Ok so a big dog does a huge cartoon turd outside your tennement. One of your punters steps right in it and walks it through the entrance hall and wipes his mucky feet on your doormat.
Do you...
a) Wait til the punter has gone until you discreetly nip out in your flimsy negligee to mop up the hall and dispose of said shitty doormat?
b) The same as above, but charge the punter more?
c) Leave the hall covered in shit for 3 days until someone else finally gives up and washes it and buy yourself a nice new doormat... but instead of throwing out the old shitty doormat, just plop the new one on top. Just so everyone can enjoy the smell of dog turd for a few more days?
If you answered c) you may be a loveable cockney wench... but you are STUPID! Do you hear me? Stupid!!! STUPID!!! STUUUUPPPPIIIIIIDDDD!
Well... Not that many years ago I lived above a brothel in the Grey Toon in Scotland. Out of a confused mixture of irritation and amusement, I started to blog about it.
Monday, December 15, 2003
Sunday, December 07, 2003
"Miss Yasmina"
A handwritten letter with the postmark "Manchester" has appeared on the stairs, for the attention of a "Miss Yasmina."
Like, there's actually someone in OUR block of flats called "Agnes Yasmina" or "Samantha Yasmina" or "Margaret Yasmina."
How tempted am I to go read it? Post for a Hoor! What would it say? "Thanks for the lovely time last wednesday afternoon, love Jimmy"
Miss Yasmina my arse.
Like, there's actually someone in OUR block of flats called "Agnes Yasmina" or "Samantha Yasmina" or "Margaret Yasmina."
How tempted am I to go read it? Post for a Hoor! What would it say? "Thanks for the lovely time last wednesday afternoon, love Jimmy"
Miss Yasmina my arse.
Friday, December 05, 2003
And before I forget...
The *last* time I got the Police involved in the Hoors... Wow. I was so impressed? They were doing just what I would have done in their position.
Thursday evening: I go to the pub. The door is ajar. I have a couple of drinks. I come home. The door is still ajar. I go "hmmm" and wonder if, for any reason, their flat needs airing. (ewwwww)
Friday morning: I leave for work. The door is ajar. I go "hmmm. Must need quite a bit of airing. Perhaps someone is dead in there. Oh well. if it's still open when I get home from work... I'll do something about it"
Friday evening. I come home from work. The door is ajar. I go "Coooooeeeee!" "Helloooooo! Is anybody Thereeeee!" No answer. I prod the door and it creaks like in a horror film. But doesn't move much. No views of the inside of a brothel for me, then... I go upstairs. I phone my friend. We discuss the last victim of Jack the Ripper. (I'm sure I don't need to tell you she was shredded in her room. Not a good thing for my overactive-imagination)... I phone my mum. I tell her I think there's a dead prostitute in the flat in the ground floor and how I shouted "Cooooeeeee!" and "Helloooooo! Is anybody Thereeeee!" but got no answer. I tell her how I prodded the door and how it creaked like in a horror film... She freaks out because I've now got my fingerprints on the door of the potential last resting place of my neighbour, a hoor. I freak out because I've now got my fingerprints on the door of the potential last resting place of my neighbour, a hoor. I phone the Police. They'll be round about 9. I go to the pub.
I return from the pub. The door is still ajar. No sooner am I in the door than the buzzer goes. It's the Police, so I let them in to the building. 10 minutes pass and I'm still drunkenly gawping over the handrail outside my flat eager for gossip (with the security light on and my shadow being cast over the proceedings two floors below). Finally, my curiosity gets the better of me and I go "Cooooeeeee!" No reply. Oh my god. They've been killed tooo! it's MURDER!!! But no. In a typical teenage horror film kind of way I tiptoe down the stairs and go "Helllooooooo? Is anybody Theerrrreeee?" and prod the door open...
And what do I see? Blood spattered all over the walls? No. Kidney on the bedside table and intestines on the shoulder? No.
Two policemen raking through their underwear drawer... that's what.
