In the lexicon of all possible neighbours to have these are the three you least want to be next to.

Actually there is n't a number three, just a shared number two spot: Australians and New Zealanders. Raucous like parakeets and immense drinkers. Clannish. They all seem to have someone who models themselves on the den mother ('den mither' as the kiwis probably pronounce it), who is the chief inciter, the whipper upper, the loudest, and in some ways, bizarrely the most inconsiderate - I'll get back to the point in a second.

Weather is no obstacle; rain, snow, shine, fog, drizzle, bone breaking cold, they'll be out there, in the handkerchief sized back garden of whichever London terraced house it is they living en masse. Night or day, work day or non work day.

Now considerate, what exactly was I hinting at there? Well, I know that if I keeled over in the street, or was frantically trying to flee a burning building, there would be as likely as not, some brave Anzac who'd do whatever they could to help. I could genuinely imagine one, either gender, (kiwi women seem to be particularly Amazonian), bursting into a rapidly smoke filled building, hurling me over their shoulder and making for safety.

If only number one in this trinity of undesirable numbers carried the consideration gene or even a trace of it. My own spawn, my kith and kin, the tribe I wish I had no bond with: the English.

Everything that the Anzacs are, the English are by a multiplier of ten, twenty, thirty...infinity. No one worse. Drunk, slovenly, unintelligent, whining, violent, uncouth (God, I feel like I'm chairing the Daily Mail editorial team), vicious, intimidating. Sans common sense, sans reason, sans thoughtfulness; an unblended psyche.

My relatives sit sandwiched between two sets of English neighbours. Bookended in misery. I spend several nights, usually each month here. The night just gone with it's early morning which is just about to was about as miserable as you could get. Singing, shouting, door slamming, obligatory loud music on one side; a screech owl of a woman yakking into her mobile at two thirty or so in the garden of the other. Man, what inanities, were you broadcasting in a voice that could pop the lid off a can.

The English. Every day I wish I could say I was Irish, or Scottish, or Welsh. But I can't.