There are many fine things in having a friend live just a few doors up from you. One is borrowing cups of sugar (much easier to go a few doors up than to borrow possibly-contaminated sugar from your hooring neighbours). Another is meeting in the local for a bottle of cheap pink wine and some chicken in a basket.

Another is when you receive a text like the one I just got 10 minutes ago:

"Quick. Look out your front window. There's a man on a pogo stick pogoing his way up the street."

I jumped up onto the windowsill and opened the window to lean out and see this rare grey toon spectacle. Never let it be said that use of the pogo stick is restricted to small 60's children on sunny afternoons. It's pissing down out there. Personally I can think of modes of transportation less ridiculous for a rainy tuesday night...

(Edit, 5 mins later... I just got reply to a text i sent back... "If I hadn't heard the boing-ing, I wouldn't have noticed it!")

(Note: Wikipedia has the following section under it's entry for "Pogo Stick"
Famous Users
Enoch Powell
Andrew Roberts, respected historian.

Oh the mental images...)

... Especially for these people who don't realise that light's on and curtains open mean that EVERYONE can see in on dark nights (och but I'm glad those nights are fair drawin' oot now here in the Grey Toon - aye. I saw my first bee of the spring today!)

Hence I would like to publicly congratulate my neighbours across the way on the fine performance they're putting on - as I'm sure I speak for all the neighbours who can see in their window. There's a cello! There's a violin! They're doing that wobbly headed thing that classical musicians do when they're really into what they're playing! (or being a bit pretentious) And occasionally something in pink (and possibly tulle) glides past the window.

It's all really very impressive. Wonder what they're up to? (Oooh! Granny just put in a tray of biscuits!)

P.S. yes, there has been a bit of an absence of presence from My Neighbours Are Hoors. This is because things are still afoot and I can't post my massive backhistory of posts. *sigh* but one day my friends! One day!!!

So we went to see Sweeny Todd a couple of weeks ago. I won't fill this post with my amazing guru-like film like criticisms, but will tell you what happened after. *

We enjoyed the movie (for you 'Mercans. "Pictures" for the rest of us), had the usual hassle getting out of the Cineworld car-park and then drove towards our destination, Our Local Chinese Restaurant, through the Red Light District.

At this point, it's worth noting that the Green Light District has been KO'd by our ever-thoughtful Council. That's worth another post though. (In which I'll probably get a bit Political). As a result of which (and the usual Grey Toon Pissing Doon Rain), the drive home was particularly quiet with regards to Street Hoor Presence. Usually you get at least 5 hoors plying their trade - even in the bucketing rain. But not tonight. Oh no. It was like some post-apocalyptic Grey Toon. Not ae single hoor on the streets. I was half expecting to turn the corner and see kids gazing into the flickering skeleton of a tv screen except... Shock! It's only a fireplace.

We were only half way up St Clement Street when my friend (Neighbour Of The Neds to those of you with a good memory) says "Hey! Hadn't we better book a table?"

Good point. So we pull over in the middle of HoorsVille to make that vital phonecall. Not that my mobile phone numbers consist of restaurants and pizza places. Honest!

So I'm dialing the number. Sitting parked in Street-Hoor-Central between an ancient Escort and a hefty auld fish van. Waiting for the restaurant to pick up. Totally distracted by the potential of Chili King Prawns. Tapping my teeth and willing them to Pick Up The Phone. Come on. Pick Up The Phone you buggers!

And my friend goes "Turn the headlights off"

"Whit?"

"Turn. The. Headlights. Off"

And then I realised. We're sitting in the middle of the Grey Toon Red Light district with the headlights of the car on. Maplight on so I can see the number I'm phoning. Dressed as young up-and-coming ladies do of a Saturday night in the Grey Toon. In an EMPTY red light district.

And it was like some sort of remake of Dawn of the Dead! Punters. Staggering towards us. Their arms outstretched (possibly hingin' with a doggie bag fae the local Polish Craws Nest Ristorante) towards us. Or maybe like the bit in Jurassic Park where you're screaming at the stupid blonde kid waving the torch at the dinosaurs so they know EXACTLY where she is... "TURN OFF THE FECKING TORCH YOU IDIOT!!!"

Time slowed like in the very worst of horror movies. I could hear the restaurant phone pick up. A long drawn out phonetic spelling of my second name was made... The booking was made. We drew a deep breath.

