yeah yeah. I know all the pics from my blog have gone.

who'd have thought it! Geocities gone! (Yeah i knew the entire world knew and I know I couldn't be arsed doing anything about it) - when I started this blog up in 2003, you couldn't get comments attached to it, nevermind pics. Hence, all the lovely decorations to this blog have gone missing coz they were linked to in Geocitites.

Which means I get to spend hours looking for pics of Les Dawson, frilly knickers and Hogarth.

Not something you want to put into your average google search.

So yes, I'm still alive! I'm no deid yet!

As regular readers will know - there is nothing better than a chatty taxi driver to inspire me to post more tales of hoors in the Grey Toon. Well, I've had a boring lot of taxi drivers of late - except maybe the one who told us (at length) about how he dresses up as a teddy boy at weekends and how it's just like the old days when he jitterbugs with the Laydeez. He was verging on sinister to be honest... But I digress.

And now I have the full permission of my other source of Grey Toon Hoor News - my hairdresser - to relate some gossip. I'm pretty sure I've mentioned before that this hairdressers is the hub the community and so on my last trip, I was treated to not one, but two Grey Toon Hoor Tales!

And this is the first.

Now my hairdresser holds charity fund raising events in her wee salon which she invites her regulars to. And much money is raised, much wine is consumed and much fun is had. At one particular event, three well dressed young ladies who come to her for regular styling were invited.

Now these lassies have amazing hair. They probably spend on their hair what I spend on cheap 3 for £10 deals on wine at Asdas. And that's a LOT. These ladies hair would certainly bankrupt a few of the smaller eastern european countries and their smart styles would lead even the most cynical of us to believe that they are employed as Gok Wan's personal assistants at the very least.

So of course they were invited along!

After the event, a whole lot of ladies went off to the local pub and my hairdresser nipped oot for a quick fag. Out there was one of the locals who beckoned her over. "Hemmin, Hairdresser X*" he says. (Because ab'dy kens my hairdresser - her salon is like the laundrette in Eastenders... beingthe hub of the entire community and all. Best place in the Grey Toon to find out the latest gossip on local celebs (well, Northsound DJs anyway) and the latest topical jokes and humour).

"Fit ye daen wi them lassies?" He asks.

"Och ye ken, charity thing. And a couple of drinks after" she says. "Fit wye?"

"Well me and my mates were jist wunnerin... Since whan did you start hingin' aroon wi hoors?"


*(names have been changed to protect the innocent)

So...

The boy was making his way through the Wildes of Garthdee the other week and some kid came up to him.

The kid couldn't have been 10. And was blonde and might have been a girl. That's all the information that soaked into his brain. I did ask for further description for blogging purposes (not living near hoors any more, we have to put up with other local quirks for entertainment), but further descriptions were not forthcoming...

Put it this way... A chylde of his generation has been so immersed in relating to the outer world through computer games that unless it was a zombie threating his experience points, or nay, Lara Croft herself... i doubt he'd have any more descriptive details with which to enrich this post. So we move on...

Anyway, the kid approaches him and goes "Excuse me?"

Immediately struck by Doom-based paranoia, he looked around himself, like this angelic wean was some in built game-distraction and that he'd very soon be facing attack by a hoard of (quote)"all-sorts-of-demons".

He goes, "What?"

She goes, "How dae ye mak Lady Gaga cry?

He goes, "Fit?"

Wee Quine: Poke 'Er Face!*

*I swear this is the truth. Perhaps a member of the local shit-pun-massiv. Possibly responsible for the tagging of the Bridge o' Dee with "I say, I say, I say...!"

Of course one of the big Aberdeen Prostitution stories* of the last few months has been Aberdeen City Council's controversial decision to remove the tolerance zone and the resulting increase of arrests in the city centre.

I was going to do a big serious post about this and shove my opinions on legalisation down your collective throat... But on seeing this explanatory clip from the BBC news with the lovely Jackie Burrrd, I decided that this explanation followed by some Grey-Toon-Nedette flashing her tits would be a lot funnier.



*Yes, there are heaps of them! Just google it!

