Merry Christmas Everyone!

That's it. Just a Christmas greeting from me :)

Nothing exciting downstairs, except that they got a Christmas card from a punter.

Awww nice punter :)

Merry Christmas y'all! :D

He ate her liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti...

Sometimes I worry about the Hoors.

They're letting God knows who into their house and I'm sometimes concerned about their safety. They let some really wierd folk in there you know...

Anyway. I've been working away from home for a few days and was really excited about going to the pub this evening. I put on my headphones and bounced down the stairs, sang along and danced past the hoors front door. Then I opened the front door of the block of flats.

And there he stood.

Motionless.

Hands by his side. A slight smile on his unmoving features.

It was...

No it couldn't be. Just like when you first see him in the film awaiting Clarisse in his cell at the end of the corridor.

Hannibal Lecter.

He was actually wearing a boiler suit. Admittedly, it was a kind of faded red... but it was dark and it looked grey!! I screamed. Sorry, but I did. He just stood there. For some reason I apologised for screaming - he didn't bat an eyelid and then moved smoothly past me into the building. I ran to the pub.

The Caring Profession

I arrive home.

I check my mail.

My heart is immediately wrenched by the most sorrowful of wailings coming from the brothel.

Some poor dear (young, female, high pitched) is upset. She sobs, she wails, she moans! No. Hold on. She doesn't moan. She's upset, not working.

Ok. So. She... howls, laments and blubbers a bit too.

Then after that, another voice. Older, deeper, giving the mental picture of someone more nurturing... more... experienced.

"There, there sweetheart... *sigh* If it wasn't meant to be, it wasn't meant to be."

"!!!!!!!" says I. What's this? What drama is playing itself out a couple of floors below me?

I am ashamed to admit I hung around to see if anything else happened. It didn't. Thus my overactive imagination is picturing Pretty Woman - the alternative cut. Where Richard Gere's Edward (I knew his name! I am teh Pop Culture Queen) decides he doesn't like Julia Roberts' Vivian (stupid name for a hoor anyway) - even though she wore a very nice red curtain to the opera.

Naked Neighbour! Denied!

It must have been his birthday!

Or a sudden drive on energy-saving...

Or he has put on weight, caught leprosy and grown another head...

Or his mother has come to stay!

Anyway. Neighbours of this world weep, hang your heads, wail and grind your teeth...

For the naked man has bought curtains.

Amen.

Rejection!!!

5.30 on friday when I'd just got home from work. A sad looking man is at the front door of the tenement pressing the hoors buzzer.

I do the usual thing and sit in my car waiting for him to go in before I get out and let myself into the block of flats. (Usual unless I'm in a huff and in no way patient enough to give punters their brothel-entering privacy). I give the usual estimated amount of time before opening the door that will allow him to make his introduction to Hoor of the Week and get out of the hallway and into the hoor's flat.

So I've just got in the door and look up to see The Sad Man's face fall even more as the Hoor tells him she "cahn't do now, ye'll ave ta come back latur" and then quickly shuts the door in his face...

I had to feel sorry for the guy...

Bad enough to be a Sad Man having a bad day... but to be rejected by a Hoor?

Pitiful.

The Death of Chivalry

Sunday afternoon and I'm struggling up the road with some flat pack furniture. I've just reached the door with my keys when a lanky streak of piss gets out of his car and presses the buzzer.

A hoor answers using the intercom - "Ello there?"

The lanky streak gives me a *look* and answers "Yer! Yer! It's... 'James'"

I'm trying to get my key in the lock at this point and the hoor-within uses the intercom to let him in to the building.

So desperate is he for a shag, that he shoves open the door (with my keys still in it!), dives in, and lets it slam in my face!

Truly Mrs Beaton would be turning in her grave...

ok... ok... A translation

"Voulez vous quelque compagnie pendant le soir?"
French: Would you like some company for the evening?
"Putains! Putains ici, pas trop chères! Venez ici pour des putains!"
French: Prostitutes! Prostitutes here, very cheap! Come here for the prostitutes!"

"Fraulein Jasmine ist ausserst freundlich!"
German: Miss Jasmine is very friendly!

"Potrebbe forse una puttana per stasera?"
Italian: Would you perchance like a prostitute for this evening?

"Moecha Putida!"
Latin: Dirty Slut

"Pijpen, neuken, 50 euro..."
Dutch: Blowjob, fuck, 50 euros!

Consider yourselves EDUCATED!

Hoors In The News Continued

So. Yeah. A continuation of my last post about Grey Toon Hoors in the local paper...
Where I last left off, a Grey Toon Surgeon had been caught having a "spot of tiffin" with a hoor dressed as a schoolgirl and a hoor dressed as a french maid. You have to hand it to them... there's nothing like a good imagination and an original outfit :P

Anyway. To continue by quoting a witness to the raid...

"The premises were well run - it wasn't the sort of place you would expect to find in London, it was a high-class operation.

You see? Only the classiest of brothels for the Grey Toon. You can tell I'm trying to make out that our brothel is way classier than your average knocking shop...

It goes on.