As the first of the Zombie-punters made their way to our (now locked) car, I speedily hung up, went into reverse and practically handbrake-turned up towards Millar Street, taking us miles away from the drooling Zombie punters of the Grey Toon Red Light District.

Damn good Chili King Prawns though...

*although bloody hell! How DID they achieve that red blood?! I KNOW from watching stupid "the making of" documentaries on SKY that blood looks black in the dark. It was directed in Burton-Vision for Gods sake. It was almost ALL in the dark! How come the blood was red!? Did they add Fluorescein to it!?! **

** Also. It was the 3rd most gory film I've seen after Sin City and Passion Of The Gibson. *** It also made me want to decorate my kitchen in greys and reds like a 1800's thieves kitchen. "Oliver!" had the same effect on me. But I digress...

***Actually... The best Mel Gibson pun I ever heard was in the Sun after his temporary "indiscretion" in August 2007. It was as follows (as I remember it anyway). Ahem. "They said when Mel Gibson filmed 'Braveheart' that he could never truly play a Scotsman. But hey! Now look at him! Now he's Drunk AND Racist!" Lol. ****

****I digress again. The funniest Sun Movie review pun ever was for "Troy" I think. "The main highlights of this film are in Brad Pitts hair." Classic. Right. Better go write the actual post... :P That means you have to scroll up again to the main body of text. Sorry...

In the style of Father Lionel Fanthorpe... I wrote a song. And here it is, it's called "The My Neighbours Are Hoors Song"

It's to be sung to the tune of Nicky Tams - because apparently everyone's first song has to be written to the tune of Nicky Tams. (OK. It's not my first song. That was "Prozac at Christmas," and that was co-written to the tune of "Happy Christmas (War is Over)")

It's also in doric. If you need a translation, leave a comment.

My Neighbours Are Hoors

Well, I bought my flat in a tenement in 1998
It was auld and quite a mess and I'd hae tae decorate
But I got myself a mortgage, everything was going fine
Til one day the upstairs neighbour said “Can I hae a quick word, quine”

“Ye see I think ye need tae ken fits goin on doonstairs
There’s been lots o mannies visiting, and sometimes they’re in pairs
They just bide fur half an hour or so and they’re comin' at a oors”
And that was when I first found out that my neighbours were hoors

So then I’d tae be paranoid o’ openin’ doors tae men
There were times that I wid hav tae say “I’m nae aene o them!”
My mither she was horrified, my faither nae at a
He said "Maybe they’ll gie ye a job if ye need a bob or twa"

They’d be queuing at the door sometimes, two or maybe three
For there’s mony a lonely oil man will pay for company
And the passions o’ the punters were very clearly stirred
For the sounds o’ whips coming through the wa was occasionally heard

Well the neighbour fa bides across the road wiz nae impressed at a
In fact she cam and said tae me “I hiv informed the law”
But the polis kent a aboot them, they hidnae escaped detection
In fact, it seemed a o’ Aiberdeen kent o’ our Ladies of Negotiable Affection

The next eight years were eventful for these hoors were nae discrete
It could be mair entertaining than Coronation Street
Twa hoors aence hid a party, the wine it freely flowed
But the evening ended, they were apprehended for fightin in the road

One day there was a trail o blood, horrid thoughts ran through my head
A Doric Jack the Ripper, had killed them in their bed
I called the polis straight away, they left the door ajar
I keekit in and saw twa bobbies rifling through their drawers

One day the Jehovas Witnesses were coming roon the doors
Unaware oor tenement housed twa hard working whores
First they lectured me on Godless deeds and the dangers o temptation
Then they ask-ed me if I kent onyone that could do wi some salvation

Well the de'il on my shoulder, he gave oot a gleeful cry
And he said “This opportunity, it cannae pass ye by”
So I said “Kind sirs, If you’re looking for those that sorely need your prayers
Ye neednae look nae further than the tarts wi hearts doonstairs"

Aifter eight long years I’m sad tae say the brothel was shut doon
Now the hoors must walk the streets at nicht the ither side o toon
I miss my harlot neighbours they were the best in Aiberdeen
For they said good day, they worked hard, and they kept their passage clean

Christmas. Ah Christmas. The Festive Season. Yule. The Season of Overindulgence, and in my case... The Ceremonial Eating of Cheese.

