuck it for about two hours to her credit.
Yep, its council, but could you imagine middle class banger racing, way too polite and exchanging details after a minor prang, week off work etc ?
I'm not far from Buxton, see you in March
Wildcat45 said:
Slightly serious post.
...became more receptive when my wife - a secondary school teacher who has a reputation amongst colleagues and kids for not taking any s
t - explained to her that there was an easy way and a hard way to get this issue sorted, and a little courtesy might be a plan.
I’ve a dreadful feeling we are in for obstacle after obstacle here. Not just from the HA but from the scruffy man next door who by the smell coming through from next door, is an avid herbal enthusiast.
Also, we will be clearing the house at some point. Is it best to leave beds, sofas white goods and garden furniture in the front garden or throw them into the road? :-)
Careful with trying to outsmart housing officers, easily done but they tend to be little Hitlers, used to dealing with idiots all day and rarely held to account. They can really throw spanners in the works if you rub them up the wrong way. ...became more receptive when my wife - a secondary school teacher who has a reputation amongst colleagues and kids for not taking any s
t - explained to her that there was an easy way and a hard way to get this issue sorted, and a little courtesy might be a plan.I’ve a dreadful feeling we are in for obstacle after obstacle here. Not just from the HA but from the scruffy man next door who by the smell coming through from next door, is an avid herbal enthusiast.
Also, we will be clearing the house at some point. Is it best to leave beds, sofas white goods and garden furniture in the front garden or throw them into the road? :-)
Edited by Wildcat45 on Sunday 11th February 18:01
You'll also be needing a rubbishy hot hatch now for the garden, bonus points if it is lowered with wide wheels and tints.
Why not put a dealing hatch in the door, knock out a few £10 bags before the gaff is sold?
Etiquette of dumping sofas in front garden or just onto the road is debatable - bear in mind bin liners of nappies etc will get blown around by the wind to a certain extent so I wouldn't be too concerned.
Top tip, put your wheelie bin just under front window so you can dump stuff through window.
Finally, for a finishing touch, get an aerosol can of paint and spray house number onto brickwork - next to the 'No Ball Games' sign.
Strangely Brown said:
Jonmx said:
Ticks a few boxes, but missing the key go fund me.
Not entirely sure a credit card constitutes 'saving for a honeymoon'.
https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-13056781/...
Suffers from agoraphobia but is going on honeymoon to The Maldives. Yeah, OK.Not entirely sure a credit card constitutes 'saving for a honeymoon'.
https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-13056781/...
J4CKO said:
Nothing makes you feel like the big, soft, middle class ponce you are than walking round the pit area, banger racers are a different breed, half man and half Scrapyard Alsatian, usually massive wearing rigger boots, don't know if its the boots or genetics but they walk different, could of course be all the injuries over the years.
Edited by Tyrell Corp on Tuesday 13th February 13:45
Downward said:
Strangely Brown said:
Jonmx said:
Ticks a few boxes, but missing the key go fund me.
Not entirely sure a credit card constitutes 'saving for a honeymoon'.
https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-13056781/...
Suffers from agoraphobia but is going on honeymoon to The Maldives. Yeah, OK.Not entirely sure a credit card constitutes 'saving for a honeymoon'.
https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-13056781/...
J4CKO said:
I make a pilgrimage every now and again to High Edge/Buxton Raceway, up in the hills, it is indeed on a council end of motorsport, it isn't Oulton park Gold cup day with all the moneyed up silver foxes swanning round in their race gear from their million quid car back to their million quid trailer.
Its queuing for some chips and a hotdog, its standing in piss at a urinal that hasn't seemingly seen any cleaning since the seventies.
Its weird, even on a sunny day its cold, on a cold day, even if it isnt freezing its seemingly colder than anywhere on earth, you see blokes who have obviously taken a new girlfriend and not told them this and they have dressed for a nightclub, in August and are then turning blue and passing out.
Nothing makes you feel like the big, soft, middle class ponce you are than walking round the pit area, banger racers are a different breed, half man and half Scrapyard Alsatian, usually massive wearing rigger boots, dont know if its the boots or genetics but they walk different, could of course be all the injuries over the years.