Today the man running the sex den (typical local paper language) in the city's west end escaped a jail sentence... He turned up as the search was being conducted and pretended he was a customer but later admitted he was involved in running the enterprise. Aberdeen Sheriff Court heard he had ended up losing £7000 of his own cash after splitting his profits with the girls. (What a kind pimp!)

It then says how he was admonished for living off the earnings of prostitution and after a lot of other legal stuff I won't go into, states that he is "now a languages student at Northumbria University."

Now. Repeat after me...

"Voulez vous quelque compagnie pendant le soir?"
"Putains! Putains ici, pas trop chères! Venez ici pour des putains!"

"Fraulein Jasmine ist ausserst freundlich!"

"Potrebbe forse una puttana per stasera?"
"Moecha Putida!"

"Pijpen, neuken, 50 euro..."

Hoors In The News

"SURGEON CAUGHT IN BROTHEL RAID!" cries today's local paper, The Evening Express...

"A north-east surgeon was caught up in a raid in a brothel, a court heard today."

The local is never interested in anyone that is not from the north-east. It is, indeed, a local paper for local people. I'm sure I've mentioned the story about it's sister paper (The Press and Journal) reporting on the sinking of the Titanic... "Titanic Sinks: North-East man drowns."

"The medic was found on the premises when it was searched by police...
"When the property was raided, police ound two women; one dressed as a French maid, the other as a schoolgirl"

Am I the only one picturing the doctor from The Simpsons here? Caught with a couple of big-lipped Simpsons bunny girls and one of those surgeons-light-things on his forehead? Laughing? Going hoohoohoohoohoo!
The article continues... But this girl has a night out to see to, so I'll tell you more about that later! :D

Amen To That!

A milestone!

Wow... it looks like I'm getting close to my 50,000th visitor!

A figure I'm sure the hoors passed many months ago...

Anyway, I thought I could celibrate this momentus occasion by giving away a gift. Yes! I am BUYING your friendship... The gift would be
the beautiful garment on the right which I picked up on holiday last year in Vegas.

My original intention was to give it to them as a nice gift (as I originally spoke about >here. But I chickened out and I think this would be the perfect gift for my 50,000th visitor.

I'll update this post closer to the time once I've figured out how to identify that lucky 50,000th visitor.

Hurrah! Hoor Pants! :D

Groundforce [1] - Tillydrone Style

Aaaah the last few days of Summer! BBQ's! Fresh walks in the countryside! DIY!

My Tillydrone Correspondant writes...

The neighbours have been doing some remodelling of the environs......

Bucolic summer days are enough to make even the most black fingered among us believe that there's an Alan Titchmarsh [2] trapped inside us, just waiting to get out.

I've therefore spent the last few months trying to coax, well anything to grow in my back garden. Finally as we near the end of summer I have 2 tattie plants and 4 broad bean bushes. And a forest of dandelions. I should have learned from my neighbours that destruction is far more fun, and has a far more drastic affect on your surroundings. And it is cheaper and doesn't take so long

In the last couple of weeks they've managed to fell a 20m high chestnut tree and uproot all of the traffic control bollards to create that classic "hurricane's just swept through" look. Chealsea Flower Show [3]
here we come......

N.B. For our american friends:
[1] Groundforce: BBC TV Program in which a TV crew and assorted "TV Gardeners" do up someone's grotty patch of garden in an attempt to make interesting television. They once surprised a bemused Nelson Mandela with some nice decking and a water feature.
[2] Presenter of said Groundforce. Looks a bit sinister. Once wrote a book now found under the section "Gardening Pornography"
[3] Big flower show in London Village. Upwardly Mobile middle class couples in silly hats admire gardens that the upper class have got their lower class gardeners to put all their efforts into so that they can take all the credit and go "Fwah Fwah. Lovely Champagne! Do you like my Pergola?"

Who used to live in my flat?

Now that some bastard has slashed both tyres on my bike, I thought I'd check to see if I could fit it outside in my coal sheddie - A place I've not been since oooohhh 1998 when i first moved in?

Full with all sorts of shite! All sorts I tell you!
And from the contents of the sheddie... This is what I have surmised about the person that used to live in my flat:

Item 1) An Agatha Christie Book: Leads me to believe that the inhabitant was a little old lady who liked a good read.

Item 2) A chest of drawers (white) containing an old biro (chewed) and a large magnifying glass: Inhabitant was a little old lady who not only liked a good read but also likes a good mystery to solve.

Item 3) A handbag: It's all coming together!

Item 4) Containing... an old bank statement! : So. An aging amateur detective who shops at... ASDA and... B&Q!!

Item 5) An axe. OK. I have to rethink. Perhaps... Perhaps!!! It's a little old lady who reads crime novels (which she buys in Asda) so as best to know how to KILL PEOPLE! HORRIBLY BRUTALLY! With the AXE she's just bought in B&Q!!!

Item 6) A mouldy old plastic Christmas Tree: Because even octagenarian axe murderer likes Christmas.

Item 7) Steel toe-capped wellies: For she may be a really bad aim with that axe what with her eyes going and all...

Item 8) A wasps nest and an ice skate (honest!) Because once she's got the victim STUNG TO DEATH and hacked up... she's going to skate across a frozen loch, break a hole in the ice and dispose of the body that way.