Sorry Girlies. I could give up Chocolate. I could never sully my tastebuds with Cadbury's ever again. I could skip past the Bournville Factory, twirl past the cocoa fields of this earth and, verily sprint, past the combined chocolatiers of Belgium, Switzerland, Austria and your deepest darkest imaginations... For I have an alternative. And that alternative is CHEESE.

This year was the year that Everyone Got The Hint!!! Stilton... Dolcelatte... Edam... Haloumi... Brie... The smellier the better. The packages had sat under my tree, disguised as socks, for days and weeks... until Christmas day when they were set free! Opened! And then swiftly shifted to the fridge with the comment "Oh Shite. I bet they've gone off." And gone off they had. Blue!? They were Indigo! Moulded? They were Rancid! And I consumed my cheese, "Oh my Darling Cheeses!" with glee!

If you're from my work and you're reading this. Yes. I know. You thought I was joking and I'm not. I tried to give it up once... I got THE SHAKES. I went COLD TURKEY. And I found my soul to be weak - oh, weak! Ohhhhhh gorgonzola how I love thee.

Anyway. I'm digressing big scale now. Num num.

Cheese. Dreams. Those are no old wives tales! Cheese does indeed give me odd dreams - as does Red Bull. I often think that in times gone by, I'd have been seen as a Seer on account of my prophetic and truth-telling dreams. (Until the day I run out of cheese and get hounded out of the tribe, having to make a living as a swineheard).

And the dream I had last week after my post-yule Fromage-Orgy?

Well! Sit yourselves down my children and prepare for my tale...

I had lost my job. Maybe a turn in our industry, or maybe just "cost cutting" - I dunno. The dream didn't specify. There was only one way to pay my bills and a job in Asdas wasn't considered. Perhaps the fluo green uniforms would have clashed with my hair. I don't know. But in this dream, I was to become what I blog about on a regular basis... I was to become a HOOR.

Of course, in this dream the Green Light district was long since gone and I found myself lurking around the lower reaches of Market Street in the freezing cold Grey Toon winters gloom. I have to point out that I was ae Classy Hoor. In pinstripe. I might have had a bustle and one of those little Victorian hats, but we can put this down to the cheese.

I walked back and forth. It was absolutely baltic! My fellow hoors weren't being all competitive over their turf, but welcomed me to their most accommodating collective bosom and tsk'd and clucked when I told them my tale of woe and job-less-ness. In my dream I was surprised to note that most of them had their own teeth. It was raining, we had to pee in doorways and we had to hide whenever the police went by, but eventually a car drove up. He rolled the window down and leant out. He had a ridiculous handlebar moustache, but I stifled my dream-giggles and started to say my long-practiced lines that I'd learnt from my fellow hoors, The Bill and Band Of Gold (and possibly an episode or two of Sharpe, from the accent) ... "Ello Sir, Are ye lookin' for business?"

Just then my company's van screeched up and the punter glanced round and accelerated up Market Street towards Torry. I panicked - but for no reason. It was just my ex-workmates who had brought me a flask of tea. I was most grateful, but begged them not to tell anyone (How Dickensian that sounds!).

Off they went and I drank my tea, bemoaning a splash of Earl Grey on my pinstripe Hoor-Outfit and sharing it with a couple of my hoor friends. We'd look out for eachother.

But then... A Limo approached. Not any limo... not the kind hen nights and teenagers get for their birthdays, but a Limo. A vehicle of Class. The window whirred down and a man sat there holding a glass of champagne. I wondered for a minute if it was a Dons footballer, but his hair was too coiffured, and there was something familiar about those beautiful white teeth!

It was...

Donald Trump!

He smiled and asked me if I wouldn't mind helping him "entertain" his friends back at his penthouse. I did my best to elegantly lower myself into the back of the limo, desperately wishing I could come up with some better topic of conversation than "Balmedie eh? Fit a Shambles min!" I was quite confident that I could engage anyone in intelligent Balmedie-related Golf banter, however. Just so long as I could remember my " The Rain In Spain Falls Mainly on the Plain."

But within no time, we were arriving at the hotel and I was marveling at the deep pile of the carpet on the way up to his penthouse. (Couldn't have been THAT good if there was no lift. Honest.)

