Open for Business!

Poor Hoors.

It seems they only got 4 days off. Just like my good self they were back to work today. I assume that's the only explanation for the over-enthusiastic noises I heard this morning on my way out.

Perhaps someone was lonely this Christmas.

Twas the night before Christmas!

Yes, yes I know. I'm supposed to start this post with something like...

"Twas the night before Christmas!
When all through the house,
Nothing was stirring not even a hoor!"

Sadly, I'm off to the pub and I really can't be arsed rhyming tonight.

However, at this time of the year I am reminded of the story of lovely fluffy old Nick. No. Not the devil. The other one. St Nicholas of Myra. Friend of Children and reindeer, giver of gifts and climber of chimneys.

Being such a nice old biddy and notorious giver of gifts, he was wandering up some street or other when he heard a poor old man bemoan that he had three daughters for whom he could provide no dowry. As such they were unable to marry and would undoubtedly end up as prostitutes (ancient Turkey being as dramatic as your average soap opera, then.)

Preparing for such a life, the three daughters washed their finest nylons and hung them out to dry. (Well.. I always assumed this story was set in ancient turkey, not wartime Glasgow but hey...)

Good old St Nick took this opportunity to fill their stockings with bags of coins meaning that they could enjoy a happily married life instead of going a-hooring.

Yaay for St Nic! And yay for the tradition of filling stockings at Christmas! I'm interested to find out how the tradition of lovely bags of money in stockings has resulted in my good self recieving a couple of mouldy old satsumas and a Kit-Kat in a mouldy old sock though :P

(In response to various questions of what the Hoors are doing this Christmas, I can now report that there appears to be no celebration of the festive season whatsoever outside their flat. No garland, no "Merry Christmas," definitely no mistletoe. And yeah. I did check for stockings in the back garden. Result: Pas de Hoors stockings )

(In the festive spirit, I hope that this is because they've all gone off home to London/Leeds/Bristol or wherever to spend Christmas with their families and not because the Welsh Dumpling has told them "Humbug! Have Christmas Day off! But make sure you are here to work all the earlier the morrow!")

(p.s. thanks to The A-Z of Patron Saints for letting me know that Mary Magdalen is the Patron Saint of Reformed Hoors and not St Nic as I had thought. Also, who'd have known there are no less than THREE patron saints of pastry chefs!?)

(p.p.s. That is the first and last time I will be referring to a religious web page on this blog*. I thank you.)

*probably

The Case of the Very Loud Telly

It's been very quiet of late...

It's the week before Christmas...

Perhaps punter numbers are down and the hoors are having a night off. So what does a hoor do on a quiet night in?

They sit in with a nice cup of tea and a biscuit and they watch Miss Marple at very high volumes.

Awwww.

Look at that hoor!

Hehehe :)

I'm laughing as I type this.

So my friend and I were just in The Local. We sip our pints and discuss topical issues. We quietly observe the other clientele.

A woman enters. Short skirt, rather obvious cleavage, thigh high boots with heels you could cause excitement on a specialist porn page with, makeup Barbara Cartland would be impressed with and a swagger John Wayne could only dream of. A Trollop.

My friend raises an eyebrow and nods in her direction whilst sipping a pint. "My god! Look at that Hoor!"

I give her a quick glance. "Och. She's nae actually a Hoor. She's jist their maid." I sip my pint and look back down, then continue the previous conversation in our usual muted tones.

Apparently in normal company "My God! Look at that Hoor!" indicates that a young lady has just walked in who is wearing less clothing than one would expect.

Apparently the normal response would be "Min! Fit a clarty midden!" and not the one I gave.

Apparently I have been living with Hoors for too long.

Out.

Is it normal to plan a long night out just because you saw your neighbour coming out of his car with a big smile and enough booze to invite the whole city to his party?

Nae Deid Hoors!

We're ok!
Everything is all right. It was merely a swap over.

I know this because I heard the voice of a cockney sparrer arguing on the phone yesterday when I came in from work.

(Either that or she was trying to sort out someone to remove the body)

History Repeats Itself

So I was on my way out this morning and just like the incident I told you about in December '03, the door was open. No sign of any hoor. No noise. Nothing.

Now it may just be that they're swapping over and one hoor has left the door open so that the next hoor can take over without them having to meet face to face (possibly in case another cat-fight in the street ensues)...

It may even have been that the hoor of the moment had just popped out in her neglige to put the bins in the wheelie bin up the road...

However, I'm suspicious again. Hopefully when I get home the door will be shut - there will be noises of some kind or other and I will be comforted that the lassies haven't been stabbed in their beds.

I'll keep you posted.

Happy Birthday and a bit

Woo!
"My Neighbours Are Hoors" has been on the go for 1 year and 2 days!

This post was brought to you before the last post because I was out on the piss in The Burgh on friday.

Happy Birthday!

OMG!!!
"My Neighbours Are Hoors!" is 1 year old today! :D

This post was brought to you by the people who like round numbers. :)

"Someone Nicked Your Floorboards!?"

I have been asked following a previous post: "Someone nicked your floorboards!?"

Yes.

What really? Yes. Well... What happened was that once the smelly wee ned with the fucking fuck girlfriend (link) moved out, (read: were evicted) the flat owners sold it. They sold it to the nice man in fact. However, before they could do this, they had to get the wet rot seen to.

This involved renewing the joists and the floorboards for half of the front rooms.

Now I have to admit that for a couple of weeks my bed did seem to be at a bit of an angle and that it did creak and groan at the slightest provocation and that it certainly wasn't up to infantile trampolining fun. Nevertheless, it did take me about 3 weeks to actually get around to investigating it.

I pulled the bed back and there I saw... A HOLE.

Not any sort of mysterious portal to another dimension or anything... No. Just a space. A space where my lovely sanded, treated, stained and varnished floorboards should have been.

Bloody builders next door had been pulling out the old floorboards from next door and guess what? had bloody well heaved my floorboards out from underneath me from beneath the partition wall. Bloody thick bastards hadn't even noticed that half the floorboards were nice and red and shiney!

So this is a warning to you all : BEWARE THE FLOORBOARD THIEVES! THEY ARE OUT TO GET YOU!!!

fin.

My Neighbours Are... Really Quite Cultured Acutally

Flying past the brothel this morning on a way to a doctors appointment, guess what I heard coming from the flat?

Whiplashes and anguished moans?
Grunts and groans?
The comedy bedsprings of passion?

No! OPERA!
Nothing like a nice bit of moving emotional opera first thing in the morning to get you ready for the day's work ahead...

A Little Upset.

Following the Chimp's Tea Party, I think the 24 Hour Party People (if it is indeed them and not just some other drug taking simians that have moved in) have pissed off one of the other tennement residents.

In strange angular letters, someone has carved "JUST DIE!" on their door.

Suzi Quattro Investigates

I was thundering into the building with a big armful of stuff today and out came... in a fluster of black leather and cheap jewellery... Suzi Quattro!

I've still not established if she's maid/madame or hoor but I think she has other talents as well.

Such as... Ninja Crime Investigator. The way she flew out of her flat towards me as if she was about to apprehend me perhaps makes me think this.

Such as... Top Actress. The way she innocently pretended she wasn't stampeding out of the flat after something or someone. The way she spotted me and camly smiled and walked past me to the door and casually looked up and down the street before regally returning back to her flat.

I didn't ask about her other talents :P

My Neighbours Are... Chimps!

After a very restless night waking up every hour and looking at the clock, I got out of my bed this morning. I think I know now why I was waking up every hour.

For it appears that My Neighbours are not only Hoors, Suzi Quattro, Junkies, or Dead Old Men... But Chimps also.

Which is lovely.

Except that they appear to have left their teacups and car tyre swings alone last night and had a gay old time with the piles of post that was sitting at the bottom of the stairs.

Free newspapers have been gaily festooned all over the place, electricity bills have been shredded and hung from the bannister and other really bits of important mail (for all those people who want a loan etc) have been scattered to all four corners of the stair well.

Little bastards.

Bad Chimps! No bananas!

P.S. 2001 Hits to my blog! :)

My Neighbours Are... Suzie Quattro!

