Seasons Greetings!

I'd like to take this opportunity to wish you all a Merry Christmas/Saturnalia/Yule/Holidays - whatever it's called in your part of the world.

Thanks everyone for your kind comments and begging letters asking me to insist that the Hoors haven't, in fact, left the building. *sob*

It's all so touching!!! *sniffle*

Oh I think I've had too much sherry...

*hic!*

Gone.

Well...

It looks like the Hoors have gone.

Pas de Hoors.

Yes. Really.

This evening when I came home, the dirty old screen was gone from the window, there are bright and shining new curtains, there is a nice pot plant in the window and the sun was streaming into the front room. All signs point towards new neighbours... Perhaps first time owners as the only furniture thus far is a couple of those chairs you get for fishing with a bit to put your beer in. The floor is otherwise strewn with woodworking tools and pots of paint.

So. Um. Looks like that's it then?

Red Light District

Just suppose the Hoors are gone... Does this mean I can put my Christmas Tree up this year with the red fairy lights I bought in 1998 before I discovered My Neighbours Were Hoors?

Am I now safe to have a red glow coming from my window?

Exodus!

Hmmm. So we came back from the pub late last night full of what Enid Blyton would have called high spirits. There are still no curtains at the hoors window.

Blind to the dangers of climbing onto window sills, the boy and I drunkenly levered eachother up onto the hoors windowsill so that we could look over the grubby lace screen, and peered in and saw…

*a pause of great drama*

NOTHING.

Not ae thing. No furniture, no carpet, not even a bloody lightbulb (for perhaps they took with them all they could get).

I'm really starting to think they’ve been chucked out!

Empty

Hmmm.
Curiouser and curiouser. After the tea drinking visit of the police to the hoors the other week, I was sent away with work and I haven't had the change to tell you of the new developments… Mainly the appearance of some flat pack kitchen units and some lino in the tenement hallway. Then on Monday night there was a lot of hoovering and related cleaning noises. Then on Tuesday evening we noticed that… the curtains were gone! OK, so this doesn't really mean all that much. The dirty lace screen is still hanging up at the window, meaning we can't peer in. But the Hoors without curtains? Surely curtains are an essential for an operating tenement brothel!?

As for all the noise and stuff in teh hallway... Are they getting a bit of um... winter cleaning done… or has the whole tea drinking police/cleaning/kitchen improvements thing got a deeper meaning? Have the hoors finally been moved on?

Perhaps they’ve been evicted! I will keep you updated.

Police Presence

Eeeeeh but it's all so exciting!

As I type, there is a couple of police cars parked across the road and the hoors door is slightly open. When I came in just now, I could hear a Cockerney Hoor asking them if they wanted a cup of tea. (2 x Milk and 2 sugars).

It was all very calm. None of the usual screaming and carrying on that usually accompanies a visit of the police to the brothel on the ground floor...

Neighbours From Hell (because I enjoy a good pun as much as anyone else)

Yeah! So it's been Hallowe'en.

And last night, in between worshipping the ancestors, cuddling ravens and dancing widdershins round our local bonfire, I popped home for supplies.

And, making a hell of a lot of noise getting in the front door (broomstick got wedged in the hinges), I obviously sounded like a punter arriving. So as I was passing the Hoors flat, the door opened - and there stood one of the more attractive Ebony Divas grinning out at me - clad in a red nightie, wearing CFM Red lipstick and boots, holding a three-pronged-forky-thing and matching horns.

Neighbour From Hell.

(gettit?)

Oh nevermind.

Anyway. I saluted her with my broom and cackled and she went "OOOOOOhhh ahahahaha! Marvellous!"
I love a hoor that observes her traditional holidays. Can't wait to see what she does for Guy Fawkes...

Pube

Now, I'm not accustomed to telling people about arguments in my private life, let alone publishing details of them on t'internet for the whole world to see... But this is relevant.

I just got locked out after going outside to get something from the car. I had to buzz upstairs to the flat to get back into the building. And I don't care WHAT The Boy says... That WAS a pubic hair on the buzzer system!

End. Of.

HELP!

OK,
I need the help of you lovely intellingent people out there!

Scroll down the page a bit to the archives and you'll see archives by month from November 2003 to January 2006. I can't figure out how to get the rest of my archives linked in the side bar!

Under "settings" under the tab "archiving" I have selected Archive Frequency as Monthly and under "enable post pages," "yes" is chosen.

Can anyone help? Maybe it'd be best to have posts grouped as 3 or 4 month blocks, but there isn't an option for this. I mailed Blogspot a few weeks back, but noone has gotten back to me yet.

Thanks!

EDIT: All sorted now! I have a nice drop-down thingie on the right! Oh, and I'd like to take this chance to apologise to aberdeenblogs because it looks like My Neighbours Are Hoors have spammed them for No Apparent Reason. *grovel*

Mamma Mia!

Hahahah!
Pardon me for such a badly written, roughly put together post, but I just came in from work and there was a short punter wearing a pair of dungarees and a flat cap and the most luxurious, bushy moustache I have ever seen!

Super Mario 4 - Mario Conquers the Hoors!

(P.S. He was also carrying one of those dry cleaning bags - I bet it was a Princess Peach outfit)

Edit: In my enthusiasm to write this post, I didn't check to see if there was a green dragon thing parked outside in the street. Damn.