I got there and settled on a sofa. A sofa so soft I almost dissolved into it. I considered that if Mr Trump were to pay me, I'd never have to Hoor myself on the Streets Of the Grey Toon Again... and then I wondered what was to come next.

A maid entered. A packet of Jaffa cakes was laid quietly on the coffee table. Mr Trump smiled.

All he wanted me to do was watch him eat Jaffa cakes.

While he was Nekkid.

Then I woke up.

Just back from Christmas Gallivanting - so a belated Merry Christmas to you all! :)

I've been try to keep my cool over this.

The Nice Council Man With The Drainrods was asking me the other week if I'd seen a particular tramp going around the area lately.

Yes. I had. "He's nae lookin' well." "He's aye drinkin Cider" "Far does he bide?" The conversation went on. Poor Council Man couldn't sleep one night because of the singing beneath his window!

I sympathised and thought nothing more of Mr Tramp.

But then just the other day I was coming out of the block of flats when I heard a TINKLING noise! No it wasn't Evelyn Glennie doing a star turn on a glockenspiel in the middle of the street. No, it wasn't a Grey Toon Fairy coming back from the pub after a hard day's wish granting.

I thought to myself "My God. Has that leaky overflow still not been fixed!?" But then I looked up the street where Mr Tramp was slumped against the tenements creating a rather turbulent flow of "spent cider" down our fine pavingstones. Tinkling explained.

Filthy bastard had the biggest grin on his face you ever did see. Not sure if he was just impressed with himself or leering at me.

Bloody Pissing Tramp.

I really am in two minds whether or not to publish this post.
I'm don't mean to get on my high horse and think I'm better than anyone and I'm not being naive or anything cuz I do know what goes on (dontchaknow) but there's something about this story that makes me go "Ewwwwwwwwwww" or shudder or, in fact, go "Heeuuurgh!" (Which isn't a very lady-like noise).

Onwaye. A friend of mine was getting a taxi out to the airport and by all accounts she had one of the Grey Toon's finest taxi drivers. Like most taxi drivers everywhere, he was willing talk about anything and at great length too. The conversation eventually turned to the hardships of being a taxi driver. What, my friend asks, do you do when you get drunk people, violent people, dodgy people hailing your taxi?

Well this taxi driver would take them all. Drunk folk? So long as they don't peuk in his car, that's fine. Violent folk? They wouldn't bloody dare try mess wi him. Prostitutes? ...one of the most lucrative types for a taxi driver as you hang around with the meter running to take them back. Junkies going to see their dealer? Ditto.

And then he told her this story:

He was on his way back in to town when he picked up a fare. A tarty wumman and her young daughter. Now this wumman asked him to take her to a certain bridge in the Grey Toon. Now, readers, the Grey Toon hasn't many bridges and if you're local, you'll probably figure this one out for yourself. Apparently this bridge is the place to go for buying certain illegal substances, and this was a well known fact to Mr Man-Of-The-World Taxi Driver. So he dropped her and her daughter off and waited for the wumman and wee quine to totter back.

"So," he asks the wumman. "How can you let your wee lass stand there and watch you buy your drugs? Are you nae worried it'll have some sort of ill affect on her?"

"Ha!" cries the wumman, "Wee Lass!? She's Sivinteen! Half o this is fur her!"

Mr Man O The Wurld Taxi Driver is horrified for once and at a loss for words.

"Half for her? But she doesnae look 17!"

"Aye." says the wumman smugly. "And ye ken fit? She earns twice as much as me." Smirk. "Punters think she's just a kid, ye ken?"

And then, according to the taxi driver, he let the two of them off at the docks ready for a night's gainful employment.

And now I shudder and go back to my sweet and innocent life. *Couk.*



Old Hoor prepares her 17 yo daughter to go out for a night's hooring. "Ere, she looks 12 y'ken!"
Note dealer on pantomime horse in background flogging hard drugs to passengers on the Number 19 to Tillydrone.

So there's a Chinese medicine shop at Holburn Junction...

I was sitting in traffic the other evening, preparing to run the gauntlet of drunken neds running across Union Street, and I chanced to look a a nice new shiny advert in their window which proclaimed - "Only £25! Foot and Boby Massage!"

And I wondered... Had it been an accidental mis-spelling of Body? Or even more tragically, had they been intending to offer a boaby massage for only 25 quid?