Blearily crawling out of my bed yesterday morning, I made my way to my car. Getting in to it I spotted a laaady. Now. I'm not sure if she is

a) a new madam
b) the maid
c) one of the smacked arse jobs I was talking about earlier

but bloody hell. She has been given a MAKEOVER!!!

As... Suzie Quattro!

(Good pun title suggestions always welcome)

I Can Still See You!

Well...
So much for me saying nothing ever happened round here any more. I knew that would be tempting fate.

So I am skipping merrily down the stairs on saturday morning and pause on the landing to browse the big piles of mail for people who don't live here any more... (more on that later)

And I hear the Hoors' buzzer go.

And into the building comes this young lad. He spies me. He pulls his tshirt over his face and stands there until I have passed him.

You know how when you're playing peek-a-boo with young kids and they think that if they hide themselves in their jumper and they can't see you then thus they have magically dissapeared? It seems that this young punter (and he was undoubtedly a punter) was SO young that he still thought this is what happens.

Poor laddie.

"They're Hoors!"

Coming home from work early yesterday gave me the opportunity of meeting 2 fine gentlemen from the electricity company.

I got out of my car and spied these two geezers looking at the buzzers and as I walked towards the tennement door, they turned and smiled at me.

"Hello there!" grinned one.
"We're trying to get hold of Mrs Simpson," said the other.

"Oh right, well, ah. Mrs Simpson doesn't actually live here. She just rents the flat out. It's that one there." I point to the flat.

"That doesn't matter. We're here to change the meter" grinned the first. "We've tried pressing all the buzzers you see. Can you let us in to the building so we can try knocking on the door?"

"Ah. Well... Aye! Of course I can. But I should tell you, um. Let you know... Warn you in case you disturb them. Well you see, they're working girls..."

"Working girls eh?" chuckled the grinning one.
"Sorry?" said the other.
"THEY'RE HOORS!" said his grinning friend turning to him, looking delighted.

Honestly. He did say "Hoors." That cracked me up :D

Lady In Red

I'm working away from home at the moment... But still have blog access, so here's something else memorable from the past about my neighbours.

Before the nice guy, before the wee ned with the girlfriend-of-limited-vocabulary, before my floorboards got nicked...

There lived a man. He lived next door to me just through the wall from my bedroom in his own wee 1 bedroomed tennement flat. He was a lovely chap and always said hello and how was I and all that stuff that people in tennements say to eachother to pretend they're being nice when in actual fact they just want to get into the sanctuary of their own home.

He was a bit of a romantic too, because I used to hear him bring his girlfriend back to his flat and... SERENADE her with some lovely tunes on this guitar. Usually this was fine and usually it was at a normal hour and usually his guitar playing was great and his singing wasn't bad either...

But this one time? This one time I think they'd been out somewhere romantic and had some glasses of wine and let's just say that they were having a better time listening to his singing than I was.

It was all bearable and I could put up with it until...

"I never shawwwww you loookin' as loooovely asssh ye diid t'niiight!"

I wake up.
Cue embarrassed giggling through the wall.
I grind my teeth.

"I never shawwwwwwww you lookin' sooooooo brrrshhhhrrright!"

More giggling. Slightly polite giggling I think, but I'm too busy trying to bury my head under the pillow and stuff cotton wool in my ears to concentrate on the tone of her coquettish laughter.

"Laaaaaady In Reeeeeeddddddd!"

Now I liked this neighbour! I did! He was a nice chap and he was the guy who used to escort punters out of the building when we found them knocking on our doors instead of the hoors. But this was enough.

"Is daaaanccinggg with..."

"GIVE IT A BLOODY BREAK, MIN!!!!"

*plinkering of guitar playing slowing to a halt*
*stunned silence*
There was then the muffled embarrassed apology... "Sorry lassie! mumble mumble thin walls mumble"
and then to his wumman:
"Let's go through to the kitchen."

(Far be it from me to say he missed out on a romantic opportunity but... the kitchen!?!?)

The Best Insult I Ever Heard

Before I had the nice guy next door to me, there was a ned. A horrible wee smelly noisy manky druggie little ned. He was a right wee shite.

And he had friends. Friends that came round and had parties for days and days on end and it was obvious none of them had a job because they obviously never had to sleep. And the police were always on their doorstep trying to get them to shut up.

Well this ned had a girlfriend. Actually, he probably had more than one. There was often a consumptive looking goth girl smoking frantically outside my flat and stubbing her fag-ends out on the brand new lino with her horrible dirty boots. But I don't think this was her. Because this other girl I'm talking about was actually animated.

I'm not talking animated in a sort of lah-lah-lah-floating-about-like-a-Disney-flower-pixie kind of way. I mean in a sort of over-dramatic-shouting-and-creating-hell-over-the-slightest-thing kind of way. And over-dramatisation went on quite often.

I'm not saying she wasn't bright. She may well have been, I don't know. They didn't argue about quantum physics... I'm just saying that she had a bit of a limited vocabulary.

And this is a perfect example:

I wake up. 2am. The rain hitting the window and the wind howling is doing nothing to drown out the mad howling that is going on next door.

The argument has been going on for about 5 minutes in what normal people would call raised voices. For the drama queen next door, this is probably normal volume.

She throws an insult...

He throws one back...

She screams and his insult is returned at a louder volume...
I'm about to bang on the wall and tell them to shut up when...!

He roars and asks her if that's the best she can do. I wonder to myself... Well, Is it?

There is a silence... (Obviously to give her time to think)
And then comes the most phenomenal insult EVER KNOWN TO MAN...

Pray readers, some respectful silence for this all-hallowed insult...

...

...
FUCK YOOUUUUU! YOU FUCKKING FUUUUUCK!

A door is slammed.

And somewhere... Somewhere deep deep inside me, a very very small part of me is really quite impressed.

Punter

Today when I was coming home from work, I saw a punter coming out of the brothel.

Bless him...

He looked so bewildered.

I wonder why? :)

THE "MY NEIGHBOURS ARE HOORS" FAQ

Ladies and Gentlemen... This is a work in progress.

The following FAQ is based on things I very often get asked about my neighbours... But it's not finished! So... ask me anything you want! Use the comments at the bottom and who knows, I may answer ;)

"THE MY NEIGHBOURS ARE HOORS FAQ"

Your neighbours are WHAT!?
Hoors. They're Hoors. Now, I am vaguely aware that "Hoors" may be lovely Islamic virgins and if someone can put me right on this, I'd be very grateful. Dictionary and google searches have been unsuccessful! MY Hoors are Prostitutes. Ladies of the Night. Hoors is my affectionate term for them. I'm scottish and find the wh word an insulting description for them.

So your neighbours are prostitutes?
Yes.

Really?
Uh... Yes. It's a brothel.

What... with a madam and everything?
Well, they have had a madam, she was known as the Welsh Dumpling in fact - lovely woman... I don't know if she's still there, but they take the calls there and see the men there and there is more than one girl so, yes. It's legally defined a brothel.

So how much do they cost!?
Well... I covered this in a previous post. Here's the link

Do you get discounts or freebies?
They're hoors. Don't be stupid.

But have any of the hoors offered you any free services?
No. But you never know. Perhaps they're secretly good at plumbing or something. If they ever offered to fix my dripping kitchen tap, they'd be welcome.

Can I come and stay with you?
If you don't mind sleeping in a shed...

Really?
No!

Where do you live?
You think I'm going to tell you that!?

Bah. So where are the hoors from?
Well... mainly London, Leeds, Birmingham, Bristol that sort of place. My favourites are the cockney hoors. Awright Dahlin'!

What bra size are you?
Oh god. Not this again. I've refused to enter this childish discussion once before and guess what... I'm refusing again! :P

so what kind of hoors are they? the crackhoor type with all the imagerty that implies? Or just regular looking women whom one would never suspect such a profession seeing them out of a brothel context?
Now that I've figured out how to link to a previous post... read this

Assuming of course your only dealings with the hoors are seeing them and what not, would you be able to make a guess if they're worth the money?
Well... based on the following evidence, I think so?
I suppose most of them are quite pretty... Some of them are very good looking and could be off modelling somewhere. One or two have a face like a smacked arse however, but they say beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
From what I've heard... they provide a wide range of services and get enthusiastic response. Let's just leave it at that, eh ? :D
They have their own flat and don't work on the streets and are therefore relatively clean I suppose...
All the ones I have seen have two legs.
They're good agony aunts (witnessed on a number of occasions)
They know where to take your mum for a good night out in London.
They get birthday cards from their punters.