... and so Google Street View has been launched and the world gasps in wonder and has lots of debates on whether this is a good thing or not.

Of course it's a good thing. How else are we to stalk people on the other side of the earth.

However, I notice that certain parts of the Grey Toon have not yet been completed.

So nae chunce of looking up the one legged hoor on Cotton Street then...

I forgot to blog about this at the time, but back in December (when, lets face it, I was too busy with Christmas nights out and wondering what to get The Boy's family for Christmas), the Peenj published the following story:

PROBLEM WITH VIGILANTES
Risks of taking law into your own hands

Published: 16/12/2008

Hardly a week goes by without us reading about another case where someone has taken the law into their own hands only for it to end in tragedy.

The problem with vigilantes is that they lack the judgment, training and self-control which the real enforcers of the law must have.

This is why vigilante cases inevitably involve excessive behaviour, mob rule, violence and even death.

We now read about the case of xxxxx, a former oil worker, who carried out a terrifying attack on a prostitute as part of a bizarre attempt to rid the streets of drugs.

His case is complicated by issues about his mental health, but the fact remains that prostitutes involved in such a hazardous occupation deserve the same support from the law as anyone else. They are easy targets as a number of recent notorious murder cases have proved.

Other cases have also shown quite graphically how people who take the law into their own hands, motivated by revenge, often end up committing a worse crime. It is not unusual for innocent victims to pay with their lives in cases of mistaken identity.

This is why the courts must continue to take a hard line in such cases to deter others from following suit.

(original link here - http://www.pressandjournal.co.uk/Article.aspx/989442)


(An artist's impression, courtesty of http://marvelkids.marvel.com/create_your_own_superhero. Check them rigboots.)


I don't think he thought it out too well. For a start if you're going to rid the Grey Toon of drugs... surely you should be targeting the Drug Dealers. Not the toothless innocents of Cotton Street...

Also, I think we can all agree that if you're going to be a Vigilante in the Grey Toon then at the very least you need a costume. Preferably a nice thermal one. Possibly a mask too - those winds can be quite biting when you're up on top of the Sally Army Citadel looking down on the city you guard.

Next you're going to need a name. Something powerful, yet connecting you to the place you look after. How about Captain Mince for example? That would go particularly well - especially if at some point in the future you're going to need a sidekick. Who other than Buttery Boy!?

Of course if you're going to go for a more edgy feel - perhaps you could look to the oil industry for inspiration. "Roughneck." Or simply, "The Derrick"

Being a closet geek, I could go on and on with this subject. For example, good weaponry is often associated with vigilantes. Y'know, it's amazing what you can do with a sharpened seagull...

So last post, my good friend told you how she'd once been propositioned at 6.45am wearing an ugly hotel uniform on her way from work. (It takes all kinds...)

In this second post, my Hoors Towers Correspondent tells of a typical day working in her hotel by the harbour.

My next run-in with a prostitiute happened a month or so later when a hotel guest tried to smuggle one into the room.

Working in a hotel, you'd expect to have a certain amount of duties you didn't particularly like. Dealing with particularly difficult customers for example. Drunk customers perhaps. Folk that think that trashing hotel rooms is still the thing to do...

Lucky me, I very quickly found out part of my job was to throw prostitutes out.

Here there lies a problem. I was always worried about how I was supposed to recognise them – I mean, I would be mortified if I threw out a real girlfriend who just happened to wear slutty clothes!

However, on this particular occasion there was no doubt in my mind.

The young woman tried to sneak past unnoticed (which is not that easy when you're wearing a belt for a skirt and a neon boob tube - classy!) and when I called her over her posture became immediately defensive and threatening.

Me, the little student girl from down south, tried to forget how much she could kill me if she wanted, put on my sweetest smile and said that I was “terribly sorry but it was hotel policy not to allow guests into our rooms, however, if the customer and his friend would like to talk in the public lounge that would be fine.”

It seemed to work; she swore a little bit, pulled her prey and headed back down the stairs. Feeling quite proud of the way I had handled it, I phoned up my Mum immediately.
“I just threw out my first prostitute,” I gushed, trying to make myself sound braver than I actually was. I'm sure my Mum was very impressed.