If it was a boaby massage, I wonder if the Grey Toon Polis Cuttin-Doon-On-Hoors Division should be informed?

Yeah, I know - I've been awfy quiet of late!

Of course with the Hoors gone, there's not that much to write about! (Well there is, but I can't. This will all make sense some time in the future.)

Well... tonights post. It is written as I sit here in the freezing chill of a Grey Toon summers evening, huddled round my Bombay Bad Boy (TM). And tonight my thoughts drift towards the poor hard working girls doon at the harbour who only have their skimpy tops and "pelmet for a fanny" skirts for warmth - outfits that make the job of the Grey Toon Hoor just that little bit less cosy of an evening.

And I'm not the only one that feels sorry for them when I drive past on the way home from picking up a pizza... For back in June, the kind hearted Sex Industry Forum announced that one way to spend some of a £200,000 grant intended to "solve the problems of prostitution" would be to give the poor freezing hoors an early Christmas
gift of some nice wooly tights and toastie gloves.

See the full story over at the PeenJ - linky


'Ere Luv! You wouldn't 'ave any wooly tights in there would ya? It's bloody freezin' out 'ere!


I'm sure the punters will greatly appreciate a warm hoor of a cold winters evening.

People have been coming and going from Shetland Girl's flat that is up for sale, you can hear them go up the stairs.

The Boy and I were busy wrestling some heavy DIY detritus down the stairs and The Dad of a Potential Purchaser was just in time to open the door for us. (What a nice man).

He smiled and asked a few questions - like you should when you're buying a flat. Such as:
1) Do the buzzers work?
2) Does the roof leak?
3) Is the Council Tax particularly high?
4) What's it like parking outside?

All fine and well.
Happily I didn't have to lie to his next questions...
5) What are the neighbours like?
6) Is there a brothel on the ground floor?

Away went Potential Purchaser and her Dad, happy with my answers and discussing the Estate Agent's shirt.

It's been a good long time since Shetland Girl's little brother's mates (aka Busted) got a bollocking from Shetland Girl for peuking all over the stairs outside our flat(see this post) a (Also this post and this post leading up to this event). And I have to say things have been very quiet indeed upstairs - obviously Busted had been banned by Shetland Girl from renting out/squatting in/wrecking her flat and it has been empty!

On friday I came back home from Glastonbury to find a contortionist from a local estate agents dangling out the top part of the window putting up a big For Sale sign on the big windowpane below... Which is a shame because Shetland Girl (along with all the other tennants at the moment) has been a great neighbour. In fact for the first time since I moved in 8 years ago, the tenement is a peaceful place where we say hi to eachother and don't have any problems to sort out.

Now we get to start a whole new panicking train of thought. Who the hell is going to move in!?

Since I've been here... we've had drug dealers, Nazis, The Hoors (obviously), the mafia (or so the theory went at the time), a good few occasions of assault, credit card/lingerie/identity theft and numerous breaches of the peace. Before that there was reportedly a paedophile...

What are the odds? Realistically? Surely statistically we're due a pillar of the community something?

Ugh. Something tells me I'd better look up Amazon for the Usborne Serial Killers Spotters Guide

No posts for a couple of weeks as I'm off to swim in the mud at Glastonbury!

I should have posted about this a while ago but never got around to it...

I was talking a few weeks back to the young lady who has moved into the flat previously occupied by The Hoors. After a few minutes of chatting she asked who lived in the flat before her.

"Aaaah, ummm, aaah, errrr...." I fumbled looking for a way to break this to her gently.

"Och, don't worry about that! I know what TYPE of people lived here before - I just need to know what name the phone was under"

"Ohhhhh.... It was under the name of A. Madame."

"Thanks very much," she said, "only I need to phone up BT and get them to change the phone number."

There is a few brief moments as my sleepy thoughts process this information and the penny finally drops.

"Oh no. No. Really!? They didn't change the number before you moved in!?"

I look pale. She grimaces and nods. "Oh aye. After a couple of incoming calls, I soon figured out what the flat was used for."

Ladies and Gentlemen. Sitemeter is a very useful (and free) tool. Never let it be said that I don't give any blogging tools free publicity.

You can see where people accessing your site live.

You can see when they access the site from their workplace (and hence I'd like to say a big "HI!" to all the uk government workers out there :)

And more to the point, you can see what they were searching for on google when they found your site.