Tell me what area you live in. Tell me more about you. Devulge it.
Lawks! You're not getting more than A Tennement in Scotland there ;) I don't want cockney hoors banging on my door at all hours demanding to know whether they're the "off modelling somewhere" type or if they look like they have a face like a smacked arse...

We need a picture of you!
Nae Chunce.

Have you ever considered handling any surplus trade from the Hoors?
Ah. Well I guess I knew I'd have to answer a question of this nature at some point... And the answer is No. Not because I consider it below me or anything (the concept of becoming a hoor, not the brothel which is 3 floors below me)... But having read some of the other Hoor Blogs available for our reading pleasure, I reckon I'd follow suit and turn into a man-hater. And we don't want that... do we?!

Have you ever found any punters in compromising situations outside of the hoor-palace?
lol! Hoor Palace! I love that :)
Thankfully the answer to that is NO. I honestly can't imagine the blogging that would follow that kind of thing ! :D

Have any punters, or any hoors for that matter, ever nicked your smalls off the washing line?
Not mine personally... I tend not to hang anything out the back due to the fact it's a jungle. However. I'm pretty sure that the Hoors do cater for that sort of thing as I was once on my way out to sit in the sun one day when what did I see but a thong hanging from the line which could only be describe as "scanty." Later on I went upstairs to my flat to get some juice and on my way back down there was some dodgy looking geezer coming on his way back through from the back garden with a huge leery smile on his face. The scanty thong was gone!!! There's a haiku there I'm sure...

Would you describe yourself as model material or smacked arse?
Hmm... I'm not exactly model material no no no... Nor smacked arse either. Mind you... I did look pretty bad this morning :P

how much buisness do they get :P
Weeellll... I'm pretty sure they do a "good turn of trade" down there (excuse the pun). It's not as obvious as it used to be because they appear to have regular punters now who know which buzzer to press. i.e. I'm not being woken up at all hours these days by people desperate for some negotiable affection ;)

What do the hoors wear? Are we talking S&M or jist baps hingin oot? (as observed one hoor down the harbour in broad daylight!!)
Well! It depends on the hoor. The time my upstairs neighbour and I were out the back cutting down a tree (see this post), the hoor was wearing saggy black fishnets, scuffed black stillettoes and a stretchy old maroon jumper that only just covered her (equally saggy) bum. The ebony diva hoors are always very classy when you see them (usually leaving the tennement) and always have a lot of bling... There is one hoor that could do with a bit of advice from Trinny and Susanna though. (She's the one with the face like a smacked arse I was talking about). She's more your traditional black miniskirt, corned beef legs, stilletto ankle boots, and bright pink top wi' baps hingin' oot! I was looking for an online dressing-up doll so I could do regular "Today the Hoors are Mostly Wearing...! posts complete with pics, but I've not found a good enough one yet. If anyone knows of a good one... let me know!

Is Suzie Quattro REALLY your neighbour!?
Uh. No? That was a joke? It's just someone that looks like her. *makes a blank face*

You appear to be spending an unhealthy amount of time writing about your neighbours
Honestly! Look at how often I post. Once a week? It takes about... hmmmm. Half an hour per post maximum? (And that's if I'm having a REAL rant).
Do your sums.
(And then calculate how often YOU spend blogging my friends!)

What is a punter?
I didn't know this wasn't part of American-speak! :D So I did a post about it especially for you guys. And here it is! :)

Is there REALLY a one-legged-hoor down at the harbour?

Yes. I heard this rumour about 2 years ago but didn't believe it. Thanks to a gossiping taxi driver I now know the truth. Apparently the poor girl lost her leg through drug mis-use :(

Are You John?
Uh. No. *looks confused*

The Plan

Well it seems I'm all alone in the tennement. Things have been really quiet for weeks now.

The Brothel has been suspiciously free of bitch-fights in the street, agonised screams and accompanying whipping noises, and the comedy springs of passion...

The 24 Hour Party People appear to have been evicted. In retrospect this might be down to a disgruntled conversation the Dead Man and I had with a stern looking man in a raincoat who came looking for them with a clipboard and an official looking envelope...

In fact I've not even seen The Dead Man lately and there IS a bit of a strange smell coming from the 1st floor... Hmmm

Anyway! Until something fun happens, I'm have formulated a PLAN. And that plan is this:

1) Do something about that lawnmower
2) Once the lawnmower has gone, do something about the Hoors gift from Vegas
3) tell you about the "Best Insult Ever"
4) Tell you about the "Lady In Red"
5) Tell you about the "Screaming and the Cross-Eyed-Bruiser"
6) Tell you about some of the other neighbours of note that I've had (namely the Wife Killer and The Missionaries)
7) Tell you about what people search on to find my blog
8) THE FAQ!

Now. In order to have a FAQ... One needs questions and this is where you come in! :) It will be very much a work in progress and to start off it'll be SHIT. I'll put a link to it in the sidebar and update it whenever anyone asks a question. It'll be up to me whether or not I answer it, like ;)

Blissful Silence!

With the one exception of the Lawnmower (which I am quickly developing an unhealthy obsession with), there has been an amazing period of PEACE in the tennement.

Silence!

I'm loving it.

It does make the blog look a bit abandoned though. I am still here! I am still alive! It's just that this is sort of dependant on my neighbours being entertaining. I guess they're all having some time off :)

So. What do I do in the meantime? It's up to you...

a) An FAQ. Would you like to see an FAQ? First of all, I'd actually need to see some Q's. (That's questions for the uninitiated amongst you)

b) Do you want to know about other neighbours I've had? Although they weren't quite as interesting as the current ones, we have had others. (And that's not even starting on the flatmates). I could tell you all about The Missionaries

c) I could get all arty and tell you about Great Hoors In History

d) Or I could reveal the scary statistic of WHO exactly is looking at this site. *sniggers*

Let me know !

The Dodgy Screw (aka Gaaaah! part 4!)

Bloody Door.
Bloody Lock.
Bloody banging of door in the wind, bloody lack of security and bloody missing underwear (which has never turned up, by the way)

So the knackered old door has now been kicked in by stupid fecking neds so many times that nothing short of 3 Giant Screws of Death will be needed to hold the lock on. As I said before, there's already one of these protruding out onto the street side of the door but I'm tempted to go to B&Q after work and get some more.

And then putting up a notice.

The notice will go something like this.

"The security of residents and businesses in this tennements is important to us all, I'm sure you'll agree.

This door and it's lock will not take any more kicking-in.

Thus I suggest that you PLEASE tell all your dodgy ned mates, alcoholic uncles, drug dealers and PUNTERS to please stop kicking the sodding thing in!

And while I'm at it. Would whoever has blocked the back door with a gargantuan lawnmower for the past three months please remove it? It is bigger than our ACTUAL FUCKING GARDEN

Thank you very much."

Nae Oor Hoors!

David asked me in a comment on the 18th september, "so what kind of hoors are they? the crackhoor type with all the imagerty that implies? Or just regular looking women whom one would never suspect such a profession seeing them out of a brothel context?"

Well! How do I answer this?
Some of them are stunning... Stunning like they could do something with their looks rather than selling themselves for a living. In an Ebony Diva kind of way they kind of stick out round here but I wouldn't say it's obvious what they do for a living...

Some of them... Well. I _was_ going to do this post a month back when I met one of the cockney hoors (as opposed to the ones from Leeds or Bristol or wherever) coming out of the flat. Lets just say 'pink lycra, peroxide and a face to match her cowboy boots.' A little old before her time perhaps. But still, I wouldn't say she was a crack hoor, no.

They tend to hang about down at the harbour. They tend to be young, thin, pale and a bit mingin' looking. Except for the one that looks like Stevie Nicks. She always manages to have a bit of class about her.

Now. I have heard a rumor. And that rumor is this:

Apparently... there's a one-legged hoor down at the harbour. I'm trying really hard to think of one of my usual crap puns. But so far they have evaded me.