What do you think?
Hmmm.
I won't give up my day job :P

Dirty Shagging Tillydrone Bastards

More from my Tillydrone Correspondant...

So I just got back from a month away to find used condoms in my back lawn - Me (and my lovely lawn) feel violated.

The main problem is that they were found by my dad who came round with his strimmer to help me get rid of the triffids which had flourished during my month of respite!

The thing is, my lawn is fairly secluded (by almost living in Tillydrone standards anyway) so I have a list of lawn shagging suspects. these are:

1. Girl who has been watering my plants - but she is far too nice (and going through man angst so unlikely to have a lawn-sex partner)
2. Pissing postie - no way would any sentient being go near that man's cock - I should know....
3. Land grabbing round the back neighbours - has potential as their garden is full of rubble and not a suitable place for making sweet love
4. Neighbours next door who stare at everything - should perhaps talk to them they're bound to have had an eyeful anyway but it is not the best way to introduce yourself to someone: 'Hi there! I'm your next door neighbour... Have you seen anyone shagging in my garden?'
5. Population of Tillydrone (or perhaps some kind of Tillydrone/Woodside Romeo + Juliet situation where star crossed lovers can only meet in neutral locations- like my fecking back garden!) - but this _would_ involve them learning about contraceptives...

So, the jury is out...

Another definition: A Hoorin' Minger/A Mingin' Hoor

Right.
Apparently I need to put another definition on here. This is only vaguely relevant because of the word "hoor" being present... but it was drawn to my attention in the pub last night that I need to differentiate between my drunkenly slurred insults of "a hoorin' minger!" and "a mingin' hoor."

Hoor - a prostitute
Hoorin' - very much so/awfully (e.g. Look at the rain! It's hoorin' it down!)
Minger - An ugly or person, a person who doesn't look after themselves too well.
Mingin' - Smelly/dirty or ugly

Hence "a hoorin' minger" is someone who is REALLY ugly and a mingin' hoor is a smelly or ugly prostitute.

I think I've made everything clear. I also had it pointed out to me that the use of certain celebrities for clarification would be unwise because of the ensuing legal prosecutions.

Smells

You know how sometimes a certain smell will take you right back to a time and place?

I came in to the building today and breathed in... And was magically whisked off (nasally) to... Las Vegas!

I'm not sure if this is because the building smells of excitement! Hedonism! All night partying! Money! Champagne! The perfume of the Rich and Famous! Splendour! Sequinned Glamour Girls!

Or if it smells of beer, stale cocktails, cigars and dog-ends, tramps outside $30 wedding chapels, and old women who've been sat at the same machine for 48 hours churning quarters into the same "I Love Lucy" slot machine.

News from Tillydrone

My Tillydrone Correspondant writes today:

All has been quiet in my little corner of town; sadly as they say in the films too quiet.........

Was having a fantastic sleep last night, when I was interupted by some 3 Tillydronian boys having a slanging match outside my window.

'You f**king told me it was round here you f**ing c**t'
'No i didn't you f**ker'
'F**k you'
'No you F**k you'
'Go f**k yourself!'
'Well I'll f**king have tae if we cannae find this f**ing brothel'

I almost stuck my head out of the window to tell them that:
a. it was in the next street along and
b. the polis had closed it down two weeks ago.

However; even I have some self preservation instinct so I kept my pearls of wisdom to myself and watched them try to drunkenly beat the crap out of each other with one hand on my mobile in case an ambulance was needed. Luckily, they were all too pished for their punches to connect with anything and they disappeared into the night.

Gie A Flooer Tae A Hoor

Awww.

Someone has given the hoors flowers! Yes. I know. It may have been their birthday and the flowers might have been from their mum or whatever... but I much prefer to believe that some nice Punter is more appreciative than most. They're carnations and they're in a lovely earthenware vase on the hoor's windowsill, just beyond the scabby net curtains.

I know for sure I'd appreciate Flooers if I were a Hoor.

Thus I would like to propose a new date for our calendars: Hoor Appreciation Day. (Perhaps on the 22nd July which is something to do with Mary Magdalen?)

And on this day we should all show appreciation for those working in the oldest job in the world and perhaps Gie a Flooer Tae A Hoor. (Translation: Give a flower to a lady of negotiable affection).

It would make the world a happier place.

Awww.

So that's me back from the Glastonbury Festival and subsequent fun in England. (Where it wasn't a case of My Neighbours Are Hoors, so much as My Neighbours were Washed Away).

Anyway.

The Dead Man (who is looking extremely grey today) just knocked on the door to see if I'm OK because he's not seen me about for a bit!

Makes a change. It's usually me sniffing at the suspicious smell and panicking that his corpse is lying there rotting.

All The World's A Stage...

And all the men and women merely players.

Never a truer word spoke. (Or is it spoken? Your narrator is a little tipsy).

So I am tired. And when one is tired of the Grey Toon? One is tired of life. Actually that is nonsense. And anyway, I'm not that kind of tired. Once more I am tired due to lack of sleep. And why? I hear you ask?

Well, because I was awakened at 6am this morning by a bit of HIGH DRAMA. Not brought to us by my neighbours, the hoors, this time. But by two brothers. One called Kevin. The other who had no name, but liked to shout "You F**ker!" "You f**king Faggot!" This would be quite unfair, only Kevin was quite happy to counterattack this with "You F**king C**t!" He did this quite a bit actually, did our Kevin...