And that, faithful readers, lets me know an awful lot about the strange people out there. I have previously blogged about "my neighbours don't like me," "what should I do if I suspect someone is running a brothel" and "How do I decorate my flat like a brothel interior." But nothing could have prepared me for this:

"Why does my female cat like to play in my dirty undies"

...

Answer: I don't know. Perhaps there is a Dr Pussy Freud out there with a comfortable couch and inkblots of balls of string and toy mice that might be able to help you out?

Either that or stop washing your pats in new Bold Non-Biological Catnip Fresh.

So me and my mate were out the other night being Ladies Wot Dine at one of the Grey Toon's favourite establishments, Le Ristorante Poshe.

Awaiting our fine cuisine, we were few glasses into a bottle of fine pink wine and starting to put the world to rights. Neds? What's to be done with them! The Grey Toon Bypass? A shocking state of affairs! The Grey Toon Housing Market? What's the world coming to! And why the hell did they grind the Grey Toon to a standstill for months just to do THAT to Market Street!?

Finally, we got around to discussing Council Tax.

"And we've gone up to a band B! says I, indignantly. And a a slightly higher volume than usual as the backround noise was quite loud. "We used to be an A! Up to a Band B! Upgraded!"

"Why's that then?" says my friend. "Well... Maybe it's because there's not a knocking shop on the ground floor now!" I guffaw.

You know those bloody natural silences you get in public places? Just when you're shouting out something really inappropriate for the place you're in? I time it right every sodding time.

As promised in my last post, here is a newspaper report from the time of the couple caught "in flagrante" in a Grey Toon park by a thievin ned. Good on them for having the nerve to report the thefts... That's all I can say!

A couple who were having sex in an Aberdeen city park, had to walk home stark naked, after their clothes were stolen. The “gentleman” involved in the open-air event, is said to have run off after his clothes were taken at Bon Accord Terrace Gardens, leaving the 23-year-old woman to walk half-a-mile home, through Aberdeen city centre. But she did cover her modesty with 3-sheets of newspaper. The evening got worse for the young lady, for when she got to her flat, she found that her flatmate had locked her out, and her set of keys were in her stolen jacket. A neighbour had to call police, who arrived to let the woman in and rumour has it that her flatmate is also her boyfriend. A police spokesman said, "There is obviously an element of humour to this story. But there is also a serious side, when someone drinks so much that they do something they would never dream of doing sober."

A typical Grey Toon sight. The result of too many Bacardi Breezers.

A friend's dad brought up the subject a couple of weekends ago "Remember that time there was a naked man in your back garden?"

Initially there was a bit of confusion over which of three incidents he was referring to.

Was he talking about...

1) When there was a naked man knocking on my door in a hotel a couple of years back. (No. I hadn't ordered one.)

2) The actual incident he was referring to where a young couple stopped for a bit of midnight rumpy pumpy under a bush in a park in town (not anywhere near my back garden, but I think he was referring to The Grey Toon as my back garden) and some cad ran off with their clothes for a laugh. (So funny I might actually do a seperate post on this)

3) The time a Hoor phoned the police because there was "A Man" in our back garden.

I won't bother going in to 1) or 2) here... but ahahaha... 3) is definitely worth a mention.

It was about 11 o'clock and I was just having me pre-bed cup of cocoa and making sure my night-cap was sitting demurely on me head when there was a bit of a noise coming from the back garden. I peered down. Some of the Grey Toon's finest constabulary had been called in by the current Hoor-In-Residence. It was summer and the windows were open, so I could hear the lot.

"I sor 'im I did! Froo me winda! I sorrr 'im!"

"Can you tell us exactly what it was you saw, Madam?" asks Mr Policeman (Hah. he got it wrong there. She wasn't the madame... Just one of thae hoors!) (Obviously I couldn't see them, but I can imagine him looking her up and down, taking in her undoubtedly fantastic outfit, wondering if this is all part of some punter's fantasty...)

"'E were all runnin' arand! Out 'ere! All frantic like! Not right for a wumman ter be alonnnne in 'er flat with that type runnin around!" (Pause, as Mr Policeman digests this, wonders how long she was intending to be alone and wondering exactly what "that type" must be for a Hoor to be objecting.)

She continued. "All long 'aired 'e woz! Wearing dark cloves! Runnin arand! I'd check them outhaases I wud!"