Knickers!

For some bizarre reason, our wheelie-bin lid has been nicked. What neds can possibly find to do with the lid of a wheelie-bin at this time of year is beyond me... I mean, it's not even sledging season!

So for the past few days, in the late September sun, our wheelie-bin has been a veritable funfair for the seagulls, rats and other mysterious beasts of the Grey Toon. Which makes putting the bin bags out a bit more exciting than usual.

Yesterday, I risked a quick peek at the bin before I chucked our rubbish in (just in case a seagull launched an attack on me for disturbing its lunch...) Know what was in it? Go on guess. Go on. Go on go on go on...

Give up? A pair of pink knickers on a stick!

Now, I'm not sure if this was on purpose or by accident (discarded DIY offcuts, discarded tools of the trade) - but it really looked deliberate...

Barbers have a red and white striped pole, pawn shops have their three gold balls, our tenement has a pair of pink knickers on a stick.

Hurrah for advertising!

Floppsy

A punter was standing at the buzzer as The Boy and I drove past the tenement the other day, looking for a parking space. I didn't notice, because of the cars parked outside the flat what he must have been carrying...

(Yes. Mysterious, isn't it?)

So we parked and let ourself into the tenement, struggled with our shopping bags and put them down in the hallway so we could search through the junk mail for anything that might be ours. Muffled voices could be heard from within the Hoors flat. Voices which were soon slightly, yet politely raised. We hid on the landing (just to be polite) and continued searching through offers for loans and chocolate that contains negative calories (I kid you not).

"Oh come on. Make an exception just this once..."

The Boy and I shared an amused glance.

"No. I don't think so."

"But Mr Floppsy doesn't like it if he's left outside in the car alone!"

"I don't care! He's not staying in 'ere. Wot if 'e escapes? Anyway. It's a bit distracting innit!"

"I can just leave him out in the hall here. He'll be fine. You won't hear a thing."

"Didn't I just say no?"

"Please?"

"I think you'd better leave."

We tried to look busy and intensely interested in our mail as a sad man in a raincoat left the brothel. With a cage. Containing said Mr Floppsy. Eating a small piece of carrot and twitching his cute little nose. Mr Floppsy the rabbit looked intently at us with his little red eyes as he was carried off, totally oblivious to the dissapointment he'd just caused.

Sometimes the Hoors' job is just plain wierd.

* The names of any rabbit in this story may have been changed to protect the innocent. (Also, Floppsy is a funny name that makes me laugh).

** No animals were harmed in the writing of this blog entry.

Who Am I?

A couple of weekends ago, we had a most pleasant time out in The Shire. The main reason for which was to go to one of the Shire's Highland Gatherings. (However I'd better not tell you which one in case you all turn up trying to discover my secret identity. As we all know that celebrity spotting can spoil the atmosphere of the games.)

Saturday evening was lots of good food, good company and bountiful amounts of good wine and those new posh Pringles. (The crisps. We weren't eating golfer's socks.) After a while, someone suggested a game. The one where the name of a famous person is written on a sticky label on your forehead and you have to guess who you are by asking questions.

Soon it was my turn, and questions went like this:

Me: OK. Am I world Famous?
Them: You're certainly known of by people around the world.
Me: Am I male or female?
Them: Female. Probably.
Me: Am I famous for... um... sport?
Them: You probably need to be quite athletic, but that's not what you're famous for
Me: Hmmm. Am I in the entertainment industry?
Them: Yes!
Me: Mmmm. So I entertain people. Am I on TV?
Them: No.
Me: Film?
Them: No.
Me: Do I sing?
Them: Apparently so, but that's not what you're famous for.
Me: A book?
Them: *pause* No.
Me: Ooooh! You paused! Have I been written about?
Them: Yes!
Me: In a Magazine?
Them: No.
Me: In the papers?
Them: Not yet.
Me: Is this in the UK?
Them: Yes.
Me: Am I fictional!? This is bloody difficult.
Them: No. You're real. (The Boy nods emphatically)
Me: I'm not getting anywhere with this, am I? Ugh. Oh! Hold on. Am I alive or dead?
Them: Alive we'd hope!
Me: So... I'm still entertaining and wasn't famous in the past then? Am I'm still doing my job?
Them (thinking I need a bit of help): It's a very old profession... You could say one of the oldest.
Me: Ohhhh! Oh crap. Am I my neighbours? Am I The Hoors?
A cheer goes up.

Bastards.

A Friend Helps Out A Crack Dealer In Need

So a friend of mine has given me permission to tell you all about an incident down at the Castlegate last saturday night around 3.30am...

He was taking the long way home from his night-time job and was passing through the Castlegate, when he saw some poor lost looking type asking some locals where he could find a hoor. Said locals were full of the grey-toon wit and were trying to send him up King Street, towards Holburn Street or off to Rosemount - basically anywhere in town he wouldn't find street prostitution. Ho ho ho. What hilarity. What a jolly jape.

So my friend took pity on this poor chap and, assuming he was a lost sailor looking for a girl in a lonely port, directed him to the streets operating under the Grey Toon's famous tolerance zone down at the harbour...

"Awww thaaanks mate!" he said, showing himself to be local and not off some foreign boat at all...