Thursday evening: I go to the pub. The door is ajar. I have a couple of drinks. I come home. The door is still ajar. I go "hmmm" and wonder if, for any reason, their flat needs airing. (ewwwww)
Friday morning: I leave for work. The door is ajar. I go "hmmm. Must need quite a bit of airing. Perhaps someone is dead in there. Oh well. if it's still open when I get home from work... I'll do something about it"
Friday evening. I come home from work. The door is ajar. I go "Coooooeeeee!" "Helloooooo! Is anybody Thereeeee!" No answer. I prod the door and it creaks like in a horror film. But doesn't move much. No views of the inside of a brothel for me, then... I go upstairs. I phone my friend. We discuss the last victim of Jack the Ripper. (I'm sure I don't need to tell you she was shredded in her room. Not a good thing for my overactive-imagination)... I phone my mum. I tell her I think there's a dead prostitute in the flat in the ground floor and how I shouted "Cooooeeeee!" and "Helloooooo! Is anybody Thereeeee!" but got no answer. I tell her how I prodded the door and how it creaked like in a horror film... She freaks out because I've now got my fingerprints on the door of the potential last resting place of my neighbour, a hoor. I freak out because I've now got my fingerprints on the door of the potential last resting place of my neighbour, a hoor. I phone the Police. They'll be round about 9. I go to the pub.
I return from the pub. The door is still ajar. No sooner am I in the door than the buzzer goes. It's the Police, so I let them in to the building. 10 minutes pass and I'm still drunkenly gawping over the handrail outside my flat eager for gossip (with the security light on and my shadow being cast over the proceedings two floors below). Finally, my curiosity gets the better of me and I go "Cooooeeeee!" No reply. Oh my god. They've been killed tooo! it's MURDER!!! But no. In a typical teenage horror film kind of way I tiptoe down the stairs and go "Helllooooooo? Is anybody Theerrrreeee?" and prod the door open...
And what do I see? Blood spattered all over the walls? No. Kidney on the bedside table and intestines on the shoulder? No.
Two policemen raking through their underwear drawer... that's what.
The thieves! They took it from ussss!
Bloody bastards.
When I started this blog, right, I thought it'd be a sort of twice yearly "my neighbours are hoors and I heard their bed squeaking" thing. Christ. Bloody bastards.
No sooner had I started the blog (last wednesday), expecting a quiet life and thus the least visited blog on the *planet* than I got a phonecall at work. From the bank... who ever-so-casually told me that the police were in possession of a) my bloody bank card!!! and b) my sodding cheque book!!! So. I had just opened a new bank account in which to put my hard earned savings (oooh. perhaps a deposit for a NEW FLAT) but I certainly hadn't asked for a cheque book.
"Eeeek!" thinks I... "I ordered no cheque book, some bastard must have broken into my flat!" and hared it home from work to find NOWT. It turns out that my new bank card and unrequested cheque book have been "intercepted" by persons unknown. Well. Unknown to me... Mr Nice Policeman let me know this much: "We have a woman in custody"
"A woman?" says I... "I don't suppose you know if she was one of the *ladies* from the ground floor, then?" "I can't say for sure," says he. Obviously the Police know all about my neighbours. They just have more interesting things to deal with than the odd comedy hoor who says things like "Cooeee!" and "Thanks Dearie"
The following monday... I discover that 685 sodding quid has been removed from my account (thus making it 684 quid in debt) and where have they spent the money? Was it Cartier? No. Selfridges? No. www.lovelyexpensivejewels.com? No.
Fucking JB Sports and Argos.
I mean really. Can't I even get classy thieves???
When I started this blog, right, I thought it'd be a sort of twice yearly "my neighbours are hoors and I heard their bed squeaking" thing. Christ. Bloody bastards.
No sooner had I started the blog (last wednesday), expecting a quiet life and thus the least visited blog on the *planet* than I got a phonecall at work. From the bank... who ever-so-casually told me that the police were in possession of a) my bloody bank card!!! and b) my sodding cheque book!!! So. I had just opened a new bank account in which to put my hard earned savings (oooh. perhaps a deposit for a NEW FLAT) but I certainly hadn't asked for a cheque book.
"Eeeek!" thinks I... "I ordered no cheque book, some bastard must have broken into my flat!" and hared it home from work to find NOWT. It turns out that my new bank card and unrequested cheque book have been "intercepted" by persons unknown. Well. Unknown to me... Mr Nice Policeman let me know this much: "We have a woman in custody"
"A woman?" says I... "I don't suppose you know if she was one of the *ladies* from the ground floor, then?" "I can't say for sure," says he. Obviously the Police know all about my neighbours. They just have more interesting things to deal with than the odd comedy hoor who says things like "Cooeee!" and "Thanks Dearie"
The following monday... I discover that 685 sodding quid has been removed from my account (thus making it 684 quid in debt) and where have they spent the money? Was it Cartier? No. Selfridges? No. www.lovelyexpensivejewels.com? No.