And then there was a switching on of a flashlight followed by a shriek from the over exciteable hoor who saw a shadow move or something. (Perhaps she'd been watching the Ring. Ahahaha.) The light from the flashlight bobbed about the garden, highlighting the whirley, abandoned lawnmower and the empty shells that are our sheds. Nice Mr Local Bobby then Proceeded to check the sheddies. A process which involved some murmurings of interest as the Bobby and his companion discovered The Godfather's stash*.

They prodded around in the sheds for another minute or so before there was a subdued "Ewwww!" as the WPC trod on something unsavoury and then they decided that there was clearly no one there.

"Well, naebd'y there" said Mr Bobby. "But if there's any more carrying on, just give us another phone."

"'Ain't right." muttered the Hoor as they took her back into the tenement, "Folks runnin' arand all dressed in black. Likley to give a lass an 'art attack it is!"

Poor Hoor. I'd hate to be frightened by a shadowy face looking into my boudoir. Mind you, maybe it wasn't all that sinister, maybe she should have checked the window for a box of Milk Tray...

*The Godfather was a Brando-esque, sinister, portly gent with terrifying eyes who occupied the flat the Council Man lived in. His shed was, and still is, filled with bikes and TVs (of the electrical, not ladyboy variety) and other suspicious boxes. The neighbours and I intend to have a good rummage some day to clear up space for the multiplying bikes and also to see if we can find any hoards of cash/drugs/things to sell on ebay).

# posted by Neighbour of Teh Hoors! : 9:30 AM

Which Grey Toonser or ex pat of the Grey Toon can claim they have no knowledge of The 24 Hour Porn And Popper Shop?

Yes. I can hear you all sigh in reminiscence of the time you stumbled up there at 4am to purchase a nice apple pie, a bottle of fizzy wine for 99p and a few bags of those bizarre Norwegian cracker things that have been reduced to 25p because they're 3 months past their sell by date (not that anyone would notice because these things are like rocks anyway).

You'd probably have been served by a small child, despite the late hour and there would have been about 10 other people in there all also tempted in by the promise of cheap fizzy wine (ach, screw the licencing laws), mince pies, and sherbert dip dabs all at an hour at which most other shops will be shut. My dad once told me the only reason they keep it open is that if they close, someone breaks in.

Obviously, for legal and slanderous reasons, I'm not going to name this shop. Also I'm a coward and am scared they'll come after me and beat me up with a packet of rock hard norwegian cracker breads. Suffice to say it might just be near George St.

Anyway. It's name. It's honorific. It's called The Dodgy 24 Hour Porn and Popper Shop for a reason. It sells more porn than I have ever seen in my LIFE (except maybe on that trip to Amsterdam where I was surprised to find not one, but two (!) issues of "Horse Loving Transvestite"). They don't have a top shelf, they have a whole wall of the stuff. (And a small section reserved for such distasteful mags as Gardener's Weekly and the Radio Times.) And if you ask nicely, they have a good selection of poppers* behind the cash desk.

When I used to go in there during my student years (Sherbert DipDabs and Norwegian Crackerbreads with cottage cheese being essential for the studying mind), I saw something else in there...

For in those days, it also had a small discreet booklet. A valuable document most valuable to the punters of the Grey Toon. It hung on a rusty nail behind the door next to the wall of porn and was yellowing and well thumbed. Further investigation all those years ago also informed me that it was regularly updated with the odd page added with a staple or two to the back. I believe it was entitled "Saunas and Massage Parlours of The Grey Toon"

Even back then before my familiarisation with the GreyToon's prostitution industry, I was surprised at what a vast range of friendly services are available in our fine city...

* Amyl Nitrate for those of you wot don't know.

It is my great pleasure, to bamf you over to a fellow Grey Toonser's blog where he has achieved something I never had the guts to do. Yes folks, Darren was able to lean out his window and take photos of the hoors arranging business there! (Outside a very recogniseable blue and yellow door.)

Linky: http://moblog.co.uk/view.php?id=242474

On behalf of all the hoors neighbours of the world, Darren, I'd like to congratulate you on your
a) photographic skills and b) dedication to the cause :)

Also - a thought. She does look a bit like the Carol Vorderman Hoor. This one looks like she has teeth though.

Darren, I salute you!