"Ah'm just looking fur a hoor tae sell this to afore ah go hame!" and at this he held out a grubby handful of crack... "I huvnae enough money fur chips and and a taxi an' need tae sell this furst!"

He turned and walked off towards the hoors and the harbour leaving my Good Samaritan friend standing at the Castlegate with his mouth open and his sense of good will a bit battered.

On Returning Home

Some people just attract the attention of wandering lunatics. I am one of them. From an early age I have come to accept this. (There could follow many tales of being adopted on planes, trains and buses by Chinese Fortunetellers, Men of the cloth from Ghana and a Dundonian pauper with a penchant for Tolstoy... But I don't want to bore you).

Hence when I'm walking down the road with random people shouting "Hey you! Heymin! You!" at me, I tend to keep walking... just in case they try to show me their spoon collection or something.

So when I was getting the usual "Hemin! Hey! You! Youthere!" on the way back from the pub the other night (see previous post), I just ignored it. Until the guy went "Hey You! Yeah you! Neighbour!" - Well then I had to stop. Just in case it was Council Man and he was going to tell me more about the state of the hoors pants on the washing line...

But it wasn't him! Oh no. This was someone else. In fact two other people I'd not spoken to before. They'd obviously recognised me though, because one of them (drunkenly) introduced himself as the guy that had just bought the ground floor flat in the tenement UP the street. And his friend lived on the second floor of the next tenement DOWN the street (the one with the rottweilier hanging oot the windae).

"Helloooo Hellodere!" says Up-the-street. "Me an ma pal here want tae ask ye a question!"

Short pause as Doon-the-street introduces himself to The Boy (who is looking highly amused with the proceedings).

Up-the-street goes on. "See thae flat there..." he says, jabbing his finger at the hoors window. "Is it true? Is thur prossies in there than?"

Having had an enjoyable evening out, he's a bit pished and is altogether unconcerned about the volume of his question. I nod and confirm that, yes, there are hoors in the ground floor flat. I wonder what will happen if a hoor overhears and comes out to give him a good seeing-to.

"Faaaaaaaakin hell. Yon wifie in the chip shop telt me! But ah didnae believe it! How aboot that then? This area's got aaathin! It's close tae toon, there's a chipper and athin' and now I find oot we've got oor ain knockin' shop!"

"See yez round then," said Down-the street and the two off them staggered off.

In The Local

So we were in The Local on Saturday night.

I muscled my way past the man-with-the-twirly-moustache and the-man-whose-wife-comes-in-shouting-at-him-after-Eastenders and propped myself up at the bar waiting for the Blonde Bombshell to serve me with my usual glass of water and a winegum.

Who else was propped up against the bar next to me, but The Council Man With The Drainrods. (He had no drain rods on him at that particular point in time, but had a big grin and was pleasantly worse for the wear.)

After a short conversation in which he complained that The Boy was surly and should say Hello in the corridor, we discussed the overgrown back garden (lawn mower not mentioned) and did I see the state of the Hoors knickers that were hanging on the washing line? (No. I didn't. Had I seen the alledged "state" of them, I would undoubtedly have reported it here... Had they been newsworthy).

There was a pause as Council Man With the Drainrods giggled into his pint and I paid for my glass of water and a wine gum... Then Geoff Capes appeared to approach us and slap Council Man With The Drainrods on the back. (Thanks to the new smoking law, he'd been outside having a fag.) I was introduced to Mr Apparently Geoff Capes as "A Neighbour."

A big hairy Eyebrow Of Capes was raised. He looked questioningly at The Council Man With The Drainrods.

"Oh hey min. Naw. Nae aene o' THOSE neighbours!" Council man grinned, and emitted a laugh not unlike Sid James.

"This aene disnae get paid fur it."

Cheeky bugger.

Yaay! She returns!

Things have been dull Chez Hoors. As dull as the current series of Big Brother...

So imagine how delighted I was to return home to my favourite hoor! Yes! The Liverpudlian Hoor! As detailed in Eight Days A Week

So picture me, if you will, struggling up the stairs at an ungodly hour with my heavy bags full of the tools of my trade, messed up hair, makeup smudged, just generally travel-worn... and stopping to shuffle throught the Tenement Post (a lonely pile still full of loan offers from Mr Jones that died way back in 1971). And imagine, if you will, the smile creeping across my face as I hear The Liverpudlian Hoor's melodious tones as she makes an arrangement on the phone with a punter for the next day:

"Yer, yer - y'aright! Tewmorrow's greight! Fiive theirty. Shore. Feewl Massarge!" The phone clicks.

"Ere, Sandrra! Stick a bitta mewzic on willyer?"

Following last time's splendid performance of The Hoor And Her Maid Sing "A Hard Days Night," how could they top their last performance?

There was a pause and I couldn't hide my joy when I heard...

"Can't buy me loooooove! Looooooove! Can't buy me loooooove!!!"

Damn it was good to be home.

Perverts!

You disgusting lot.

I am ASHAMED of you and what you all look up on Google to find my site.

Who the hell googles for "kittens dipped in grease"? (three times!)

Filthy bastards.

The Missionaries - Part 3. Soup Soup Soup!