I tried to roll over and go back to sleep. (Well, a girl has to keep her appointment with the beautician at 10am you know... Can't let hairs grow just because our neighbours are having a little domestic drama!)

So after the usual head over pillow, toss, turn, fingers in ears, head back on pillow, stare at the ceiling nonsense, I gave up and listened.

It seems that these two brothers had just come back after a night's carousing (or "getting shitfaced" as it's known in the Grey Toon) (amongst many other terms. We Scots specialise in words for being drunk... Just like the Eskimos have umpteen words for snow) and brother one (the sweary one) had discovered that Kevin was GAY.

Yes. Our Kevin had come out. And rather than have a nice wee chat over a cup of tea in their mum's front room, they'd chosen to take the issue out into the street. Next to my new car, I may point out, but that's the only starring role my property has in this tale. So they fought. Physically. I could hear the grunts and stuff and for once it wasn't from two floors below... They shouted at eachother, someone called Claire was mentioned and there was many an anguished bellow.

Eventually, enter stage left (still in my mind at this point as I'd not yet succumbed to curtain twitching) Thoroughly Decent Mum. Thoroughly Decent Mum pleaded with them (in hushed tones and the purest polite voice) to please come into the house and deal with it there! "Please! Please, come on! Don't do this! You're waking people up!" But no. The "F**king C**t" and Kevin are still hard at it. I give up on sleep and consider this (like the rest of the curtain twitching neighbours, it seems) to be a bit of saturday morning free entertainment.

"Kevinnnnnnn! Yer A F**KING FAGGOT!" Yells the "F**king C**t" from his prone position on the street (or "pavement" for you Americans)

Kevin minces up the street.

Thoroughly Decent Mum, by now is kneeling over her son who is drunk and bleeding in the middle of the road. She is wearing a black dressing gown with a pretty picture of a butterfly, her hair is immaculate and bobbed. She looks genuinely distressed. And there before me... (and my new car which now has a bloody footprint on it) she brushes her son's forehead and raises her arms and her eyes to heaven and cries "Kevvinnnnnnn! Loooooook what ye've donnnnneeeeee!"

Kevin continues mincing off into the distance, wiping a tear from his eye (probably)

Reasons to throw out my telly and forget my TV licence?

I think so...


P.S.
(There was more... staring Kevin, a mobile phone, the Thoroughly Decent Mum and "Claire" (some bird on the other end of the phone") and then an epilogue involving the beautician and a policeman, but seeing as how I have a habit of pleading for films to end JUST THERE (e.g. Revenge of the Sith, Return of the King, A.I.) I won't spoil the dramatic effect by telling you any more. Suffice to say I now feel (quite happily) that there is no better drama than the ones going on outside my front door.)

A Dissapointment?

Dear Mr Naked Neighbour,

Have you been reading this blog?

Is this why you've been investing in some net curtains for your kitchen? Or has some other neighbour sent you a letter requesting that you stop parading around nekked in your kitchen and PUT SOME BLOODY CLOTHES ON!?!?!?

New Neighbours: Busted Move In

Oh the excitement!
I was talking to the Neighbour With The Cool Hair about the roof and stuff like that (the usual boring neighbour stuff) and he commented that Shetland Girl has moved out and is renting her flat out to her little brother and his mates.

This would explain the surly members of what could only have been the splendid boyband Busted I met coming downstairs the other day.

Neighbour With The Cool Hair is preparing himself for all night pop-metal jamming sessions.

You wonder why they split up? They didn't really! They're upstairs planning their next rock-pop gem.

Moving On

Well, last week I had the most interesting telephone conversation with my Mother. Apparently (after me having lived here for 6 years) the family isn't happy with me living here, above the brothel. Which is fair enough I suppose...

At first I was dead against moving. I like living where I am! It's within staggering distance from the pubs and there's all sorts of amenities nearby (no hoor puns please). However, I eventually admitted it'd be quite good to become a Property Magnate and buy a new flat and rent this one out.

I went over to their house to tell them my idea. My mum and dad considered this. And then looked puzzled when I had a fit when they said I'd have to properly think about the PROS and CONS first.

Ahahahahahahahahah!

PROS and CONS! *wipes a tear from her eye*

Classic.

From the Tillydrone Correspondant - The Pissing Postie

Another entry from my Tillydrone Correspondant. Imagine how much my day at work was brightened by this email:

"Left house for work and bumped into postie in the side passage to my house

Him: I've got some leaflets for you. Do you want them now or through you letter box?

Me: I don't want them at all; I'm on the postal preference service so I don't get these things

Him: Are you sure? He gives me a strange look....

I look at the floor and notice a puddle - look up the wall for the outlet pipe - there is none... and then I notice steam coming from said puddle. Gradually I realise that I've just interrupted my postie pissing on my house....

Me: Yes I'm sure...... I think my house has just sprung a leak- have you any idea what might cause a leak like that??

Him: No. Are you sure you don't want your leaflets????

Fecking pissing bastard - meant to give him a bucket and ask him to clean up but sadly it took a bit long for my jaw to stop dropping at the realisation that I have just missed seeing my postmans willie.....