A week later I received a very strange phonecall. It went something along these lines:
“Good morning, Hoors Towers, Perfectly Polite Hotel Assistant X speaking. How can I help?”
“Yes, hello,” the voice replied, in a strange accent. Immediately I was alerted, was this a prank call or just someone with a very weird accent. Weird accents do happen in the hotel industry you know... “I would like to book a room please.”
“Is that for tonight?”
“Yes,”
“Well I have a standard, a club or an executive.”
“And how much is the standard?”
“Sixty pounds.”
“Would you accept forty-two?” I was really suspicious now. Someone must know the hotel's bottom line for haggling. But could I risk saying anything? No. Better take the details just in case.
“Is that a double room?” the other speaker asked,
“Yes it is. Is the booking for two people?”
“Well the thing is I’m a prostitute and would like to entertain my guests in the room.” This was definitely a prank call but who could it be? I’d better carry on speaking to buy myself some time.
Putting on my best professional voice, I replied. “Well, the thing is we acually have a non-prostitution policy….” I couldn't finish explaining the hotel policy because the other speaker had burst into laughter.
“How long have you known it was me?!!!!” She guffawed!
Mother! Well! Who would have thought that my mother would do that!

From then on, of course, it became a joke between us. Everytime I phoned her she would answer the phone with “Birmingham brothels, how can I help,” and when she phoned me I would say “Hello Sluthouse! What can I do for you today?”

This was all very well apart from the day when I phoned my Mum when she was down south visiting my Grandmother. I was chatting to her at work when a customer arrived, “Oh sorry Mum,” I said, “There’s a customer, I’ll just be a minute.”
But unfortuntely it wasn’t one of those customers that only took up a minute of my time. It was one of those customers that wanted to complain about everything and get all the faulty things in their room fixed. It was a full half an hour before I got to phone my mother back.

“Hello?” she picked up the phone,
“Hello,” I replied, “Sorry I was ages the customer wasn’t happy that his hot water didn’t work.”
“I am going to kill you,” she told me in a dangerous voice,
“Um… how come?”
“Well, two minutes after you hung up the phone rang again. I answered it with 'hello, Birmingham brothels' but it wasn’t you! It was one of you grandmother’s eighty-year-old friends. She was so confused! I had to spend about twenty minutes explaining to her that it was a joke I had with my daughter!”

A friend of mine worked, for a year or so, at one of The Grey Toon's less salubrious hotels. For the fear of being sued, beaten up or dropped down an elevator shaft I won't mention which one... but I'm sure I can say it was situated near the harbour. Oh God, I'd better check it's not the only one down the harbour before I continue with this post... *brief pause*

Right. According to Uncle Google, there's at least 6 in that area so we should be ok!

So recently, this friend and I went on holiday in Eastern Europe... and on one fine evening enjoying the honey vodka, she agreed to "serialize" her experiences.

In her own words, here is my friend's first story about "Hoor Towers":

“Check out that slut! You won’t get any customers at this time in the morning luv,” the other night-receptionist jeered. I vaguely responded by looking out of the window.

Prostitutes hanging around weren’t a big deal to me any more – it was all just part of a usual night working at a harbour hotel in the Grey Toon. At first, of course, when I told my Mum the hotel was situated in the red light district she was a bit alarmed, but didn’t think it would really bother me.

Then one day as I was walking to work at 6:45am a man on the other side of the road called out to me,

“You got the time, love,”

“Its 6:45am” I replied, innocently,

“Are you a working girl?”

Luckily, I recognised the question straight away, said no and hurried on my way. You see my mate the night-receptionist had warned me of this question as she had once been asked the same question and had said yes.

She said yes because she worked in the hotel. She was very hard working... Perfectly reasonable answer I'd say! A young innocent back then, she was very shocked when she was then asked “how much?”

Oh well... Strange punters, I thought, asking girls dressed in ugly hotel uniforms on their way to work in the mornings whether they were into prostitution...