Bloody hell. I can't believe it's been over 2 weeks since my last post! :| I have no excuse other than I was away with work for far too long. (A whole new blog in itself...) And while there's been a couple of "Events" since I got back, I think I should finish off telling you about The Missionaries... Just while we're on the subject! :)

It was one of the hottest summers I can remember. It was the kind of summer that people write songs about and that old people get reminiscent about when they talk about the old days when we wuz just kids and all this was fields. There were endless blue skies, the air was sweet and the 24 hour Dodgy Porn And Popper Shop had sparkling white wine for 1.97 a bottle. (There I go giving away the location of our flat. But hey, I think every grey-toonser has lived near the DPaP Shop at some time in their lives. I wholly expect a conversation about this shop in the comments from Grey Toon Ex-pats...)

We spent most of that summer in the back garden - first of all studying for our final exams and then once they were over with, just lying around wondering what the hell we were going to do with our lives now that no studying had to be done.

We would carry half the flat into the back garden out of the window and straight onto the raised grassy bit... A small fridge, a TV, a CD player so we could listen to Frank Sinatra, blow up matresses... Fondue set, Cuddly Toy...

And one day just after we had been enjoying watching the neighbours dog/horse being mauled by the local tomcat (Greebo), we laid back and listened to The Missionaries cooking lunch. They had the window open because of their clean-livin', So we could often hear them chittering. (They did that a lot. It was better than Big Brother).

"Yay!"
*long pause*
"Yay! Yay! Yay!"
"Hehe! What is it Sister Veronica!?"
"Soup!"
*pause*
"Soup? Sister Veronica?"
"Yah! Soup! Soup Soup Soup! Dontcha just LOOOOVE Soup!?"
*pause*
"Oh WOOOW Sister Veronica, YEAAaaahhhh! I LOOOOVE Soup! Soup Soup Soup! Praise the Lord for Soup!"
"Yeaaaaahhhhh! PRAISE the Lord for Soup!"

So. If you ever see someone in the soup aisle of Asda chuckling and going "Soup, Soup, Soup! Dontcha just lurve soup? Praise the Lord for soup!" - then that's probably me.

Or my flatmate at the time.

Or even one of the Missionaries shopping for God.

Or just some random nutter.

The Missionaries - Part 2

So, I previously told you about when we found out about our Missionary neighbours a few years back when I was a student.

They were Mormon Missionaries and lived directly above us. They were always females and although I'm sure they all looked different, to my aging mind they were all blonde clones of Hayley Mills in her youth (or the Olsen Sisters for those of you too young to remember Ms Mills). Occasionally they were visited by smartly dressed blonde Good Mormon Boys and another neighbour of ours once repeated a rumour that "they've been up to ALL SORTS OF HANKY PANKY!" (which became a stock phrase in our household from that moment on).

More than once there was a buzz at 8am on a sunday and a rather hungover Neighbour Of Teh Missionaries got to the intercom system and went "Nyugh. Yeahr?" only to be cheerily greated with "Goooood Morning Sister Gwendoline! I've got about 5000 Booksa Mormon out here Furya!"

Other than the early morning awakenings, they really were a joy to have as neighbours - they never once spoke to us about their religion, cheered us up by their singing (which was only irritating when we had hangovers), and never made any more noise than hoovering.

They were always hoovering - For Cleanliness Is Next To Godliness.

My Neighbours Were Missionaries

So I'm back from holiday now and from what I can make out, bugger all happened while I was away. However, I feel that you, my loyal readers, deserve more than that - hence I'm about to tell you about some other neighbours I had previous to moving in above the brothel. Yeah. Missionaries!

It was when I was a student and my good friend and I had rented a flat in one of the most popular student areas of the Grey Toon. We were moving in one sunny saturday and we went to put our names on the buzzer. While we were there, we peered at the other buzzer names and were delighted to see one buzzer, not with just a name, but with a colourful hand drawn picture of a wooden cross on a green hill with a smiling yellow sun in a blue sky. Below this was written "The Missionaries!"

In a moment of youthful delight we dashed inside, found our own crayons and did our own buzzer label stating that the new tennents (amongst some badly drawn orange and red flames) were "Satan's Happy Little Helpers!" We laughed and all was fun. Everyone who came to our flatwarming that night thought it was fun too.

So the next morning we were awakened (not for the first time) by a rousing chorus (all in perfect harmony... it was like living below the Osmonds) of "His Name Is Jesus" (which was their favourite song. We soon learnt the words.)

Then there was the mad panic to get dressed and run outside to remove our hilarious buzzer sticker. Oops.

(Yeah ok, we did consider changing it to "The Newborn Converts" - but thought that might not go down too well with them upstairs)

A post in which your neighbour fails to be an Investigative Journaliste

Typical.
I go away for the weekend and exciting things happen.

I was (loudly) carrying some furniture to be chucked out down the stairs yesterday and passed the first floor flat below mine. The door opened suddenly and Lovely Miss and Master Downstairs peered out with faces full of paranoia.

"Oh! It's you!" said Miss Downstairs, "Would you like a hand with that?" And so Miss Downstairs helps me to my car with the old furniture.

After the usual smalltalk, how are you, bloody awful weather we're having, didn't the neds make a lovely pattern on the stairs with their vomit, etc... I tell her

"So. I was away for the weekend. Did I miss anything?"