One word.... EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!

Tillydrone Correspondant - Avenging Vigilante!

Another email from my Tillydrone Correspondant a few months ago.

"Was on my way to bed last night when I saw two kids checking out the car.

"I clicked the key so that the indicators flashed and they scarpered. About 3 minutes later I heard the distinctive screech of wheel spin and the same little bastards were high tailing it in a golf GTI. Phoned the police and they caught one of the little fuckers.

"Am ever so proud of myself; the residents of Tillydrone can now sleep safe at night. Sadly (at least to my neo Daily mail reading make over self) they can't do much to the kids as they were about 14. Bollocks.

"Obviously I would have them in the chain gang in the fish gutting factory but you can't have everything!

"Off to buy multiple steering wheel locks, a car alarm and a tazar incase of retaliation!"

(This was the point at which I started nagging her to have the Tillydrone Blog, but she's not having any of it. Hence my Tillydrone correspondant! :D)

Upon my return...

I go away for 2 weeks and upon my return...

I discover something.

Something I am very, very proud of.

My Neighbours Are Hoors has its first FLAME WAR! *squeals delightedly*

For the record...

1) I have no problem with the way people write comments on my blog. Doric is good. Scots is good. If anyone wants any more words added to the My Neighbours Are Hoors Glossary (TM), then that is no problem! :)

2) However... txt spk is bloody annoying 4|\||) 50 15 1337 5p34|< (although very much more amusing than txt spk

3) Fudge is teh language expert. Don't mess with her or she'll tie you in celtic knots. (Pun most definitely intended) . Irvine Welsh? Pah! Gimme Buff Hardie any time. Actually. I'd really like a version of "Trainspotting the WHAT!?"

4) Many more flame wars welcome of course - especially if they're in cockney rhyming slang, sanskrit, that language masai warriors use with the clicking, and of course... Wookie. ;)

Also, I'm almost at 30,000 hits! Bloody hellfire! Guess I'd better start posting again after my long phase of Apathy. (So marked it needs a capital A). My Tillydrone Correspondant has been having an eventful time of it in my absence, so I'll be reporting on that soon!

P.S. Bedouin bag of kittens gone now - cheers! ;)

P.P.S. Check out My Crazy Neighbour which has had a great refurbishment - Welcome back!

Bedouins.

Whose bloody golf bag is that in the hall!? It's big enough to fit a bedouin's EARTHLY BELONGINGS in!?!

I really hope this isn't going to turn into "The Lawnmower II - The Golf Bag's revenge"

From my Tillydrone Correspondant...

"Neighbour of the Hoors" (my friend doesn't actually call me this. But I CLING to my anonymity like a Big Brother Contestant does to their 15 minutes of fame...),

"Dunno if one of your hoors has been on a fieldtrip...

Was walking to work today - was running a bit late and feeling a bit brave so decided to take a detour through darkest central Tillydrone.

All was as quiet as you would expect on a Monday morning in a place where few people have work to rush to and the blossom of the trees managed to lull me into a springlike reverie. That was until I noticed that the branch of one of the trees was covered with something which was definitely not blossom. No. Someone had thoughtfully covered up the spring flowers with a beautiful black lace crotchless g-string and matching peep hole bra. Perhaps the property of a horticultural hoor or one with a head for heights and a great sense of balance???

Quiet

OK so I've not updated for a while. This is partially due to Apathy. (So powerful an influence it gets a capital letter)

However the real reason is this:

Things are suspiciously quiet down there (I mean in the brothel. I'm not about to start bitter posts about my love life ;))

It's not like the good old days when we'd have two hoors having a cat fight in the street!

Or when the madam used to stand on the doorstep looking like an extra from 1960's Coronation Street!

Or when The Dead Man would come and rant to me about "what those WIMMIN have been up to!"

I'm actually starting to wonder if they've been evicted or something... Mail is still arriving for them though, so I guess they are still in existance.

Anyway! To entertain you whilst the hoors are too busy entertaining to be entertaining... I present to you a NEW WRITER to My Neighbours Are Hoors!

Yes... my good friend who has been living over the other side of town for about 6 months has discovered that her neighbours are just as interesting. And, in fact, HER NEIGHBOURS WERE HOORS! Except they've just been EVICTED! For PRRRROSTITUTION! Seeing as how most of you know where The Grey Toon is by now, I have no shame in presenting to you...

The My Neighbours Are Hoors TILLYDRONE CORRESPONDANT.

First post coming soon ;)

BLOOD! - an epilogue

OK, so when I saw the trail of blood the other day, I automatically assumed that it was leading to our tenemment. I never considered for a minute that it might actually be leading FROM the tenemment.

Those of you who have been reading for a while may remember the The Bloody Great Screw of Death. Which I predicted, back in September last year could only lead to grief.

And so it seems it has! There is blood on the front door (and with the door being a Lighter Shade of Vomit Yellow, it shows up quite well) and someone has taken a saw to the Bloody Great Screw of Death.

So there. The Mystery of the Trail Of Blood solved.

BLOOD!

How entertaining is it to follow a trail of blood on your way home from the pub?

Most amusing! Well I found it to be amusing after a few pints... Sort of like a sordid version of Hansel and Gretel.