Maybe the uniforms did something for them...

Just a quick post to wish you all a very Happy New Year and all the best or 2009!

A bit late I must admit, but we were all still recovering here at No-Hoors-Here-Towers. A good few days that saw not much movement at all,

I was first fitted by Mr Aberdeen Tramps though, who doesn't have internet access and therefore asked me to take over the admin of "Aberdeen Tramps And Ither Weel Kent Fowk". So I've even more provarocation to do now :P

So yeah.

Anyone who has vaguely followed My Neighbours Are Hoors over the past few years or who has even had more than a casual glance, will realise that my Neighbours Are No Longer Hoors.

First of all they got closed down by the Polis and then I moved out into a much more salubrious neigbourhood.

So the front page of the blog needs a bit of an update. Hence I will change the sidebar.

Just for my own reminiscence, I'm going to cut and paste in the stuff from the sidebar that I'm going to change.

Aaaah memories...

First, here's the intro. I put this in so that noone would think I was having a go at the hoors. I never got that many flames though - just the odd "Heymin, is it nae a bit sad tae spend a' yer time writin aboot yer neighbours?" which begged the obvious response "bugger aff"

Yup. My neighbours are Ladies of Negotiable Affection... and it's TOO INTERESTING not to share.
Hoors?

* Yeah... My Neighbours Are Hoors. This is a blog mainly about the brothel on the ground floor and what its occupants get up to. Hoors is my affectionate term for them. I'd like new visitors to my blog to know that I really don't intend to cause any offence to the girls downstairs. I respect what they do. Sometimes though, the goings-on are just too enjoyable not to go down in writing!


Names have been changed to protect the... um... er... Innocent?

Well I did change the names... Up til I moved out of the block of flats, only one neighbour gave me a nod and a wink about "When will you run out of things to write about." I did my best blank look. He was not fooled. I grinned. It was not brought up again. Either noone else from the tennement read the blog or they were too polite to mention it. Gawd bless you one and all...

Anyway... As of January 2006, this was the cast list:

The Main Characters- January 2006

* I have decided to list the main players in my blog in a handy column to ease any reader's confusion. That, and I want The Nice Neighbours to read this before they think I'm slagging them off and come downstairs to beat me up with a big hammer!

NEIGHBOUR OF TEH HOORS - i.e. ME. I have been living above a brothel for almost eight years. The novelty still hasn't worn off.

THE HOORS live on the ground floor in a one bedroom flat and are Prostitutes. They aren't from round these parts, but come up to The Grey Toon from places like London, Liverpool, Bristol and Birmingham because The Grey Toon is tolerant and full of oil money.

THE DEAD MAN is the (ex?) alcoholic who used to look like a Zombie. Has been looking very healthy lately, so I think he's given up the drink

THE COUNCIL MAN lives on the ground floor opposite the hoors and is a very nice man. He works for the council and once offered me the use of his drain rods.

SHETLAND BOY lives with his girlfriend in the flat above me. Both are ideal neighbours! Not actually from Shetland. I think one of my friends thought he was and so the name stuck.

SHETLAND GIRL owns the flat next to Shetland Boy and is also very lovely. She has moved out though and her Little Brother lives there now. Again, not actually from Shetland.

LITTLE BROTHER/BUSTED now live in Shetland Girl's flat. Seem to be very polite spikey haired youths.

TNWTCH or, The Neighbour With The Cool Hair - lives next to me. Also an ideal neighbour.

THE BOY is my boyfriend who moved in a month ago. So far he is not put off by the fact his girlfriend lives above a brothel

And finally there was the Suzi Quattro Disclaimer. Turns out I wasn't the only person spelling her name wrong :)

Suzi Quattro Disclaimer

* Many apologies to those who have been innocently Googling for the legendary leather clad songstrel, Suzie QUATRO. It seems you have been mis-spelling her name as badly as I. I know I'm now the 6th hit for this popular mis-spelling of her name, and would like to take this opportunity to point out that she is not a) my neighbour b) definitely doesn't get paid for nookie. That is all.