"Naah. Well... Actually yes. Someone was kicking the Hoors door in at 4am on saturday... So we called the police. And the police came in for a cup of tea and hear everything. But it's ok because they were entitled to be kicking the Hoors door in"

"Really?"

"Yeah. They got the door fixed. Hence all the staples in the wood"

And so there is. The Hoors door is a door in name only. Otherwise it is just a pretty selection of splinters all held together by hope.

I really, really wonder what part of Scottish law allows you to kick in the door of a brothel :)

Is there, for example, an ancient law excusing "Menne Of The Towne In Desperate Neede Of Aye Shagge"?

Hmmmm.

Door

I'm off on holiday, but I'll leave you with this...

There was a lot of banging going on at the weekend.

Stop that. Clear your filthy minds out this moment!

The hoors were finally getting a new front door. It is a rather pleasant green and has some nice Victorian-style panelling. It looks like it could withstand a few good kickings.

Our hoors may now sleep safely at night.

Assuming they’re not doing the night shift that is.

Grey Toon Vice

I'd just like to point out that this is not our hoors. I know you've been wondering because I can see what you've been typing into Google to find me. (And I know what else you've been typing... You dirty little beggars!)

To summarise my favourite parts from the Press and Journal's report of the latest brothel raid in the grey toon...

Police raiding a flat in the west end of The Grey Toon, which was reportedly being used as a brothel, discovered an assortment of whips, paddles, handcuffs and a vice.

Officers claim to have found a wooden bench with further restraints, a set of wooden stocks and attached to the wall were allegedly nine whips, two wooden paddles, two leather paddles, a small metal vice, clothes pegs, handcuffs and more arm and leg restraints. Fantasy clothing and footwear was apparently also found in the same bedroom as the equipment.

Officers reportedly found a large wooden cross with arm and leg restraints attached to the wall and electric prods on the floor.

Oh. So it *reportedly* might have been a brothel, eh? I think there's a pretty bloody good chance!

It's the cleaning lady I feel sorry for. One minute she's hanging up the hoors smalls in the back garden, next minute she's been dragged off by our finest boys in blue for being in possession of a dangerous clothes peg...

Balls

We were having a quiet after work pint the other day in The Local. There were the usual punters… the one that looks like the geeky guy that came second in Big Brother 6 last year, the one with the twirly moustache that wouldn’t look out of place in a Kitchener family portrait, Groundskeeper Wullie from the Simpsons…

And we sat down to quaff our fine ales and scoff our chicken inna basket. Now the local is kind of split into a bar and a lounge. Prior to the smoking ban, they were two quite separate places – not really due to the partitioning of the pub… but due to the fact you couldn’t see into the bar from the lounge due to the smoke.

However, now that the air in The Local is as clear and sweet as twirly-moustache-man’s breath after a few pints of heavy and a couple of packets of pork scratchings, you can see right the way from the lounge into the bar.

And from where we were sitting, you could see two very shapely young ebony divas in short skirts, plunging necklines and totter-high heels giggling a lot and playing pool with two plump middle aged moustached men.

Our conversation went something like this.

“Neighbours?” *gestures with chip*
“Mmph?” *finishes mouth of curry and looks up*
“Neighbours?” *gestures with chip*
*Much craning of neck*
“Aye.” *Nod. Stuff chip in mouth.* “Hoors.”

Gossip: Neighbour Of The Hoors

I was over at my mum and dad's the other day and we were talking about where we used to live when I was a kid.

We used to have this neighbour. She stuck her nose into everyone's business. If someone was getting a divorce, she was the first to know. If someone's son was in jail, she was the first to know. Apparently one local girl was pregnant and unmarried (this was the 70's I think) and the woman went to the door of her mother (a complete stranger!) just to find out... to get her facts right before she went round to spread the gossip!

I found this hilarious... and almost a little unbelievable. But my mum assured me this kind of woman was common in the days when neighbours met in closes and out in the drying green and on the stairs.

"Oh! It's such a shame people like this don't exist any more!" I squealed, mourning the loss of such an amazing cultural stereotype of times gone by: The Gossipy Auld Wifie.

The auld wifie whose business it was to know what all her neighbours were up to...

Who was shagging who...
Who had a drink problem...
Who had lost their job...
Who was in trouble with the police...
And the auld wifie whose place it was to make sure that everyone else knew what her neighbours were up to. It's such a shame they're a thing of the past.

Then I paused. Considering "My Neighbours Are Hoors."

Shit.

Pot.
Kettle.
Black.

The Boy Forgets His Keys

*mutter mutter... mumble mumble...*
*drool*
*snore*
Fast asleep. Away in the land of nod am I when...

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

No! Not the polis. Not a hoor demanding sanctuary. But the boy. He has forgotten his keys.

Sleepily I let him in. "Sorry, I forgot my keys, the buzzer isn't working and my phone ran out of batteries" he gasps.

"So how did you get into the building?" I ask, when I've woken up a bit. "Was the door on the latch?"

"Nope" says he.

"Did you press The Nice Council Man With The Drainrod's buzzer?" I ask.

"Nope" says he.

"Punter leaving let you in?"

"Nope."

"Oh. So how did you get in then?"

"I stood outside and shouted up at the window until Master First Floor shouted some abuse out at me. Then he let me in. Once he found out I wasn't punter..."

