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???
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