If you can think of a suitable pun or have heard the one-legged-hoor rumour yourself - do let me know, sweeties?

The sad demise of Belle De Jour!

Sadly, I've just found out by comment from McFox that the fantastic Belle De Jour (aka Diary Of A London Callgirl) is to end!

This is a fantastic blog, probably one of the first I ever read - but sadly the writer has decided to call it a day.

BBC news report

Now tantalisingly, there is a link at the top of her blog to amazon... click here.

Does this mean she's got a book deal? Does anyone know for sure? Let me know! If so, YOU GO GIRL! I've preordered it.

Maybe some day soon my hoors downstairs will write a book...

Anyway. Cheers lassie! :)

Hoor Haiku 2

My muse Angela (who looks good in a sack!) has informed me that a Haiku has to have something to do with the seasons.

So!
I present a second attempt!


Hoor Haiku 2
Hoors live below me
Knickers fall like autumn leaves
If they wear them, like

Hoor Haiku #1

Well the hoors have been quiet for a wee while now... So I thought I'd brighten up my blog a little by the introduction of a new medium: The Haiku.

According to http://home.clara.net/pka/haiku/haiku.htm,
- a haiku usually has 17 syllables, often in the form 5-7-5.
- a haiku can describe almost anything
- you seldom find complicated themes in a haiku.

In fact, according to http://www.toyomasu.com/haiku/#howtowritehaiku, "some of the most thrilling haiku poems describe daily situations in a way that gives the reader a brand new experience of a well known situation.

Thus educated, I present here my first attempt:

my neighbours arehoors
men they service in their flat
cockney hoors are they

Search Engines

This is going to be a very short one... I've just signed up for this thing where you can find out how people are linking to your site... and I found a lot of funny stuff - thanks to everyone linking to me! :)

But the best was this...

A google search on "brothel" and "interior decorating"...
...


...

...
(stifles a giggle)

Interesting Social Experiment

Coo!

According to Blogshares, My Neighbours Are Hoors is categorised as "Social Commentary."

Does this put me in the same league as The Baghdad Blog and Charles Dickens?

GAAAAH! part 3.

Well...
The door HAS been fixed.

But it has been fixed by a Bloody Great Screw of Death which is protruding through the outside of the door by at least 1 1/2 sharp centimeters... I'm considering going down with a wee hammer and flattening it's sharp nastiness or just sawing the tip off. (I feel you men cringe).

Hmm. I wonder...

If you're in Asdas and there's a foosty old cabbage on the floor and you stand on it and go skiting off into the display of chicken curry pies thus dislocating your shoulder... Then you can sue them right? And I assume they must have some sort of insurance?

So. If you're a punter and there's a foosty old sharp screw sticking out of the brothel door and you lacerate your hand on it... What then? Can you sue a Hoor? Do they have insurance for bad screws?

Gaaaaah Again

Since last night, the rest of the lock has been ripped off the door and thrown on the ground.

The hall outside the Hoors and Council Man is flooded.

I mean... WTF!?!?

Gaaaah!

Just before I went away for the weekend, I was delighted to find the door to the tennement had been fixed. I was going to fluff happily on about it when I got back. I was going to stick up a notice thanking the fix-er for his/her hard work. That was on friday.

BUT!!!

I come home today and what do i find? Some bloody bastard has kicked the door in again! I mean... HELLO!?!

Just because your druggie mates don't have a key to the tennement it doesn't mean you can just kick in the newly fixed door!
GAAH!

help wanted

So... does anyone know of a web page where you can "dress up" a "doll" ?

You know... like when you were a kid you got those cardboard doll things and then cut out clothes to put on them with silly paper tags... They always fell off and then got sucked up the hoover leaving poor cardboard dolly displaying her carboard qualities to the world...

Anyway. Somewhere on the net there MUST be something like that... If anyone knows of on - then I can have a dress up hoor dolly and copy our hoor's outfits everytime I pass them in the hallway.

Let me know!

Gardyloo!*

My Neighbours are Hoors - and 18th Century Peasants!!!

Or so it seems anyway. You come home from a wedding. You park your car. You get out of your car and as you are locking it, you sigh as you hear the 24 Hour Party People partying with the window open. You grumble as you make your way down the street to your tennement. You panick as you hear them go "Heymin! Dinna bother waitin' fur him tae get oot! Just CHUCK IT OOT THE WINDAE!"

Was I being paranoid that I panicked and crossed the road and waited 5 minutes in the shadows before daring to tiptoe across the road and up to my flat? I didn't get covered in a bucket of pee though.


* Gardlyloo. (gär' dè lòò'). interj. (a cry formerly used in Scotland to warn pedestrians when slops were about to be thrown from an upstairs window.) [Anglicized form of F gare (de) l'eau beware of the water] (Webster's New Universal Unabridged Dictionary, © 1989 - Dilithium Press, Ltd.)

I'm Not Alone!

J, who used to be my upstairs neighbour just mailed me the following article which appeared in the local paper while I was away.

It seems that I am not alone in being teh neighbour of teh hoors... perhaps I should keep my eye out for similar blogs in my city! :D

Placenames have been changed... to protect the, um. City reputation (?)

"POLICE IN CRACKDOWN ON RENTED FLATS USED BY CITY'S PROSTITUTES


16:00 - 21 August 2004


Police have launched a crackdown on brothels in The Grey Toon.

Letters have been sent to solicitors and letting agents after police found people are letting properties for themselves then sub-letting them to prostitutes. Two women have been reported to the procurator fiscal as a result of the crackdown.

Three addresses were given in the Hardgate and Union Grove area of the city, where flats were being sub-let to prostitutes who were using them as brothels.

Grampian Police's Detective Chief Inspector Eric Leslie said: "As a result of this information we found that people are renting properties, which they themselves are leasing from agencies, to prostitutes to make money.

"In effect these people are party to habitual prostitution, which is an offence.
"We sent out the letters to raise awareness among businesses in The Grey Toon who are letting flats in the city.
"I felt it was important that they were made aware of what was happening.
"Officers have been calling round as well to let them know.
"The letter tells them that if they are aware that this kind of activity is going on they could be committing an offence."

Police discovered that some people are sub- letting the flats to the prostitutes for around £600 to £700 a week, more than they would be paying the letting agent in rent.

Investigations are continuing into the problem. But police are also hoping that if any solicitors or letting agents discover that people are breaking the law that they will contact them.

Another part of their ongoing investigation is newspaper advertisements placed by prostitutes. Hookers are using some newspapers to advertise "massages".

Within minutes of contacting one of the adverts in a national newspaper we found that a massage could cost around £40 but a range of "extra" services were on offer. Without further prompting a list of extras was given, including sex for £50 for half an hour. One woman who answered another line said that for an hour with one of the women it would cost £100. She said they had a number of women on offer. We passed our information on to the police.

DCI Leslie said those sub-letting the properties were charging the prostitutes a fortune in rent.
He said: "They are making a lot of money from it.
"It is a problem which we are addressing and, with the assistance of many others it is a problem that should go away.
"As you have discovered some girls advertise in newspapers with mobile phone numbers under different services.
"This is also something we are looking at."

DCI Leslie said that most of the prostitutes operating in The Grey Toon were from London, Manchester and Liverpool. But police have also found foreign nationals working as prostitutes in the city.

Prostitution is not just a problem within flats in the city. The Grey Toon still has a problem with prostitutes working the streets around the harbour. The Grey Toon has introduced an experimental tolerance zone to combat the street prostitution in the city. The zone covers St Clement Street, Miller Street and Church Street. If girls stick to working in these areas they are left along by police - if they step outside it they are arrested. A prostitute drop-in centre has also been introduced in the harbour area. The centre provides information about stopping or reducing drug-taking, employment and housing. The centre has two members of staff who are aiming to build up a trust with visitors.

However, a similar tolerance zone in Edinburgh no longer operates. The zone in Leith was axed after complaints by locals. But Independent MSP Margo MacDonald says that since the tolerance zone was scrapped assaults on prostitutes had soared 10-fold.

My conclusions?
1) I'm really quite privileged to have these fine women as my neighbours
2) You don't need good grammar or spelling to work for the local paper...