No mouldy old Dough there, it is "Fanfare for the common Man" through the scratchiest and most incomprehensible PA you could buy in the fifties, you get a blast of words you cant make out, maybe the odd number of a car, then "Bump a didla, bump a didla, duh duh Duuur" of ELP for six seconds and then they are off and the music stops, so I find it very weird hearing any more than six seconds of that song now.
But the racing is good, nothing like a Primaera hitting the wall eight feet form you and a cycloptic werewolf trying to escape before it gets splatted again, steam pissing out, smell of burning tyres, whats left of a Toyota Previa dragging itself round against all the odd of it still going as its more Yaris sized now. The odd fire, the odd roll over and then the bits where you are no longer whether its racing, theatre for the punters or the culmination of three generations of families at war erupting as they plough head first into each other and you expact death, at least the medic to come on but no, they get out and one of them rides round in the back of a very old Jag with no boot lid and a handrail installed for you to wave at, despite not having a clue what actually happened.
Its weird how much work they put into the cars to smash up, paint is often better than a lot of road cars, can be weeks of prep, the classic car people bemoan banger racing but most are just shells and are something else underneath with the valuable bits sold off, and something welded up so it can race.
Start again in March, think will take a trip up, took my now wife up for one of her first dates, we went on a romantic reprise of that and suffice to say, some flowers and a meal are better, she stuck it for about two hours to her credit.
Yep, its council, but could you imagine middle class banger racing, way too polite and exchanging details after a minor prang, week off work etc ?
It’s ‘Alan Bennett goes Banger racing’ Its queuing for some chips and a hotdog, its standing in piss at a urinal that hasn't seemingly seen any cleaning since the seventies.
Its weird, even on a sunny day its cold, on a cold day, even if it isnt freezing its seemingly colder than anywhere on earth, you see blokes who have obviously taken a new girlfriend and not told them this and they have dressed for a nightclub, in August and are then turning blue and passing out.
Nothing makes you feel like the big, soft, middle class ponce you are than walking round the pit area, banger racers are a different breed, half man and half Scrapyard Alsatian, usually massive wearing rigger boots, dont know if its the boots or genetics but they walk different, could of course be all the injuries over the years.
No mouldy old Dough there, it is "Fanfare for the common Man" through the scratchiest and most incomprehensible PA you could buy in the fifties, you get a blast of words you cant make out, maybe the odd number of a car, then "Bump a didla, bump a didla, duh duh Duuur" of ELP for six seconds and then they are off and the music stops, so I find it very weird hearing any more than six seconds of that song now.
But the racing is good, nothing like a Primaera hitting the wall eight feet form you and a cycloptic werewolf trying to escape before it gets splatted again, steam pissing out, smell of burning tyres, whats left of a Toyota Previa dragging itself round against all the odd of it still going as its more Yaris sized now. The odd fire, the odd roll over and then the bits where you are no longer whether its racing, theatre for the punters or the culmination of three generations of families at war erupting as they plough head first into each other and you expact death, at least the medic to come on but no, they get out and one of them rides round in the back of a very old Jag with no boot lid and a handrail installed for you to wave at, despite not having a clue what actually happened.
Its weird how much work they put into the cars to smash up, paint is often better than a lot of road cars, can be weeks of prep, the classic car people bemoan banger racing but most are just shells and are something else underneath with the valuable bits sold off, and something welded up so it can race.
Start again in March, think will take a trip up, took my now wife up for one of her first dates, we went on a romantic reprise of that and suffice to say, some flowers and a meal are better, she stuck it for about two hours to her credit.
Yep, its council, but could you imagine middle class banger racing, way too polite and exchanging details after a minor prang, week off work etc ?
About right though, Charterhouse high in the Mendips is much the same
J4CKO said:
No mouldy old Dough there, it is "Fanfare for the common Man" through the scratchiest and most incomprehensible PA you could buy in the fifties, you get a blast of words you cant make out, maybe the odd number of a car, then "Bump a didla, bump a didla, duh duh Duuur" of ELP for six seconds and then they are off and the music stops, so I find it very weird hearing any more than six seconds of that song now.
Fanfare for the Common Man was also used at Odsal Top, I had no idea it dragged on for so long, it would come on as the cars started their rolling lap, so you would here a steady lap’s worth, then it was gone as soon as the green flag waved, lost in the din from twenty odd V8s with open pipes.RustyMX5 said:
Having a toilet in a bathroom is council.
