Look, I understand the appeal of Airbnb. Really, I do. It was meant to be this lovely utopian idea where people could make a bit of extra cash by renting out their spare room, sharing their local knowledge about the best places for artisanal sourdough, and generally fostering cross-cultural understanding through the medium of awkward breakfast conversations. Marvellous.

Except that's not what happened, is it? Because humans, being the opportunistic creatures we are, immediately thought: "Hang on – what if instead of sharing my home, I just bought ALL the homes and turned them into a sort of distributed hotel empire?" And now we have what one commenter describes as "pop-up brothels" next to their house, with "suspicious blokes hanging outside" at all hours. Brilliant. Just what everyone wants in their neighbourhood – a rotating cast of characters from a particularly grim episode of Line of Duty.

The comments from Cheltenham residents read like a particularly British cry for help. One person writes, "The Airbnb next to my home has caused untold misery and made me want to move!" Notice the exclamation mark – the punctuational equivalent of a stiff upper lip finally cracking. In Britain, using an exclamation mark is basically the same as staging a protest march.

Then there's the perfectly reasonable observation that "Houses and flats occupied by students are a far bigger problem." Ah yes, the time-honoured tradition of deflecting one housing crisis with another. It's like saying "Well, yes, I did set fire to your shed, but have you seen what the neighbour's cats are doing to your flower beds?"

The most darkly comic aspect is the race week situation. As one resident puts it, they can "grit their teeth for a week" while people "trash the streets, piss and puke everywhere." It's the most British thing imaginable – tolerating absolute chaos because it's "good for the economy." We'll endure any indignity as long as it's scheduled in advance and helps the local pub's quarterly figures.

But my favourite comment has to be from the person who had to pretend to book their neighbour's Airbnb just to complain about it. Imagine that – having to go through the process of potentially giving money to someone just to tell them their property is ruining your life. It's like having to buy a ticket to a restaurant just to inform them their bins are attracting rats.

The solution, according to many, is regulation. Amsterdam is cited as an example, presumably because they've managed to find a way to have tourism without turning their city into a giant holiday let. But then again, Amsterdam has coffee shops and the red light district – they solved their pop-up brothel problem by making them permanent fixtures.

One particularly telling comment notes that "Half of the salary goes to the rent money and it's very difficult for everyone." This isn't just about holiday lets anymore; it's about the fundamental British right to complain about property prices while simultaneously treating property as an investment vehicle that should yield returns higher than the GDP of a small nation.

The most depressing part is the comment about fire engines not being able to access certain lanes because of all the Airbnb guests' cars. Imagine that on your tombstone: "Here lies Derek, who perished because someone's five-star review was more important than emergency vehicle access."

What we're witnessing is the slow transformation of British communities into a sort of residential theme park, where actual residents are just inconvenient NPCs in someone else's holiday experience. The only comfort is that when the apocalypse comes, at least we'll have plenty of places to stay – assuming we can get past the minimum three-night booking requirement and have enough five-star reviews as guests.

Perhaps the most succinct summary comes from the comment "Cheltenham isn't what it was sadly." No, it isn't. But then again, nothing ever is, is it? Except maybe the persistent British ability to express total despair through mild understatement. That, at least, remains unchanged.