It turns out that I have moved into Christmas Close.

1st of December, out came the European lightbulb mountain which was promptly stuck to the front of my neighbours houses. Our close glitters so much it's like someone covered us in glue and rolled us through Claire's Accessories.

I was considering how to react to this.

Would I...
a) Act the way I always do, wait until the 15th December (ish) and then put up my lovely tasteful tree the way I always do, whilst whistling along to White Christmas or whatever other "Christmas Classics" they have on TV

b) Go for the Ebeneezer option. Stick a dry twig in a pot, hang one solitary black bauble from it and stick the whole thing in the window. Buy one of B&Q's "festive" funereal wreaths for my front door. (Have you ever seen anything so inappropriate?)

c) Out-do everyone in the street by carrying out a cunning Italian-Job-type-ruse in Ford Fiesta in order to steal the Bon Accord's hideous singing Christmas Display Sodding MacHappy and Sodding MacHuggy (As beautifully rendered in this person's flickr - why Billy Connolly hasn't sued for defamation of character by now, I don't know) and staple it to my roof.

In the end I just went for option A. But - Drama! Dear readers! After years of not being able to use them in case the punters got confused by the red glow in the window, the sodding red tree lights finally gave up the ghost. We made a last minute trip in to town and went to B&Q who... had their blue LED lights on sale for LESS THAN A THIRD OF THE PRICE!!!

Delightedly, I grabbed some - thinking how well it would go well with my well coordinated Christmas colour scheme (Lawrence Llwellyn Bowen would have been really impressed, oh, about 3 years ago) - and wondering why on earth they'd reduce all these lovely blue bulbs!

I now know why. These things are so damn bright you could use them in an interrogation suite. I was thinking of getting eye laser surgery - but hey! I looked at my tree and now I've got 50/50 vision. If we ever need to really urgently communicate with aliens, I'm pretty sure we could use them to send morse code to reach far off depths of space...

I just had to switch off the pulse setting because the neighbours were complaining about all the aging ravers blocking up the street outside...

Aaah!
The first snow of winter and doesn't my new neighbourhood look great! It's so clean and quaint looking and there are kids out sledging and making snowmen and there's a dachsund out walking with it's owner that's having to hop skip and jump over the snow. I can just see it muttering "Slow down you long legged bastard" under its breath.

We made it through Hallowe'en without getting eggs off our windows... We made it through Bonfire Night* without getting bangers through our letterbox and yesterday on a snowy walk to the local supermarket, a Ned came up to me and non-threateningly said "Wow! Your hair is ace!"

And I thought, "what a LOVELY place we've moved to" and let out an extremely saccharine sigh.

So I was starting to let my guard down a bit last night and was just about to make myself a mug of Horlilcks (do you like this cosy Waltons-like home life I'm painting?) when...

DOOMF!!

DOOMF! DOOMF!

"Hahahahaha" (sound of running feet)

Yes. The local neds found our kitchen window too much of a target to ignore, had idle hands and just had to test out their snowball flinging abilities.

"Ah Bless." I thought to myself and thought back to those days when we used to ring Annie Lennox's dad's doorbell and run away... "Little tykes"

I peered out my net curtains and had to look a bit smug though. The deep snow had left footprints you see, and it was quite clear that they'd had to come as close as a metre to hit the window.

My Neighbours Throw Like Girls.

*For you Americans out there, Bonfire Night is an annual celebration of explosives being readily available in shops around the UK.

So now I've been in the new hoose a few months, I've started to notice odd things about the place. This could be due to sinister things, chilling plotlines and scandalous gore of the past... or it could just be due to some dodgy DIY.

Consider the following:

Evidence 1:
When you leave the kitchen light on for more than 10 minutes, it gets hot enough to burn your fingers off. Yes. It could just be dodgy wiring... but is it?
Surely there was an episode of Most Haunted where a poltergeist was blamed for electrical problems throughout an ancient mansion? Lights were going on and off, radiators were getting hot! The phone was ringing at strange times and it wasn't just Heavy Breathing Henry getting some of his usual jollies...
Maybe my kitchen is haunted! Aaaah you may scoff. But just wait until you hear about evidence number 2!