Skip, skip, skip! Follow the blood! Follow it past the post office, past the chipper, past the strange shop with the begonias in the window. Skip past the newsagent, still following those little red spots. Skip towards my block of flats (tennnemmmment for those of you who like to criticise my drunken spelling!) Marvel at how the trail of blood actually stops at our door.

*Stop and ponder for a while*

*Unlock the door and tear up the stairs like Freddy Kreuger himself is hot on your heals*

Steamy Windows

And on the way back to my flat from the pub, my friends tried to look in to see the aforementioned toiletries to see what had made me look so pale on my entrance to the pub.

But they couldn't see anything.

The windows were steamed up.

Nosy Neighbour

The nosy neighbour of the title being me.

Well if it's dark outside and the light is on inside (as my often naked neighbour proves) you can see in quite well. And who amongst you could resist a subtle peek?

OK, so passing the hoors window on the way out last night, the hoors had their light on and the curtain was caught on something. So, while I couldn't see into the flat, I could see the contents of the coffee table in front of the window.

One word: Ewwwwwwwwwww!

Very neat hoor this one. Perfectly lined up KY Jelly, Andrex and Baby Wipes.

By Popular Request... The Naked Man

Well, I do have some other stuff to post about, but as there have been so many requests... I will tell you about the Naked Neighbour.

No idea why I didn't post it before, I guess I just didn't bother because he's not in this building. I've been seeing him regularly for about 3 years now, and me and the nice neighbour with the cool hair were talking last week when I discovered nice neighbour had been seeing him too.

Put it this way, it's pretty hard not to see him as he puts on his kitchen lights and then parades around in "the altogether!" In the nudd!

He lives on the same floor as me in the tennement across the back gardens from us. And boy he thinks he's mighty fine!

Which he actually is. He's sort of like the fat naked guy from Friends, but not fat. He's really quite buff. But I'm getting distracted.

A typical morning will go like this:

alarm: beep beeep beeeeeep!
me: surely it's only 3am
alarm: naaah. it's 7. you have to get up. you have to get up and go to work
me: fuck.
body: noooooooo!
*gets up and goes to the kitchen*
*drinks water*
*looks up*
me: Oh my! there is a semi naked man in the flat accross from me drinking water too. except he is naked from the waist up!
semi naked man: mmmm I have such a well toned torso. this is nice cool water
me: he must have slept in. hence his lack of shirt.
semi naked man: time to go
*semi naked man turns round and walks out of his kitchen showing his perfectly formed (and naked) buttocks.
me: *gasps* !?!?!??!

Eight Days A Week (Cleaning the stairs contd.)

Following our chat about our neighbours (remind me to tell you about the naked guy), the nice guy next door went on upstairs for a nice cup of coffee.

I continued battering about on the stairs with my brush and mop in a vague attempt to get them clean. I was almost at the ground floor, my rubber gloves now a dirty shade of pink and my attractive headscarf at a slightly disheviled angle.

And I can now positively say that Cockney Hoors have been been knocked off the number-one-hoor Spot in my affection by... Liverpuddlian Hoors! (That's the ones from Liverpool for those of you not in the know).

A beautiful Amazonian Hoor (honestly, tall and smooth skinned and elegant) and a short, grinning, toothless, dumpy old woman with the general Nanny-Ogg look had just come through the door.

"Ello chuck!" Said Nanny, her eyes twinkling. "You're doin' a right grand job thur!"

I stood up and adjusted my headscarf, "Aye! Almost done, and it's good exercise"

The Amazonian Hoor gave me a big smile and said "Well it's lookin' just loovely! We're off to dew a bit of cleanin' ahrselves!"

Right enough, they were carrying Asda bags full of cleaning products. Off they went into the flat and after some happy Liverpuddlian banter I could hear the sounds of air freshener being liberally scooshed around the flat.

I'm delighted to be able to tell you that it was soon drowned out by the sound of The Beatles' Eight Days A Week.

(For as much as I love a clean hoor, I love a good stereotype even more.)

My Neighbours Are Hoors: A Glossary

Thanks to all my friends in the New World for their comments and feedback - apparently sometimes I get a bit carried away though. Hear me in real life and you'd need a translator! (Comparisons to fishwives are common). Thanks to all the commenters who helped me out with translations! (McFox, Kevin) If there are any more requests, I will oblige!

So henceforth, I proudly present...

THE MY NEIGHBOURS ARE HOORS GLOSSARY

Arsed Bothered. As in "I cannae be arsed" - I can't be bothered.

Baps Breasts or a floury bread roll.

Chav Definition once again from Urbandictionary.com. Now in the Oxford English Dictionary.

Corrie Coronation Street. A British soap opera.

Dour Of Miserable Countenance.

Foosty Rotten.

"Fuck You, You Fucking Fuck!" The best insult known to mankind.

Havering Speaking nonsense. Best word ever to appear in a song by The Proclaimers.

Hoor A Prostitute. I use it as a fond substitution for "whore." Also, a "maiden" in the Quran. That's not what this blog is about though...

Ken Not a guy called Kenneth, but "to know." As in "Ah ken!" - I know! Often added on to the end of a sentance as in "I think my neighbours are running a brothel, ken?" ie "I think my neighbours are running a brothel, you know?"