A Falling Out

I'll keep this brief because, to be quite honest, I haven't a bloody clue what was going on last night...

I was woken up at about half three in the morning by bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang... (of the slamming on door kind, not of any other banging the hoors might be doing) and to start off with i didn't even realise the screaming was in english...

So it took me ages to wake up and figure out what was happening (as usual) and I figured out it was this:

1) two hoors work in the ground floor flat together (rather than one hoor and one welsh dumpling).
2) Hoor one has nicked 100 quid and run off with it.
3) Hoor one has shacked up with the 24 hour party people and is refusing to come out.
4) This is why Hoor two is now banging furiously on the door of the 24 hour party people and why I am not getting any sleep.


Evidence for this conclusion:
1) hoor number two banging on door of 24 hour party people in what I figured out to be a Yorkshire accent going "Come out ya bitch! That's my money too you know!"
2) Hoor number two going "If you don't come out I'm phoning the
police!"
3) Hoor number one and 24 hour party people keeping very still and silent.
4) Hoor number two making a very loud and pointed phonecall to the police featuring the following quotes:
- "Hi yes. My friend has stolen 100 quid and has shacked up with the wierdo druggie upstairs. She's not coming out"
- "No, we're both from leeds. We're just staying here with a... friend."
- "What do i want you to do about it? I want you to go in there and get me bloody munnee!"

I got names and ages and everything... but I won't use them. That'd be crass.

Google Whacking

Sadly "Welsh Dumpling" is not a true Google Whack. Use inverted commas and this web page is the only result, but if you don't use them... This is the 12th result.

ooh and if you put in Hoors and Neighbours, I am most of the results! Me and religion.

God I'm bored.
+

The Welsh Dumpling

I was thinking about The Welsh Dumpling and how she's not been seen for so long.

She used to be the Madame of the House (of Negotiable Affection) and, sadly, I only ever had one encounter with her.

I was happily skipping down the stairs in my steel toe caps (which I wear for work, not for kicking people) at 7am and poor sleepy-headed Welsh Dumpling opened the door to the Hoor's flat.

"Good Morning" she croaked in a beautiful Valley lilt (honestly, she did!) "Do you live above me?"

I stopped on the bottom stair. I was Torn between being amused at the Welsh Dumpling (whom I'd read about on the "Which Hoor" webpage - see my post on 15 March 2004) and being guilty about waking the poor woman up. "No, I'm two floors up," I said.

"Oh right," she said sleepily. "It's just that... Well. I know that we ladies here can hardly complain, but whoever lives up there (she points), makes an AWFUL noise - and we're lacking our beauty sleep you see." (You have to read this in your head like Gladys from Hi De Hi to get the full effect)

I apologised for skipping about in my doc martens and told her he (the guy on the first floor) had sanded his floorboards and that was what was making the noise. She smiled and vanished back into her boudoir.

Now. I was delighted to find that the Welsh Dumpling was actually Welsh... and I can imagine that, in the eyes of some old punter, she could be a dumpling... but I have been thinking... And the results of my thoughts were this:

An equation. To describe the welsh dumpling (who is in one word, matronly.) And this can be summed up by the following graphic:


The Welsh Dumpling = Annie Walker off Coronation Street in the 80's + Peggy Mitchell off Eastenders in the 90's + Wales. (There may have been a bit of Tammy Wynette in there too, but I can't imagine the Welsh Dumpling standing by any man for more than 45 minutes.)

Silence

The text equivalent of a tumbleweed rolls across my weblog.

I have been away for 3 weeks and there has been nothing broken, nothing stolen, no grafitti daubed, no car scratched, no credit cards nicked, no dead hoors in the newspapers, no windows smashed and no dog turds on the doorstep.

As part of my Pavlovian response... am I happy? Am I relaxed? Comfortable in my home environment? Chilled out? Pleased to see no death, vandalism, theft, vice or other chaos?

No. I'm bloody Suspicious. That's what.

Massage

I can't believe I've never told this story!

So...
This one day I was coming down the stairs about 4pm. It was a bright and breezy saturday afternoon and I was absorbed in checking my mail. I trotted down the tennement stairs and I took a bite of my apple and read a postcard as I approached the tennement door. (Artistic licence). I flipped the latch and opened it... still absorbed by my (genius) postcard.

Outside there stood a meek and gentle man. He was short in stature with a childish chubby face and a puzzled expression. He was perusing the buzzers.

I stopped on the step for a brief second as I saw him. He looked confused, guilty, panicky and then appeared to reach some sort of conclusion all in the space of one second.

"Aaaah... ehhhh... Hello!" He said. He grinned. It's a stereotype, I know. but it was a sheepish grin.

"Hello." He said again. "I was told there was a... ehhh... Massage Parlour! In this here building" he grinned again, this time triumphantly.

I admit to rolling my eyes and pointing to their buzzer. If I was a liar as well as a storyteller, I'd have told you I pointed to the buzzer of the 6ft 4 bodybuilder on the 3rd floor.

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nightime

A post being written purely because of the suitability of the Title.

It's hot just now so I'm sleeping with the windown open.
At 4.30 am this morning I was awakened by the sound of heavy breathing in my ear!

Well! This was an unexpected turn of events... However, as my brain slowly switched on, I gradually woke up to the fact that the noise was coming from outside the window and that there wasn't a panting axe murderer in my bedroom.

Fully awake I pictured some poor dog who had been tied up to the wheely bin outside our house who was (by now) pining for his otherwise-occupied master.

Right enough... at 4.45 I could hear the lovable-cockney sounds of our friendly neighbourhood hoor coming out with her punter. "Awwwwwwww innee luvvely!? Ooo's a good boy then!"

Pooch-luvvin' hoors :) yay!


Why doggies are tied outside to wheely bins and not allowed into brothels.

My idea - the decision

Ok. I am going to put them on the washing line. I don't want to insult the hoors or anything. But I suspect they cater for fetishists - and I'm pretty sure one of their customers likes to steal things off washing lines.

The scenario -

1) Hoor goes out to put out her washing to dry. Hoor gets holiday gift. All happy.

2) Other neighbour goes out to put out their washing to dry. Finds present. Thinks it belongs to the Hoors. Much hilarity ensues. All happy.

3) Underwear-stealing punter goes out to steal underwear. Steals thong. Punter happy (and presumeably hoor also as she knows someone is impressed with her standards and has thus labelled her "professional")

I'll have to wait a few weeks to do it because I can't get into the drying green at the moment. Mysterious, eh? ;)

Being Known

I went to the hairdressers yesterday. After chatting about the usual things... the hairdresser said "Oh, now I remember! You're the one that lives above the brothel aren't you?"

hehe :)

The most entertainment a neighbour could wish for!

One night... Not so long ago... there was a Fracas.

Now this is the kind of Fracas that used to happen almost all the time "chez hoors." This was the reason I started this blog. This was the reason people used to tell me all the time that I should write a book! Somehow I never got around to blogging this particular incident.

The Hoors appear to have _Fallen Silent_ the past few months and our weekly entertainment comes from the 24 Hour Party People (The thieving bastards. I'm still very angry).

But in the past, barely a night went past when SOMETHING was going on. Barely a night went past when there was some reason to gawk out the window for a few hours entertainment. And this was one of those occasions...

The first I know of it (when I am awakened at the usual time of "about 2 am") is when a hoor cries "Get Out! Get Out! Get out of here!!!" and there is a door slammed. There is the scuffing noise of stilettoes being worn by a drunken, tottering female.

There is some shouting! "Ere!" cries a voice. "I'm in 'ere now! You shouldn't be 'ere! Get Aht!"

I lie in bed wondering if it's worth getting out of bed... or if this one will be as good just hearing it. I decide to take a wee peek.

A Hoor arrives into the street. The drunken, younger blonde (now established, in my mind, to be a work-mate (for lack of a better word) of the first hoor) stands up. They Brawl.

They Brawl! They have a cat fight! In the STREET! I can only see parts of it, because it's on the pavement and I'm a couple of floors up (I wasn't desperate enough to go up on my windowsill to open the window and peer down.) Hair is pulled, insults are thrown and eventually Young Tottering Blonde Hoor is thrown down in the street. Older Residential Hoor stomps back into the building. The tennement door is slammed and so is their flat door.