Evidence 2:
So the first thing you do when you move to a new house (except cleaning up the butterkist that was behind the tv unit all coated in dog hair) is EXPLORE. If it wasn't part of human nature to thoroughly explore new places, The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe would never have happened... Let alone Alice Through the Looking Glass. (I read that once at University. It was sufficient to ensure I never dabbled in illegal substances).

Now I'm not sure about the rest of the world, but in Scottish houses of a certain age, there is always a "cupboard under the stairs." Basically a place for hiding stuff like brooms and stock-piled cans of pink salmon in case the apocalypse happens. Also a good place for hiding all the empty wine bottles when your mum comes round. The "cupboard under the stairs" is also hilariously referred to by those of a certain generation (and the estate agent that showed me round) as "the glory hole." Now I know what that means and I'm sure many of you out there also know what that means, but that's no reason to stop it being used by little old ladies selling houses. Perfectly charming I think! "And here's the glory hole. Young Willy used to keep his Mecchano down here."*larf*

But I digress... So in day two in the house (to be said in a Wearside Jack type Big Brother voice) we decided to check out the Glory Hole (lol). What did we find? Well, initially I thought it was just a couple of floorboards that had been removed to put in the central heating. But was it!? I accidentally knocked a dust pan down there. I paused. I waited. Probably only seconds had gone by, but it seemed like an age before the dust pan hit the bottom. So I did what all sensible young girls should do... I poured myself a glass of wine and shouted for The Boy. (Yes, he came with me. I didn't have the heart to leave him behind).

The Boy got a broomhandle and poked it down. He poked it down into the deep hole within the glory hole and do you know what he hit!? Nothing. He ran out of broom handle and arm before he managed to hit solid ground. We tried shining torches down there, but the batteries were always mysteriously dead... We tried using a lighter, but a mysterious wind always blew it out. Eventually I got the leg bone of a skellington that was sitting in the glory hole, ripped off some of it's hair and wrapped it round the leg bone and dipped this in the chip pan. I set that alight as an impromptu torch and lowered it into the deep hole within the glory hole and saw... nothing.

Curiouser and curiouser... So I phoned My Dad. He came up and asked no questions but nailed some fresh floorboards over the deep hole within the glory hole. So sorry to end a tale like this, but we've no idea what'd down there. I might be tempted to say that the space was big enough to fit an entire Austrian family.... but I'm not that sick.

Evidence 3
But a few weeks back, I had some friends over to do a serious bit of drinking in the back garden to celebrate the last day of warmth before a miserable Grey Toon Winter kicks in. Songs were sung, wrongs of the world were righted and eventually we retreated into the house where certain members of our party were free to go off and Talk To God on the Big White Telephone. (ie peuk down the lavvie.)

Now I'm not saying that there is anything at all wrong with The Grey Toon shire's water department, but is it NORMAL for at 4am after a few good flushes for the water in the cistern to boil?

Honestly. Our friends had left, I had a shower to stabilise myself slightly before passing into a coma, and I opened the bathroom window to get rid of the steam... leaning on the cistern for balance. And wtf? It was hot!

So I flushed the lavvie - and believe it or not, STEAM. Steamy hot lavvie water! Now I ran the cold tap in the bathroom and the kitchen and they were both running hot - at 4am on a sunday morning.

Plumbers and water department of the shire... I beg you... Is this NORMAL? Or is there a ghostie in our cistern?

Hmm. At least come the cold winter months, we can gather round it on a cold day. Rather like Van Gogh's The Potato Eaters, but with a lavvie instead of a plate of tatties...

So one of the best things about my new place (except the absence of women selling themselves for sex in my basement) is the fact I have my own back garden.

I can not tell you, ladies and gentlemen, exactly how thrilled I am to hang out my own pants on my own washing line (Ok. It's nae a washing line. It's a whirly. Do I need to do a translation of whirly for the non-Scots reading this? or is a "Whirly" self explanatory?)