Fucking JB Sports and Argos.
I mean really. Can't I even get classy thieves???
Wednesday, November 26, 2003
How I found out
Ok so I managed to do the first post successfully AND link my web page to it - I feel SO clever!
Now these Hoors...
Since the council put stupid great wheelie bins (great enough to house an entire brothel... never mind great enough to house their rubbish) outside our flats, we have been mercifully saved from the plague of seagulls that rip open our bin bags. Yaay. This is a good thing. Trust me on this. I remember the time when I got out of my bed one fine sunny June morning to discover the seagulls had been at my neighbours' bin bags. *shudders* It didn't take too long to figure that the strawberries and *cream* (I think you know what I mean) belonged to the GROUND FLOOR LEFT flat. Seagulls obviously find used condoms as appetising as the rest of us.
They've been there for over 5 years... I bought my flat in may 1998... Three months later I noticed the ground floor flat had their own buzzer. "Interesting..." I thought... "Obviously their buzzer isn't working either." "Oooh!" I thought... "They've got a videocamera in there too!" well that's a useful thing, isn't it?
Now at this time (I think it's important for me to point out) I worked for a popular UK company, Ann Summers. And when Thai balls come through the post? Trust me. There is only one thing in the world is weighted and shaped like Thai balls... and that's Thai balls. "Interesting..." I thought... "What broad minded neighbours I have"
One day I came into the tenement. The father of the lassie in the flat across from theirs was in the lobby. "Hello" says he, frantically making eyes at the eyeshadowed blonde peeping from behind the door of Ground Floor Left...
"Interesting" thinks I... "What red lips my neighbours have..." "What lacy underwear my neighbours have..."
A week later my buzzer goes in the middle of the night, yet again... Wrong buzzer again... "Interesting..." I say to myself... "How popular my neighbours are..."
A couple of days after that, I'm in the shower getting ready to go out "ZZZZZTTTT!!!" goes my buzzer... "Arse!" goes I... "ZZZZTTTTT!" goes my buzzer... "You're early!" cries I... and lets my friend into the flat... Except it wasn't my friend... just an edgy looking young boy looking for "Jessica." "Interesting?!" says I... "No Jessica in this block of flats..." as I shut the door in his face and my beefy next door neighbour escorts him out of the building...
Two days later my upstairs neighbour (J. for those of you in the know) had a few quiet words with me. The words were something like "Do you know what's going on on the ground floor?" and in a few seconds the penny had dropped. How dumb am I?
What would my parents think?
And so the adventure began...
Now these Hoors...
Since the council put stupid great wheelie bins (great enough to house an entire brothel... never mind great enough to house their rubbish) outside our flats, we have been mercifully saved from the plague of seagulls that rip open our bin bags. Yaay. This is a good thing. Trust me on this. I remember the time when I got out of my bed one fine sunny June morning to discover the seagulls had been at my neighbours' bin bags. *shudders* It didn't take too long to figure that the strawberries and *cream* (I think you know what I mean) belonged to the GROUND FLOOR LEFT flat. Seagulls obviously find used condoms as appetising as the rest of us.
They've been there for over 5 years... I bought my flat in may 1998... Three months later I noticed the ground floor flat had their own buzzer. "Interesting..." I thought... "Obviously their buzzer isn't working either." "Oooh!" I thought... "They've got a videocamera in there too!" well that's a useful thing, isn't it?
Now at this time (I think it's important for me to point out) I worked for a popular UK company, Ann Summers. And when Thai balls come through the post? Trust me. There is only one thing in the world is weighted and shaped like Thai balls... and that's Thai balls. "Interesting..." I thought... "What broad minded neighbours I have"
One day I came into the tenement. The father of the lassie in the flat across from theirs was in the lobby. "Hello" says he, frantically making eyes at the eyeshadowed blonde peeping from behind the door of Ground Floor Left...
"Interesting" thinks I... "What red lips my neighbours have..." "What lacy underwear my neighbours have..."