Sorry, what? And again, what?Are you one of those weirdos who has a tiny toilet room next to a perfectly good bathroom? Or worse, a tiny toilet room with no sink next to a perfectly good bathroom?
A toilet in the bathroom makes perfect sense when you want to "S,S,S" without having to traipse across the house inbetween!
Wildcat45 said:
Slightly serious post.
It looks like I’m going to have to deal with council things. My wife has inherited a former council house. It looks like it was a pleasant little street once. Red brick 1950s houses with gardens. It’s now pretty obvious which of the houses are owned and which are rented.
Already we have had one tenant’s broken promise. Recent storms brought a tree down from the adjoining council house. The bloke who lives there promised to chop it up and remove it. He hasn’t.
The housing association are already trying to wriggle out of responsibility for something. Apparently the person at the HA had quite a dismissive and rude manner about her when she thought my wife lived in the house. She became more receptive when my wife - a secondary school teacher who has a reputation amongst colleagues and kids for not taking any st - explained to her that there was an easy way and a hard way to get this issue sorted, and a little courtesy might be a plan.
I’ve a dreadful feeling we are in for obstacle after obstacle here. Not just from the HA but from the scruffy man next door who by the smell coming through from next door, is an avid herbal enthusiast.
There are a couple of folks here who clearly know their stuff when dealing with HAs and tenants.. it’s a straightforward estate. My wife is executor and beneficiary and she’s going to sell it once things are sorted.
Would the best way to proceed here be:
Being nice and let things move at the HA’s pace?
Going in tough with requests, expectations and deadlines?
Have a “straightener” with the man next door in a pub car park?
Have the above but with the lady from the housing association. .
Just let the solicitor deal with it? (A potentilla expensive Excercise.)
Also, we will be clearing the house at some point. Is it best to leave beds, sofas white goods and garden furniture in the front garden or throw them into the road? :-)
Why not just move in? free house an' all.It looks like I’m going to have to deal with council things. My wife has inherited a former council house. It looks like it was a pleasant little street once. Red brick 1950s houses with gardens. It’s now pretty obvious which of the houses are owned and which are rented.
Already we have had one tenant’s broken promise. Recent storms brought a tree down from the adjoining council house. The bloke who lives there promised to chop it up and remove it. He hasn’t.
The housing association are already trying to wriggle out of responsibility for something. Apparently the person at the HA had quite a dismissive and rude manner about her when she thought my wife lived in the house. She became more receptive when my wife - a secondary school teacher who has a reputation amongst colleagues and kids for not taking any s
t - explained to her that there was an easy way and a hard way to get this issue sorted, and a little courtesy might be a plan.I’ve a dreadful feeling we are in for obstacle after obstacle here. Not just from the HA but from the scruffy man next door who by the smell coming through from next door, is an avid herbal enthusiast.
There are a couple of folks here who clearly know their stuff when dealing with HAs and tenants.. it’s a straightforward estate. My wife is executor and beneficiary and she’s going to sell it once things are sorted.
Would the best way to proceed here be:
Being nice and let things move at the HA’s pace?
Going in tough with requests, expectations and deadlines?
Have a “straightener” with the man next door in a pub car park?
Have the above but with the lady from the housing association. .
Just let the solicitor deal with it? (A potentilla expensive Excercise.)
Also, we will be clearing the house at some point. Is it best to leave beds, sofas white goods and garden furniture in the front garden or throw them into the road? :-)
Edited by Wildcat45 on Sunday 11th February 18:01
gazza285 said:
J4CKO said:
No mouldy old Dough there, it is "Fanfare for the common Man" through the scratchiest and most incomprehensible PA you could buy in the fifties, you get a blast of words you cant make out, maybe the odd number of a car, then "Bump a didla, bump a didla, duh duh Duuur" of ELP for six seconds and then they are off and the music stops, so I find it very weird hearing any more than six seconds of that song now.
Fanfare for the Common Man was also used at Odsal Top, I had no idea it dragged on for so long, it would come on as the cars started their rolling lap, so you would here a steady lap’s worth, then it was gone as soon as the green flag waved, lost in the din from twenty odd V8s with open pipes.Loads of my mate's dads on our estate had a window sticker that said "Stu Smith, Living Legend" on their respective Cortina/ Capri/Hilman Hunter.
Gassing Station | The Lounge | Top of Page | What's New | My Stuff