Brave lad.

When a Hoor had a go at Busted

So... that sunny afternoon when I was outside cleaning my car... Not only was I approached by Bill Oddie, but Shetland Boy came out on his way to work. We exchanged the usual pleasantries, discussed the broken door ("Probably due to the high amount of traffic we recieve") and just as he was about to leave, he asked "Did you get disturbed the other night by one of the hoors?"

"Um. No?" - I've gotten used to wearing earplugs you see and could sleep through a bomb nowadays - the hoors probably haven't become well behaved all of a sudden - they just don't waken me up anymore. "What happened?" I asked.

Apparently... Busted were up to their usual nonsense - music, screaming, smashing and the like and about 4am, Shetland boy and his girlfriend heard a door open and close on the ground floor and then one of the hoors started shouting up the stairs "Can you lot bloody 'ear me or wot!?"

Well, there was no response and so she stamped all the way up the stairs in her slippers and dressing gown and then started banging on the door screaming "I've lived here 10 bloody years and I've never 'eard the like!"

Then there was what the tabloid press would call a "ruckus" and eventually she must have terrified the spikey haired little darlings into shutting the hell up.

(Obviously Busted have a far higher volume than the Nazi Ned and his Orally Challenged girlfriend, or The Dead Man when he sings.)

(Oh, and she's not been here 10 years - that would mean that the brothel would have been in full swing 2 years before I moved in and there's no way I'd have bought my flat knowing there was a brothel on the ground floor!)

Is There A Hoor In?

So... I was washing my car last wednesday. No, not doing the Liv Tyler thing... just trying to remove some of the scratches it got when some comedy genius put a traffic cone on it.

For the entertainment, I ought to do this more often.

You see, I was coming out of the tenement with my polish and my shammy and, because the bloody door is knackered AGAIN, some Bill Oddie type was making his way into the building without first being buzzed in. (NOTE: He was a Bill Oddie type because he was short, stout and bearded... NOT because he was being chased down the street by a giant kitten or anything like that). He cheerily greeted me as if he knew me. I knew what he was up to and gave him the usual nod and a raised eyebrow.

So I was polishing my car accross the road and down a bit, polish polish polish, and out of the corner of my eye I see him come out of the tenement and look up and down the street, puzzled. Hah! I thought. Either she's busy or she's out getting her nails done. Nae shag fur you pal!

So he waits there an uncomfortable amount of time and little old ladies with their shopping trollies pass and give him dirty looks and all this time he's not bothered at all and just stands in the doorway waiting for the current Hoor to come home.

Finally he gets bored and I see him crossing the street. Going towards his car. No. Not going towards his car. Ah. Coming towards me. Avoid eye contact. Polish Polish Polish. Tum tee tum. Right. He's standing behind me... isn't he?

"Scuse me!" he chirps, "Is Sharn in?" (NOTE: This would be the local pronounciation of Sharon... He wasn't looking for some sharn. Which is the local vernicular for "cowshit")

"Um?"

"Sharn. You know... Sharn. One of the lassies from the ground floor?"

"Um. I dunno. Just got home from work." Go away Bill. Godammit where are all those giant kittens when you need them!?

"So you don't know when she'll be back then? Is she out getting her shopping?"

"Um. Dunno. I just live a few floors up." Please go away now.

"Ohhhhh" he says. "So you're not... Oh! OK then. Thanks anyway!"

And off he goes.

Um. So I'm not WHAT, exactly!?

Did he think I was her maid? Did I look like I was polishing her car? Do I look like a hoor's valet? Is my car a hoor's car!? (I once saw a hoor's car in Montreal. It was bright pink and I was only 15 so I loved it. - I know it was a hoor's car because she was stretched accross the bonnet and my aunt told me it was the "working girls district")

I now have a nasty feeling of unease :(

Hoors - Nul Pwah!

Just thought y'all might like to know the Hoors (and friends) are foregoing a night's earnings and are watching The Eurovision Song Contest at full volume!

Dirty Little Buggers - further developments

Hmmm. Now that I'm back from working abroad, I can tell you about the full tragedy unfolding upstairs.

When I arrived home this evening, there was *stuff* everywhere around their flat - kind of like when we were students and the woman downstairs kept throwing her boyfriend's stuff out of the window (which was particularly amusing at the time if anyone wants to hear about it).

*Stuff* includes another 2 leaking bin bags and an armchair (that looks like it's been nicked from the local) sitting on the stairs, a blender (containing red substances unknown) on the landing and some particularly nasty pants hanging from the railing.

Wonder if they're being chucked out? How will we sleep at night!?!?!

Answer: Soundly.

Dirty Little Buggers!

Last night the boy and I were awakened from a well-deserved slumber by none other than Busted.

They weren't getting in a bit of late night practice, oh no! The spiky haired littled darlings appeared to be doing a bit of clearing up. Clearing up that, by the sounds of things, consisted of hauling an elephant down the stairs, arguing with a tramp and rounding the whole lot off by having a Greek wedding style attitude to any dirty dishes that might be lying around - specifically when they got the stuff all the way down 6 flights of stairs and out into the street and celebrated by smashing crockery in the middle of the road. And then laughing loudly.

As I left my flat this morning, I was treated to a brand new experience. Had they left a note of apology and a nice bunch of flowers? No. They did leave us all with a really, really PECULIAR smell.