I look up and around and see that there is the usual rows of ringside seats filled up by my various neighbours peering out of their windows.

There is silence. A tumbleweed blows past. (Artistic licence.)
The Drunken Tottering Blond Hoor (DTB Hoor) stands up and crosses the road. She sits down. She finds a brick. You can practically see the collective look of horror form slowly on my neighbours faces.

"Smash!" goes the window! "Haaaaaaaaaah!" goes DTB Hoor! And then the hoor moves back towards the flat. And... I'm pretty sure that she tries to get into the flat through the broken window... (couldn't see from where I was. At this point i should have stood on the windowsill and gawked out the window but I didn't.)

So there is a scream and quite a bit of silence...

"Nee naw Nee naw Nee naw" goes the police siren. Some wise person (probably one of the ringside faces with the phone in his hand) accross the road has phoned the police. It then follows:

"Allo Allo Allo" (artistic licence again)
"Are you all right? Your arm is all bleeding!"
"Yer... I wuz just tryin' to get inta me flat!"
"You're obviously very drunk. I think you should come with us and go to the hospital"
"Naaaaaaaahr... i wanna stay 'ere - I gotta get inta me flat!"
"Have you been out drinking? You don't sound like you're from around here"
"Naaahr! I'm up here ta work - this is me flat... i cahn't get in!"
"You're working up here you say? Do you work from this flat?"
(Brief pause as something dawns on TDB Hoor)
"Um naaah. I don't WORK up 'ere... I'm from Leeds! Yer. That's it. Leeds! I'm up 'ere for a bitta fun!"
"Oh you are, are you? You came up all the way up to The Grey Toon for a night's drinking?"
"Yer! that's it! A night's drinkin'! I like it up ere... Everyone's so nice to ya. You're being nice in't ya?"
"So this isn't your flat? Do you have a hotel room booked?"
"UM naaaaaah. This in't me flat nah. It's me.... (thinks) friends!"
"your friend's? Is this who you were out drinking with?"
"Naaaaah. It's me mum's flat!"
"Your mum's. I thought you just said it was your friend's flat"
"Yerrrrrrr! It's me mummmmm's! Me Mum IS me friend! I luv 'er"
"Right. So. You're not working from this flat but your mum lives here. And you came up here for one night to go out drinking. So why aren't you in the flat?"
"I wanna get inta me flaaaaaaaaaat!"
"Well we need to do something about your bleeding. Have you cut your stomach?"
"Naaaahr... it's just blood from me arms! Loooooook"
(TDB Hoor presumably partially removes top)
"Right. Ok. You can get dressed again now. Please."
"Can you give me your name and address please?" (Hoor gives name)
"It's 'ere! I live 'ere!"
"Now we both know that's not true. Don't we Hoor X?"
(Softly like a child who's been caught out)"Nope"
"So what's your real address?"
"52 Carnaby Street"
"Carnaby street."
"Yer. In Lahndahn"
(nb - this is the address of the Smash Hits offices - I boggle silently)
Deep sighs from both policemen
"Right. Are we going to take you off to hospital or off to the police station where you can sober up and spend the night?"
(Panicking) " Naw ! Naw! I gotta get inta me flat!!!"
"So if we leave you here you'll be ok?"
"Yerrrrr"
At this point, Older Resident Hoor appears to come out and drag her into the flat cursing quietly.
Police drive off.

The next morning I tiptoe downstairs. The street is covered in blood, glass and a lace curtain. (Like some sort of russian tradgedy)

I dare to peek through the broken, curtainless windows. A straggly hoor lies sleeping on a bed in the corner. She flinches. I leg it back to my car.

(The decor was, indeed, early Ikea).

An idea!

I have been pondering about what I could do with the Hoor's holiday gift!

I could put it on the washing line in the back garden...

Revenge!

I feel like I haven't slept for a week... No longer do I seem to be able to sleep through just any noise. The plan is as follows:

1) Purchase Marschal Stacks
2) Place said stacks face down on floor
3) Borrow crap music selection* from colleague at work (who buys whole boxes at car boot sales and treats us to the dregs)
4) Wait until the 24 Hour Party People are all partied out (it MUST happen sometime and I am prepared to wait)
5) Put said crap music on repeat and go out for the day. AHAHAHAHAHAHA! (Much maniacal laughter)

* "The Magic of Brass," "Harry Secombe - the Early Years," "The Yodelling LP," "101 Tinkly Piano Hits by Wayne Karr"

I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them I ...

I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them!!!!!

Not the Hoors. Them I love as ever... It's the druggies downstairs.  (Not confirmed to be druggies, just highly suspected). And I hate whoever it was that kicked the door down while I was on holiday and I hate whoever it was that chose to steal 5 packages i was waiting for - worth over a hundred quid!!! I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them.  And apparently there's nothing the police can do - and besides... what on earth are they going to do with 5 bras in *undisclosed unusual bra size*!?!?!  It's not as if they can flog them to anyone on the street! 

Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them

etc.

Holiday gifts from neighbour to neighbour

I got a present for my neighbours while I was on holiday :) I hope they like it.

You GO girl!

Also...

My neighbour was about to get out of bed in the middle of the night some time last week, get dressed, and go give the 24 Hour Party People (new name for the bellowing-people downstairs) merry hell when he heard one of the ladies get out of her flat and scream at them furiously in a mancunian accent for keeping her up all night by partying!

YOU GO GIRL!!! (does the Ricky Lake dance)

I love the Hoors :)

Sleeping like a log

It is official! I sleep like a log.

I was just talking to my neighbour just now (one of the nice ones!)... and the conversation turned (inevitably) to the tenement's "goings on."

Apparently... there was more anguished bellowing from our friendly neighbourhood druggies this week. Seemingly I have finally gotten to the stage where I'm so used to slum-livin' that I peacefully slept right through it.

oh hurrah.

Punter-Cam

I wonder what legalities would be involved in me putting a web cam focused on the front door of the tenement? Perhaps across the road in a tree... Perhaps in the hoor's buzzer itself. Imagine being able to check out the front door of a brothel in real-time as the punters buzz for the hoors!

Hmmmm...

Ello Ello Ello II - the sequel

Ok.
They came back after my last post. And it turns out they were from the drug squad. :|

I asked them if they're sure they were asking about the right neighbours as there is a brothel on the ground floor.

"Yes" nodded one. We know about them.
The other smiled sadly at me: What a lovely building you live in!

Me: *sob*

Ello Ello Ello

The police were here again today. These were proper exciting police who were looking for the ned downstairs that keeps me up late at night playing crap rave music and having people screaming and bleeding all over the stairwell.

And they were IN PLAIN CLOTHES! (which is relatively more exciting than your bobby on the beat)

They didn't know what flat he lived in and I was a bit unwilling to give any information until they showed me their ID's.
"Police eh? It'll be him downstairs"

I managed to restrain myself from saying "Unless you're after the Pimp for the ground floor?"

Quote of the month!

When I am not blogging, I play an online game (lawks! fluffs and flames to you all, dearies!)

Tonight I was telling my mum all about my blog and my web page and how I spend time working on them of an evening...

My mum: so THIS is why your phone is always online?
Me: yes!
My mum: and when you're doing this... are you on the game?
Me (not catching on): Sometimes.I'm usually talking to people... but

My mum: Um i don't mean "on the game" i mean... er... um... well...


Yaay mum! :D *big grin*

Salvation!

Usually, when I come home from work and park my car across the street and there is someone standing perusing the buzzers, I sit in my car and wait til they go in or give up and go away. Sometimes they stay there a LONG time. A Long Long time. And so I give up and stomp into the building past them.

This one time though. I wasn't in the mood for hanging around at all and when I saw two guys hanging around outside the tenement with clipboards browsing the buzzers I just decided to park my car and stomp past them. This I did. I didn't want to think of this particular Punter/Hoor/Punter/Clipboard fetish for any longer than I had to. However... They were in the way.