Jings, Crivvens and Help Ma Boab! Exclamation used originally in the Oor Wullie/Broons comics in the terrible Scottish newspaper, The Sunday Post. Now in common use.

Laddie Also "Loon" - a young man, a boy.

Michty Me! "Oh my goodness me!" (often said with a sharp intake of breath). Used to convey shock or exhaustion.

Min Man. As in, "Give me a break, man!" Often stuck in sentences by residents of the Grey Toon for no good grammatical reason (also Like, Ken, and Fit)

Ned See also "Chav" - A young hooligan, a waster, possibly a bit like Trailer Trash. When Britney got married in a tracksuit and ate burgers, she was a Ned.

Numpti Pronounced, "Nump-Tae" - a person of limited intellect, an eejit (stupid person), someone who continually makes (the same) mistakes.

Pissed/Pished Drunk. I could write a whole new blog on the amount of words Scots have for being drunk. and hence...

Pissheid Pronounced "Piss-heed" - a person who is a frequent visitor to drinking establishments and slavers (talks with little sense being made).

Peuk To Vomit. Something you do if you have been Pished. Something little kids like to do all over our stairwell. Grrrrrrrrrrr!

Polis Police. Pronounced, "Pole-isss"
- strangers who kick down your door in the middle of the night and shout "fuck, wrang hoos!" (meaning they have had a navigational error and are in the wrong premises.


Punter A Prostitute's Client. I've been told "John" is the American equivalent.

Quine A young lady, a girl.

Slag Slut. Woman of loose morals.

Slagging Bad-mouthing. "Slagging someone off" means you're not saying very nice things about them.

Journey Home

Now I can tell you about the journey home, one week later, from the airport!

For once the taxi was organised by the company and met me at the airport. We drove home with the usual taxi driver banter and chit-chat.

Almost all the way home and I tell him where to stop. "It's easier for you to turn the taxi round here. Just drop me off here."

He pauses. (I have to sign a chit if the company is to pay for my taxi fare). I suppose he is just calculating the cost of the fare, but no. He is THINKING.

He looks me in the eye. He hands me the chit to sign.

"Tell me..." he says edgily... "I'm new to the Grey Toon. I really don't mean to be rude, but is this a Red Light District!?"

I laugh. I pick up my bags ready to leave the taxi.

"You'll be talking about the brothel on the ground floor of my tennement then?" I give him the door number.

He looks horrified. He apologies, "Oh I'm so sorry! If I'd known it was true and that you lived there, I'd never have said anything"

So I laughed. "Yes. They are working girls."

He looks a bit white in the face, like he's going to get the sack for harassing a customer. "Only, I've picked girls up from there before and they were dressed like.... like... well! I can only say they were dressed like Prostitutes!"

(There are some words only a Scot can pronounce with such utter comedy that one would see in a 1940's Ealing comedy. I have to say that he didn't say "Prostitutes!" so much as "pRRRRosTiTutes!!!!!!" like he was about to quote from the bible)

"Aye. That'll be them." I agreed.

"Haven't you reported them to the Polis!?" he askes, quite clearly shocked at how calm I am.

"They keep the hallway clean, they smile at me, they say good evening, they provide an essential service and they cause me so much less hassle than the guy below me with the stereo and the psycho friends... The police know about them. But to be honest, there's more out there for them to bother themselves about."

He replies "Ohhhh! I didnae mean ony offence... I was just suspicious. You know! I've picked up a few lassies. Drop offs. And they were... Well... Well... They were dressed like... pRRRRosTiTutes!!!!!!

"Ah just suspected. Tha's all." He grinned.

I grinned. I wished him good day.

And went to the pub.

(p.s. we passed through the red light district on the way home from the cinema last night. Hoors were out in full force. However no one legged hoor was spotted.)

The Taxi Driver's Tale: "The One Legged Hoor!"

Just as we were sitting at the lights on the way to the airport, I asked the taxi driver one last thing.

"Now," says I. "I've heard a rumour of a one legged hoor down at the harbour. Is this true?"

I've heard this for a few years now and always thought it was just a rumour, but...

"Oh aye. There certainly is. Her ma wheels her down and leaves here there. She just sits with a short skirt and a bottle to keep her warm..."

I'll leave you to consider this.

The Taxi Driver's Tale: "The Ugliest Hoors Imaginable!"

Of course our hoors are classy hoors. (Cheeky bitches though they may be) They work from a brothel and so are relatively clean. Unfortunately the ones on the streets aren't so fortunate. They tend to be out there because of their drug habits. Often they're out there because of their partner's habits. (Mutters about making it legal, yet tries not to get into the politics of it all).

But my taxi driver was right when he said (wait for it...)

"I've been in many a city and seen many a pro... but I have to say that The Grey Toon has the UGLIEST HOORS on earth!"

I almost fell over laughing. He finished this statement off with:

"They're lucky if they've got 10 teeth amonst them!"

The Taxi Driver's Tale Continued: "Illicit Earnings"

I liked this taxi driver. He was funny, drove properly, was polite and he was free and easy with his gossip...