I just can't put my finger on it.

Jilly Goulden would have a bloody FIELD DAY.

There's definitely a hint of vomit. Also the suggestion of past-it camembert... Some heavy overtones of ripe sock, a tinge of rotten cabbage and most definitely the exciting aroma of running stark bollock naked through one of our fine city's municipal dumps.

They've also left a nice trail all the way down the stairs and out the door to the bins - you know when the contents of your bin bags go liquid? I think that's what it is. Either that or they owed Jabba The Hut some money and Mr Slug himself paid them a visit.

Little Bastards. I'm going to phone up Kim and Aggie for their latest challenge. *grumbles*

(Note: I'm so considerate of my forn readers that I have included links to the Pop Culture Icons mentioned in this post... I'm sure you'd have to live quite some way off not to have heard of Jabba The Hut, but my mum wouldn't know so I assume others like her might be reading)

Crackdown!

A workmate asked me yesterday...
"So. Have yer hoors been shut down yet!?"

Apparently his mate is in the Grey Toon Police Force, specifically the Hoor Crackdown dept and they're going round the Grey Toon's Tennement Brothels one by one CLOSING THEM DOWN!

So we wait with baited breath. It can only be so long.

Unless one of their Chief Inspectors is a regular of course.

Hoors Auf Deutch

A friend has pointed out that Hoors now come in German! :D (Oh go on. Make your own jokes)

German Hoors

Stigma

Some guy that works with us has just returned after a long absence. He joined the usual group for lunch.

To give him credit, he did manage to restrain himself a full 10 minutes before asking "So! Still living above the Hoors?!"

Sob!

cock.

I come home from a hard night's doing-what-I-do-of-an-evening (keep it clean guys) and try to park somewhere closer to my flat than... say... STONEfeckingHAVEN!!!

Can I?

No.

Why?

Because some fecker has parked his car outside the hoors flat - taking up TWO SPACES!!!

I'm going to go right down there and draw a cock in the frost on his windscreen. With a finger dipped in grease so he'll never get rid of it.

HAH.

SB 04-100 Smoking, Health and Social Care (Scotland) Bill - Smoking Ban in Certain Wholly Enclosed Public Places.

To keep topical, I really should have written this post on Sunday when Scotland's ban on smoking in public places began. But sorry. I was busy.

For those of you unaware, as of Sunday March 26th, smoking is now banned in enclosed spaces such as workplaces, pubs, clubs, restaurants, shopping centres and social clubs.

The boy and I skipped back from the pub on sunday, stench free and clear of lung.
Workplaces and social clubs, eh?

I wonder if the smoking ban includes brothels?

The Hoors flat has more than three walls. Does this mean that the punter will be charged an extra 50 quid if he is found smoking there? Will the hoor herself be charged an on the spot fine of 200 quid for not stopping him?

Will punters be forced to stand outside in their kecks for their post-coital fag?[1]

Just wondering...

[1] Note for Americans. Fag means cigarette in Scotland. Don't get confused.

Relating to the last post....

So when I was doing other blog related stuff, I did a search on "UK Prostitution"

And on the RHS under Google Sponsored Links?

Prostitution

Compare Prices and find great deals
from thousands of UK shops.
www.shopping.net

Another Comedy Google Search

I'm still cackling at this Google search that led someone to My Neighbours Are Hoors earlier today -

"Where have all the prostitutes gone in Birmingham?"

A question truly worthy of asking Uncle Google. I will give you an answer. Downstairs. The lot of them. All servicing punters and organising tricks in their black country patois. You can barely move down there for Birmingham Hoors!

Sorry Birmingham. Perhaps you can steal some Hoors from Kings Cross? Maybe like a Hoor Experience Placement or something? Maybe put it on their CV...

This post will only make sense to a few Brits of the right age...

I'm sure I must be wrong here... But I swear I just saw Captain Sensible putting rubbish out into one of the big communal bins...

Traffic Cone

I'd just like to take this opportunity to thank the comedy genius who was kind and thoughtful enough to leave a traffic cone on my car this morning.

Truly sir (and I have no doubt you are a sir), you are the funniest man that ever lived.

Ahahaha.

The Boy's First Experience

"I think I saw a punter today!" cried The Boy when I got home from work the other day. He seemed quite surprised by this.

Actually, people are often surprised by the fact that I often come across punters during my comings and goings from the flat. There's a brothel down there. Men come to the brothel to have sex with women for money. To do this, they have to enter the building. To enter the building, they have to ring the buzzer and wait. They have no powerful ability to turn themselves invisible or turn themselves into a mist so they can enter through the letterbox.

Unless X-Men are so shunned by society that they find themselves coming to the Grey Toon for a bit of company. I don't know.

Anyway. The Boy left the flat and found an old man standing there. The old man asked him if this was "Address Of The Hoors, The Grey Toon" and The Boy replied that yes indeed, it was. Then the old man kind of shuffled around in an embarrassed manner.

Poor guy. I do hope he didn't think The Boy was a Rent Boy and that he'd come to the wrong kind of establishment...

Hooer's Flooer

I should have posted this last week, but I was aff gettin' pished in London.

I was saddened to observe, last wednesday the 15th February, a rose. A crushed rose lying in the gutter outside the hoors window.