Not only can my pink and black starred goth knickers flap around innocently in the breeze of a sunny afternoon without some punter nicking them, but I can actually do stuff in the back garden!

So far this has included:

1) Going round it with a trowel flinging dog shit over the fence at the bottom into the field-of-mystery beyond. This was more fun than it sounds. It felt like I was playing Lacrosse. Not that I went to a posh school, ken. My school was more about violently knocking divits out of each others ankles with the knackered old hockey sticks... or I remember the time we went cross country running and all sat in a ruined old house watching some of the boys sniffing poppers. Ah them were the happy auld days.

2) Filling in the holes dug by said dog. This involved a bag of compost and a bag of grass seed and a nice bottle of Cava on a Sunday afternoon.

3) the purchasing of plastic daisies. I will never live up to the diorama of Deeside being reenacted up the road a bit, complete with plastic Bill and Ben made to look like Victoria and Billy Connelly and a simple looking Gnome ... but the plastic daisies are my admission to the world that it will be some time yet before I turn the excrement-covered bomb-site that is my back garden into the Xanadu my new neighbours are all undoubtedly wishing to see...

4) Leaning over the fence discussing the local news with my new neighbour. Leaning over a fence! Gossiping! I feel like after experiencing tennement life for the past 10 years, I have finally found my home. Seemingly I have spent my whole life destined to natter over a fence with a like minded lady about how "him-across-the-road" lost his wife to the milkman and how her two doors down has had a face like a smacked arse since it turned out her daughter in law was up the duff to a polish plasterer.



You can now put a face to me. I look JUST like Les Dawson as Cissie (or was it Ada?) In fact, I'm off to New Look to get meself a leopardskin print headscarf right now.

After attending the Cullerlie Traditional Singing Weekend the past three days (My Neighbours Were Folkie Folks In Tents), I promised some to make the link to the Hoors Song easier to find.

So here it is: http://myneighboursarehoors.blogspot.com/2008/01/i-wrote-song.html

So yes.

I have been Absent. Not just mentally (that is nothing new) , but from t'internet as a whole. For an awfy long time. And why? I hear you ask impatiently?

Well, I couldn't really say anything about it at the time without giving away my oh-so-secret identity, but...

After 10 years in my flat, I started getting itchy feet. Looking at the housing market, I decided that if there was any time to get a ridiculous price for my flat, then 2008 was the time.

Ladies and Gennlemen... I have moved. I was no longer Neighbour Of Teh Hoors... Now I have gone even further and am now Ex-No-Longer-Neighbour-Of-Teh-Hoors.

At this point I have to say that keeping a blog about the selling of my flat and subsequent house hunting would have been BLOODY HILAROUS. Sadly you won't see that here unless I go back in fill in the spaces. Which I might do. I'm just DYING to tell you all about the woman in Cove who didn't tidy away her 40yo son's porn collection... But I digress.

Suffice to say that I have upped and gone from the Grey Toon and flitted far, far, away. Well about 20 miles or so anyway. I am now in Commutersville! (no. you probably won't find that on googlemaps)

This means a few potential changes to the blog:

1) I have to call it "My Neighbours Aren't Hoors" for fear of having a very strong wireless broadband connection and my new neighbours logging on to the Beechgrove Garden web page, only to get paranoid that I think they're running a brothel, not the local chapter of the WRI.
2) I can tell you lots of scandalous stuff I couldn't tell you before about my old neighours! Except that they were all so damn lovely and that I'm going to miss them LOTS. Seriously. After all the undesirables left, we were a harmonious little tennement with cheery vibes that would rival the residents of Sesame Street
3) I can tell you all about the sad demise of the Hoors. I can tell you what actually happened. Why they left, where they went, and how we all had to go to court to do our bit for Queen and country! (Actually, maybe I can't. I'm sure there's some law about not doing any of that before it's been in the Peenj. Hrm. I will find out.)

Anyway, that's enough for now. I will continue when I have the energy. All this unpacking, painting, drinking of Asda's Cava and sharing of cups of sugar with the new neighbours is tiring you know...

Until then, toodle pip!

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