A week later my buzzer goes in the middle of the night, yet again... Wrong buzzer again... "Interesting..." I say to myself... "How popular my neighbours are..."
A couple of days after that, I'm in the shower getting ready to go out "ZZZZZTTTT!!!" goes my buzzer... "Arse!" goes I... "ZZZZTTTTT!" goes my buzzer... "You're early!" cries I... and lets my friend into the flat... Except it wasn't my friend... just an edgy looking young boy looking for "Jessica." "Interesting?!" says I... "No Jessica in this block of flats..." as I shut the door in his face and my beefy next door neighbour escorts him out of the building...
Two days later my upstairs neighbour (J. for those of you in the know) had a few quiet words with me. The words were something like "Do you know what's going on on the ground floor?" and in a few seconds the penny had dropped. How dumb am I?
What would my parents think?
And so the adventure began...
My Neighbours? They're Hoors!
Ok!!!
my first blog!
I've thought of doing this from the first time I heard of blogs...
What should blogs be? Angsty obviously... I guess I could do angst...
Cutting edge? Hmmm. I can do political issues...
But the whole point of that is not to be a miserable 16 year old and whine about life... but to make a note of the activities of my NEIGHBOURS.
Yes. OHHHH how I would LOVE to have a nice little Mrs Marple character next door... Yes! I could do her shopping for her... hear about her hip... Look after her cat whilst on holiday?
But no. My neighbours are Hoors. Excuse my pronounciation (I'm Scottish)... Whores. Ladies of the night. Prostitutes...
Bawds... Call girls... Courtesans... Fallen Women... Filles de Joie... Harlots... Hookers... Hustlers... Loose Women... Molls... Pros... Streetwalkers... Strumpets... Tarts... Trollops... Women on the game... Women employed by the oldest profession... WOMEN OF NEGOTIABLE AFFECTION!!!
Which can be entertaining. Which is mainly the point of my blog.
Now don't get me wrong. I'm not against them. I'm all for them! They dust the stairs... they keep themselves to themselves... (mostly) and I respect their choice to do what they do.
"Hoor" is very much an affectionate term. And to be quite honest... they're sort of entertaining in a Monty Python/Terry Pratchett kind of way.
And I have to admit... it would be a lot easier to consider selling my flat if they weren't two floors down... but they're just so DAMNED entertaining! Always a good conversation topic in the pub... and they never fail to have a curtain-twitching show on outside in the street at least once a month...
So hopefully I can drag myself away from the window for long enough to get to the computer... Either that or due to sods law they'll move out tomorrow. Either way... I'll be happy ;)
P.
my first blog!
I've thought of doing this from the first time I heard of blogs...
What should blogs be? Angsty obviously... I guess I could do angst...
Cutting edge? Hmmm. I can do political issues...
But the whole point of that is not to be a miserable 16 year old and whine about life... but to make a note of the activities of my NEIGHBOURS.
Yes. OHHHH how I would LOVE to have a nice little Mrs Marple character next door... Yes! I could do her shopping for her... hear about her hip... Look after her cat whilst on holiday?
But no. My neighbours are Hoors. Excuse my pronounciation (I'm Scottish)... Whores. Ladies of the night. Prostitutes...
Bawds... Call girls... Courtesans... Fallen Women... Filles de Joie... Harlots... Hookers... Hustlers... Loose Women... Molls... Pros... Streetwalkers... Strumpets... Tarts... Trollops... Women on the game... Women employed by the oldest profession... WOMEN OF NEGOTIABLE AFFECTION!!!
Which can be entertaining. Which is mainly the point of my blog.
Now don't get me wrong. I'm not against them. I'm all for them! They dust the stairs... they keep themselves to themselves... (mostly) and I respect their choice to do what they do.
"Hoor" is very much an affectionate term. And to be quite honest... they're sort of entertaining in a Monty Python/Terry Pratchett kind of way.
And I have to admit... it would be a lot easier to consider selling my flat if they weren't two floors down... but they're just so DAMNED entertaining! Always a good conversation topic in the pub... and they never fail to have a curtain-twitching show on outside in the street at least once a month...
So hopefully I can drag myself away from the window for long enough to get to the computer... Either that or due to sods law they'll move out tomorrow. Either way... I'll be happy ;)
P.
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