One of the main functions of ‘The Neighbour’ is as a yardstick by which we measure ourselves, to compare success/body fat/popularity/tidiness of garden with your own and then strive to better them. It is the presence of the neighbour that keeps us decent – if we didn’t care how we compared to our neighbours, people would wear pj’s all day and drink white Russians for breakfast. Earlier this year, Pete Doherty came top in a survey of least desirable celebrity neighbours. The scraggily Babyshambles man would be an unfortunate sight to see on your way to work. Still at least unlike Madonna, you’d never feel obliged to tone up a little if he was your neighbour. Living next to this level of vice would however leave you dangerously devoid of respectable neighbours to spy on and try to impress and you would quickly descend into a sordid life of sin.

 

Neighbours make up a neighbourhood, and in some streets there is still a bunting adorned sense of community. Never is this more clear than on Halloween when people hide their hatred of kids and give out handfuls o‘ treats to the neighbourhood scamps. Chances are, if you live in the vicinity of Bradgelina Towers you have the kind of happiness only money can buy, and grounds so vast no amount of noise is wafting over from noisy neighbours. Still, thanks to the ever-expanding army of mini Brad and Angelina’s you’d have to remortgage the house every October 31.

 

A little more realistic perhaps is that you could find your new neighbour is East London’s finest Brian Harvey. The E17 singer would probably water hour plants whilst you were away, and maybe invite you if he was ever going to have a party loud enough for anyone to complain. But neighbours have a responsibility to look out for each other, so you would have to be constantly vigilant so as to avoid a repeat of baked-potato-gate, the memorable time Mr Harvey ate a few too many, causing him, quite understandably to run himself over in his own car. Really, who can keep an eye on something like that?