Our Christmas ended up with us calling the police. All evening our neighbours had been playing really loud doof-doof music, and drunkenly calling out to passers-by. It was that really awful kind of techno music that’s played in suburban discos and gyms involving “oom-cha-oom-cha-oom-cha” bass lines. I heard an altercation with another neighbour from the street. The neighbour yelled up to the party-goers to turn the music down. “Fuck you! It’s Christmas!” was the reply.
We put up with it for a few hours, but when it got so loud that we couldn’t properly hear the DVD we were watching, even though all our doors and windows were shut, we snapped. They weren’t even that close – at least a couple of apartments along! Chris tried to go up to their floor but our keys only work on our floor, so he buzzed them from the lobby. Please turn the music down, he said. Okay, the party-goers replied. The music got turned down.
For about ten minutes. By bedtime, things were ramping up considerably, and we were having trouble getting to sleep (it was around 11pm by now, and we were tired.) So I called the council, they said that they don’t resolve domestic noise situations. They said to call the police. I thought, “surely my local urban police station has a few more things to be busy with on Christmas than a couple of annoying party-goers.” Surprisingly, the police were fantastic! The woman on the phone sympathised, and said she’d send someone over. The cop car got here around fifteen minutes later! Yay, for the Christmas police.
We could hear snippets of conversation while the cops were remonstrating with the party-goers. One guy said to the cops, “Don’t you ever have parties at your place?” (Not a particularly clever line of defense, I thought.) We could also hear the cops saying, “Turn it down! And close your windows!”
We didn’t hear anything else, and blissfully fell asleep.