"Excuse me," said a beaming, smartly dressed American.
"Yes?" says I.
"We're trying to get someone to answer a buzzer in this here block of flats" says the other. Also beaming and smartly dressed.
"Yes?" says I.
"Do you live here?" asks no 1.
"Yeeessss?" says I.
"What about these other here buzzers?" asks no 2.
"Ummm. Well... This one is offshore..." I point to the buzzers, "This one is empty... This one does night shift... This one will still be at work... This one is also empty... This one is me... This guy I don't know... And this one here... ummm. I don't know about."
"Ah well!" enthuses no 1. "We're from The Church of the Latter Day Saints..."
"Ah!" says I. The beaming-ness and the smart dress... And the aura of good-ness. I can tell you all about Mormon Missionaries. In fact... That is a WHOLE different blog! Perhaps I'll get around to it later.

Anyway. I continue, politely: "I'm afraid I'm already following my own religion.... Although! I do respect what you folks do and how you're fighting the good fight and all that, I'm afraid I'm not up for converting"

"Well! Thanks for being so straight with us ma'am! It sure is appreciated, he beams"
We shake hands and I put my key towards the lock.

"Ah... before you go... is there anyone else here you think may be in need of some salvation?"

Me (pausing with a key half way into the lock): *evil soap opera grin*

Taxi

Look. Hoors. You KNOW I love you. I leant you my candle and we cut that tree down at your back window. You ARE loveable cockney hoors... but for goodness sake. PLEASE don't piss off every taxi driver in The Grey Toon?

Every time. EVERY TIME I get a taxi... they ask me about you.

Please try to be a little more discreet. If you're visiting a punter, please make sure your last punter has left before the taxi arrives? If you're making them hang around for 5-10 minutes waiting for you... please have the good grace to smile apologetically at them out of the window and assure them you're coming? And if you're getting mysterious packages delivered from the dodgier side of town? Please disguise the fact that it's Class A drugs...

Cheers.

Fairytales

My neighbours are wierd. (see below)

but last night was fun!

I woke around ummm. 3am? What did I hear? "Fee Fiii Fohhh Fummmm!"
*knock knock knock* Feeee Fiiii Fohhhhh Fummmm!"

I shook my head and fell asleep again.

5 minutes later i was awakened again. "Little Pig! Little Pig!" said a voice. "Let me in!"

"Not by the non-existant hair of my chinny chin chin" thought I. and went back to sleep.

Lunatics the lot of them.

My dad's Policeman friends

My dad knows everyone!
Lords! Ladies! Traffic Wardens!

And he knows Policemen. And Policemen know THINGS.

One day my dad parked outside my flat to walk into town. He met a friend, a policeman. This policeman remarked on what a long walk it'd be for my dad to walk all the way into town. "Not that far!" sez my dad. "I parked outside my daughter's flat"

"Oh, where's that? " sez Policeman"

"x Number, Z Street" Sez my dad

"Oh!" Sez policeman. "What does she do for a living?"

Fluffs to my dad who pointed out his daughter wasn't a Hoor and that she merely lives above a brothel ;)

Gardening Fun

Another time, my upstairs neighbour, J, and I were clearing out the back garden of the tenement.

All sorts we found!!! A wasps nest... Fishing equipment... Diving equipment (gas, flippers and all)... Ice skates. Perhaps an old resident went through a phase of looking for the right hobby... I don't know. (Excluding the wasps nest. I can't think of many hobbies that involve wasps nests).

We made an old toilet bowl into an attractive planter for poppies. We peered into the shed at the end that we reckoned The Godfather (ground floor right) was keeping horses heads in. We restrung the clothes line. We returned the supermarket trolley to Iceland (the shop not the country) and then we put our hands on our hips (in manner of I Love Lucy - we even had the spotted headscarves) and looked at The Big Tree.

I don't know what kind of tree this Big Tree is. Only that since I moved in, it has been cut right back almost every year and by September it's thriving again. Bastard thing. It's still there. Bullying everything but the dandelions.

So we got out the secateurs. We got out the saw... We cleared the window on the first floor first of all and then eventually the window of Ground Floor Left. And then the curtains on Ground Floor Left (the Hoors' flat) twitched. A face appeared. A face vanished. The back door to the tenement creaked slowly open. A Hoor appeared! Wearing what I can only describe as half of an outfit. i.e. A red jumper on top and items I can only describe as "saucy" on the bottom. Plus some scuffed stilettoes. Actually perhaps she was wearing her entire outfit for the day and had only put on the red jumper to cover up. I don't know.

"Wow! It's so LIGHT in there now! I can see SO MUCH!"

We Shuddered. We heard her buzzer go. "OOOOOH! ExCUSE me! Must be going. Thanks you two!" she grinned. We smiled and waved. "Lovely girl" we noted.

Then she reappeared at the window. Winked. And drew the curtains.

We shuddered.

Then we heard her chatting quietly to her punter.

"Shall I go in and get a radio?" I asked

A couple of licks and we're done!

PAINT. You filthy perverts... Paint.

The poor dears! Slander! I come home from the pub one night (as these blogs so often begin) and someone has sprayed something on the tennement door! "PROS" it says... And I don't think they're talking about the professional environmental consultants, dentists and lawyers living in the area.

"SLU"... another word begins... but happily I cannot read it! For the Hoors have a troglodyte! A troglodyte with an apologetic grin and a paintbrush. He smiles and shrugs nodding towards the cringing Hoor who is overseeing the graffitti removal. "Sorry 'bout this luv" she says, taking a draw on her cigarette with her bright red lips... Her red nails gripping her other elbow in a classic old-woman-with-hairnet-off-1960's-Coronation-Street pose.

I giggle drunkenly and totter off upstairs. (As so many of these blogs end...)

I Love My Neighbours!

I love my Hoor Neighbours!
They are so nice and pleasant and kind!

Only nice Hoors can be overheard giving advice to their punters on the best pubs to visit in London and which parks they should take their mothers to...

I didn't stay around to hear more, like...

Sausage Rolls

"Do you get discounts or freebies?" asks a friend.

"Discounts!? Freebies!? What in the hell would I want with discounts and freebies!?" I reply.

"Well. Next to where I work is a deli and sometimes they give me free sausage rolls..."

Me: Blank Look.

Trans-Hoor Convention

I often wondered if they just came up here for a couple of weeks and slaved away with no nights off... Like they were offshore.

But it seems that our lovely ladies DO INDEED get a night off!

My friend and I (the one who helped me lift my microwave the other month) were putting the world to rights in The Local. The Local is a really nice pub with all comfy chairs, wooden tables, a well stocked bar and a creepy old drunk at the bar who gave young ladies like myself Cadbury's Cream Eggs (that you politely took from him despite the fact they were probably injected with Ruphanol...) They also have a stupid 6ftx6ft "dancefloor" put in so that people could dance to the dodgy karaoke that turns up every saturday.

I daren't name it in case the buxom blonde behind the bar reads this and scowls at me EVEN MORE when I order my two pints of Carlsberg (only 1.75 a pint and hence why we drink there.)

So after an hour or so my friend points out the good looking chinese girl at the bar wearing octopus trousers (those unneccessary things that 12 year old goth girls and Pink wear) that is getting so much attention. "She's cute. I'm not so sure about her mate though. She has an air of 'I look so good' about her"

Sure enough. There is a leggy black woman with bleached blonde curls at the bar smiling winningly at everyone. She is so good looking and so feminine in a totally over the top kind of way she could be a man (in manner of the woman that works in Whiplash Trash on Cockburn St in Edinburgh). We look. I frown. She looks familiar. "I think it's one of my neighbours!" I say. We ponder. They sit down next to a group of 3 similar looking women (similar in a leggy-self-confident-glamorous-we're-fabulous! kind of way). Then I realise the familiarity... It's my lovely neighbours! Or at least a couple of them are.

Now we realise everyone at the table behind us (potentially including Federico from Big Brother 4 going by his tshirt, suit jacket and white trainers) is discussing them. Other tables in the pub are also looking at them. One guy is having his arm stroked by the good looking chinese girl. His girlfriend is scowling.

Thing is, our brothel usually only has a couple of girls there at one go. So perhaps they're having a hoor convention! With the Westhill Hoors or the Great Western Road Hoors!

It's good to see they get to let their hair down occasionally.