"Of course, I've been drivin' this taxi for a good few years now and the hoorin' business has changed a lot up here! I aye mind the days when I used to mak an absolute fortune picking up these rich oil guys fae the airport or the station.

"They'd get intae my taxi and say 'Take me to a young lady' and aff we'd go. I'd tak them to one of the lassies I kent - they were mostly clean in those days and we had no problems dropping off their punters. This American guy once gave me 100 quid! And then the lassies would often gie ye mair money on top of that!"

We mourned the fact that hoorin' has changed a lot in the grey toon over the years. We now have the only tolerance zone (I've heard it called the "green light zone") in Scotland. Apparently the business is booming. Nice to see we've got a fine replacement for Fishing, Oil and Tourism!

The Taxi Driver's Tale: "The Cheeky Bitch!"

So to continue my ride with the taxi driver.

"Aye," he says, "I wisnae going tae tak the call tae yer address! More often or not it's one of the lassies fae the ground floor and they have ye hanging around for aaaages when I could be oot makin' money"

"Damn right!" says I "Do you have to take them from the airport?"
"Aye. They come up from London, Liverpool, Manchester, Bristol, Birmingham. And there's one of them I just refuse tae tak! Right Cheeky Bitch she is too!"

There then followed a conversation about the said "Cheeky Bitch" from Liverpool who totally takes liberties. Swearing, offering something instead of money for the ride, um... I mean taxi journey. How he has to drop them off at other places in town so they can get their drugs, ken?

Many taxi drivers, especially the ones from his company, will check out calls from my street - first of all finding what number the call is for and then finding out the names.

So this is why I have such problems getting a taxi!

Damn Cheeky Bitch.

An interesting taxi ride

So this monday morning I left at very early hours to go to the airport. I'm away on business for a week. My taxi driver very patiently waited as I flapped about with my luggage and putting the bins out. We set off through the gloom of a rainy Grey Toon morning. ("Dreich" being the normal term.)

"Aff on business are we?"
"Aye!"
"Awa fur lang?"
"Jist a Wik"

(Translation for our friends in the New World:
"Going away on business then?"
"Yes!"
"Away for long?"
"Just a week"))

This is how to talk to a Grey Toon Taxi Driver. You'll get a bit of banter with most of them. This one was great!

More smalltalk followed.
"So!" says he. "Bin livin' in yer street fur a wee while then have ye?"

Oh aye, I think to myself. I know what this is building up to... The same thing all taxidrivers are wanting to talk about when they talk about my street.

So I say, "You'll be about to ask about the Hoors on the ground floor then?"

He looks shocked in a put-on way.

"Weel... I wisnae going tae mention onything. Only since you have!"

And henceforth we had a most interesting conversation! But seeing as how I'm at work and have to go to a meeting, that will have to wait for another post ;)

Hoor: A definition

While I was looking up "punter" the other day, I was delighted to find this on urbandictionary.com.

Hoor.
Irish. (although i'd argue and say it was scottish too) Can be used in both friendly and derogatory terms. (See!? I'm friendly!)
1. Whore/Prozzie.
2. Look at that young one dressed up like a hoor! And her not even 13 years old!

So there ye are.
Normal hoor reports will return asap. Just had to get that post out of the way.

What is a Punter?

Following a short discussion on my comments, it has been brought to my attention that "Punter" is a British word. I had no idea! Here were all these poor folk thinking that the hoors were being visited by "the guy who kicks the oval ball in NFL football to land the extra point after a touchdown" or "a big homos" or "a fuck up."

Sorry. They don't actually have anything to do with funny American football or even men with sticks pushing boats along in Cambridge.

I shall henceforth endeavour to clear up this matter.

According to the Oxfort English Dictionary of All Things (TM)

Punter/’pΛntə(r)/n, 1 a person who gambles or lays a bet. 2a colloq. a customer or client. b colloq. a participant in any activity; a person. c sl. a prostitute's client. 3 a point in faro.

That, ladies and gentlemen, was a html nightmare. (No idea what this "point in faro" is, but I digress."

So there we are. A Prostitute's Client.

This will also give you an explanation for the naming of the splendid "Punternet." Which is basically a "Who's Who in the world of hooring" or, if you like, "Which Hoor." (I reckon such a mag would sell very well on the top shelves of the Grey Toon).

(I wasn't going to put any links to it, in case my family read this, but I've gone over a year without them looking it up so far and I've got my Bloggy Nookie section in the sidebar, so why the hell not!)

Weather.

So.

Nothing has happened in the Hoor Palace for a couple of weeks.

So like any other typical Brit I will henceforth resort to discussing the WEATHER!

Ooooh what terrible gales we have! What terrible gusts and rattling of windowpanes!

And what a smashing of a chimney that just came down off our ageing tennement in the wind!

Onto the pavement.

Sadly missing the very posh car of some punter...
And any punters coming out of it...
And any hoors coming out to meet their punter.


Hence I present this photo entitled "NO DEAD HOORS OR PUNTERS"

(I told you it'd been quiet around here...)

In other news...

It appears that Brian's Mum from "The Life Of Brian" has moved in downstairs.

I have no other explanation for the screeching and carrying on that was going on when I got back from the pub just now :|

"He's not a punter! He's a very naughty boy!"

Or whatever...