Fear

Every now and again, something bloody wierd happens and you never quite find out exactly what's been going on. Sometimes there is the odd dent in the pannelling on the stairs, sometimes there is blood on a doorframe...

Tonight I really want to go to the chinese for some chicken. But there is NO WAY I am setting foot out that door...

I was having a snooze when a door slams and some screaming begins. Well... screaming isn't really the word. Neither is shouting. It was more like roaring or bellowing... Full-on angst-ridden terrifying bellowing right outside my door. It went on for about 5 minutes while I didn't dare move and then stopped... I haven't heard anyone move since and that was half an hour ago. And more importantly, I haven't heard anyone leave the tennement. Sod the chicken.

It was like someone had Father Jack Hackett in a cage...

Decorating

Going by the plaster in the hallway and the flatpack packaging outside their door, it appears that the Hoors are getting some decorating done in their flat. Perhaps they pay good attention to my blog... and thus got to know that their flat is "a bit early Ikea."

It begs the questions:

1) Do they do their own decorating or do they "get a man in?"

2) If they've "got the painters in..." does that mean they can't work for a few days?

I was just pondering...

Wha-tssssssssh!

Do I ever hear the sounds of passion? I was asked.

Not from my flat up here. Not above the bloody racket of the psycho raver downstairs anyway. However, you do occasionally hear the comedy-springs-of-passion. You never hear them in Hollywood movies.

Eeeh-ee! Eeeh-ee! Eeeh-ee! Eee-eee-eee-eee-eee-eeeeehhh!

Then there was another time... the mail falls down behind the tennement door and i had to bend down to pick it up. It must have been something about that particular spot in the wall I was bending down next to, because all I heard was "Wha-tsssssh!" "uh!" "What-tssssssh!" "ow!" "Wha-tssssssh!"

They must be branching out...

A vital and neccessary service

Not just the obvious I mean...

One day I came down the stairs to where a sad little man (sort of a cross between Rigsby and Roy Cropper off Corrie) was being bid farewell by what (one has to admit) was a rather matronly Hoor. I hovered looking at the post on the landing to give them some privacy.

"BahBye then," she said, giving him a (matronly) hug... "And I hope everything goes well with the wife..."

"Yes." he nodded sadly... "so do I. And... thanks. For everything..."
He left. She waved. She smiled up at me and went back into her boudoir.

Hoor or amateur agony aunt? Who needs Claire Rayner when you have loveable matronly hoors.

Why I don't want my candle back

Now... Let me get things straight.

I do not in anyway hate the hoors. I respect them for what they do, for their choice in how to make a living, for the services (both the councilling service they provide and the obvious) and also as the nice friendly lovely people that they are.

OK, I usually only see them occasionally when we happen to be coming or going at the same time and we pass briefly in the entrance hall... but they smile prettily and they are very pleasant and likeable in a cockney daaahlin' kind of way.

I mean this, I really do... and I don't want anyone to think I'm slagging them off or thinking myself better than them in anyway.

I am the first to admit I'm not the most practical person around and that common sense is not always at the front of my mind...

However. There's this one hoor? I'm not saying she's stupid! No! Just that she may not actually *think* Perhaps she was the same one with the dog turd and the doormat... I don't know. Anyway...

It is very dark in my street in the winter. Now, there are security lights that occasionally come on when you enter the tennement. Which is nice. If anyone is lurking in the stairwell... I'd like to know about it before they stab me repeatedly, who wouldn't? Quite often it's pitch black however, and I inch up the stairs in the manner of some stupid teenager from some horror film.

It was one of these times when I was coming in from work. 4.30 and it's already pitch black... So I tentatively feel around in the dark for my post and then continue my brave ascent into the unknown. And I hear something from below. "Coooeeeeeee!" "Coooeeeee Luv!"
'Lawks!' could there be a loveable country witch selling firewood in the hallway? aaaaah no. It'll be a loveable cockney hoor!
I dump my stuff in my flat (aaaah light!) and go back down where said loveable cockney hoor can just be made out in the streetlight coming in from the small window above the tennement door. She is wearing something that can only be described as "flimsy." Now get this...

"Hallo Luv! Ave you got a torch I can borrah? Only me lectric's ran aht and I cahn't see to put more money in me metah!"
"Sure" I'll go find you something, and I leave to head back up the stairs. Will a hoor laugh at the fact I have a teletubby torch? I wonder...
But before i go, she continues. "Me lectrics run aht and I've been trying to get this light out ere ta go on. It won't go on! it must be broke! Why won't it go on?"
Me: "Ummm. did you say your electricity's run out"
Her: "Yer"
Me: "Only, your light in the hall will be run from your lectric, I mean, electricity... So if you've got no electricity then the light won't go on"
Her: "Yer! but it wahn't go on! I tried it! It won't go on and without it I can't get me lectric back on cos i cahn't see inter the flat and I can't put me money in the lectric metah! I've been trying wiv this switch! It must be broke!"
Me: Yeah. But you have no electricity therefore it CAN'T go on. It's probably not broken at all.
Her: "Yer! but it must be broke! It won't go on!"
Me: I'll get you that torch.

So I gave up explaining and went upstairs to get her some light. Except I'll be buggered if she's borrowing my teletubbie torch. She'll probably not be able to switch it on and thus proclaim it "broke." I got her a candle and some matches and she promised to put them in my mailbox later on once she'd sorted the broken light outside. (All of a sudden someone who couldn't grasp the concept of a light not going on because she'd run out of lectric seemed to have turned into some sort of master electrician).

Anyway. The candle never appeared in my mailbox. And though it was a very nice candle, a gift, with all dragons up one side.... I don't think I want it back. You never know where it has BEEN. I've heard about hoors and candles... and i'm not talking about wax :|

Keep the bloody candle stupid loveable cockney wench.

A Birthday Wish!

A Birthday Card has arrived for one of the Hoors...
Miss Diane must be celebrating a birthday, and just to make sure it gets to her and not to any other Miss Dianes in the building, the sender has specifically written "right hand buzzer" as part of the address. (They have a separate buzzer from everyone else, because they are lovely ladies and don't want any of the rest of us getting bothered. Either that or because they don't want any trade going anywhere else).
There is even a heart as the dot above the "I" of Diane!
how sweet :)

Comments?

My comments bit may potentially be working again - huzzah!

One at a time - PLEASE!

So we have one of those big comunal wheely bins outside our tennement... (

And I'm using the muscles of a good friend to help me get rid of my old rusty microwave and replace it with the new, shiny, green and heavy new one...

Well, I would be... but for the two curious Little Britain-appearanced men outside my tennement. One is fat and bald and wearing a stripy polo shirt with stains on. The other is tall, thin, and hairy in manner of an inbred rottweiler. They stand outside my tennement and peruse the choice of buzzers. Hmm! would it be the 8 innocent character-free ones with sir-names on them? or would it be the big shiny las vegas one, with "PROSTITUTION" suggested by the titilating blank buzzer button?

Hmm. Let us just press them all whilst the angstful duo with the green microwave accross the street stand glaring at us waiting for us to enter the building.

So ... that's what they did. and eventually they got let into the building, allowing us to set up the new, sparkly, microwave (yay!)

So. We plug in the microwave, sneak down the stairs and hear someone leave the building. The two gentlemen are nowhere to be seen. Just a sad, hairy man ambling down the street ON HIS OWN. Can it be true!? Can the hoors be so discerning that they only service one at a time?

Surely they'd get discount if there are two of them?

Or does Jasmine dislike hairy backs?

Perhaps we will never know :(

New Years Drama

Not only have I got prostitutes for neighbours... I have also got an assortment of other entertaining neighbours. Visits from one of the 3 emergency services appear to be commonplace in our tennement. Today I returned from New Year festivities in the country to discover an ambulance and a police car in the street outside. What Now?
I've made a couple of trips to the car to get those vital few items I accidentally left in my car, I've asked the various people hanging round the tennement door if "everything is ok?" and I've peered into the ground floor flat as much as I can without looking like I'm TOTALLY nosy... but I still don't know why someone is currently screaming out loud in agony.
I'd make a rubbish private detective. The little old lady accross the road is practically hanging out her bedroom window trying to get gossip.