I shan't spoil the bittersweet feeling you're all undoubtedly having right now by making any smug observations.

(P.S. Where is our favourite hostie's blog?)

My Readers Are Plumbing Fanatics

Never did I think I'd get so many questions about drain rods! There have been other questions which I suppose I could answer too.

I could just add these to the FAQ, but can't be arsed.

So.

What is a drain rod?
Well! I'm glad you asked. I bet there are 1000's out there who don't know what a drain rod is. I think it's kind of like a pipe cleaner. In the same way that a pipe cleaner cleans pipes, I believe drain rods clean drains that are blocked. You can see some lovely pictures of drain rods here you deviants. By the way, I didn't realise until I was old-enough-to-know-better that pipe cleaners are for pipes that you smoked. For years i wondered how such a tiny bit of fuzzy wire could clean water pipes. OK. You can laugh at me now.

What is The Council?
They're the guys that run the grey toon. Yeah. kind of like a local government. Very good at spending taxpayers money and getting into scandal and stuff like that. Council man works for the council. I'm not quite sure what he does, although I'm pretty sure he does something useful for them like fixing broken things or cutting grass or something, rather than wearing a chain round his neck and having affairs with secretaries.

Am I John?
I got the comment "If your neighbors are hoors, then you must be john" (sic)
I'm not sure if this is a pun on the word John? Or if you think I'm some bloke called John who also lives above a brothel in A Grey Toon. I am not John. I reserve the right to my anonymity and the right to go on with my life without ending up with a hoors fist through my osmond-perfect teeth.

Ok. That's your lot for now. I will get on to what else I heard about our neighbours at that meeting eventually!

What People Have Been Googling To Find Me This Week

Right. OK. So a lot of us bloggers have sitemeter to track where most of our hits are coming from?

These can be very englightening. This is how I know that a surprising amount of you find me through our common inability to spell Suzie Quatro properly.

Today someone in New Zealand found my blog by Googling for "My Neighbour Just Hung Himself."

Dude.

If you're old enough to connect to the internet, then you're old enough to know that when your neighbour commits suicide, you should be calling the emergency services. Uncle Google may be everyone's friend, but in this case, not your first port of call.

Frozen Punter

It has been a touch on the chilly side of late. The rivers have been frozen for the first time I can remember and there are all Victorian people skating about. (OK. There aren't, but the bus journey to work is a long one and my imagination gets a bit out of control sometimes).

I've explained in the past how I can come home from work and see a punter at the door waiting to be let in. Sometimes I just hang around accross the road, giving them privacy, until they go in. Sometimes I'm too impatient and just shove past them with a bad attitude. Sometimes you can play with them too!

Like yesterday. I approach from accross the road wrapped up against the -7C breeze. A man in one of those very thin white shirts (and trousers and shoes too obviously) is outside looking like he's going to go up and press the buzzer. I'm in one of those "Sod you pal, it's too cold for me to be concerned about your shyness for paying for sex" moods. So he sees me coming and shows a great deal of interest in a drainpipe. I approach and get my keys out, wrap my scarf even tighter round me as my cold fingers fumble for the lock. He shivers. His teeth chatter.

Then the little devil on my left shoulder nudges naughty thoughts into my head. The little angel on my right shoulder actually appears to be on the little devil's side too and eggs me on as well. Oh! What's that? Is my mobile ringing? Cue lenghthy fumbling in bag. Oh me oh my! I seem to have forgotten how to use it! Seconds pass. Frozen punter has lost attention in the drainpipe and is now avoiding my glance by examining the wheels of a parked car.

The little devil on my left shoulder giggles and prods me on with his spikey red fork thing. Time to fumble for my keys again. Oh! Maybe I should check the wheelie bin. Chatter chatter. Shiver shiver. Stampy stampy of feet.

I eventually felt sorry for him and let myself into the block of flats so he could approach the hoors' buzzer again. Poor guy. I went inside and flicked that little devil off my shoulder.

So. Lesson for all you punters out there. LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHERS. It's a bit nippy out. If you're going out looking for a hoor, wrap warmly or you will CATCH A CHILL!

That is all.

A post in which stories are postponed and I have a RANT about new issues

Right. OK. I was finally finding time from my busy schedule to sit down and write a post. I was going to answer some of the questions you've been asking in comments. (Such as "What is a drain rod" and Am I John?") But now I am going to do a LiveJournal on you. I am going to have an online STROP.

Often I think I'm going to have to face facts that the hoors aren't as interesting as they used to be and that hey, ho... it's going to be the end of "My Neighbours Are Hoors." (I'm currently persuading my friend to do a blog about her neighbours that like to set fire to things as a potential replacement, but she's only got as far as mastering ebay and we're taking it one step at a time.)

I was thinking a few weeks back about my closing post... about how all the horrors of the past have moved out and how 7 out of 8 flats are full of normal people and how the Hoors have been on a Hoor Behavioural course.

I even commented today to a work colleague about how peaceful things are chez Neighbour Of Teh Hoors (i.e. me) ... And then I came home.

Little Fuckers! The Nasty Horrible Little Cretinous Pieces of Shit! The Unbelieveably Disgusting Little Morsels of Dog Crap!!! Fuck Them The Fucking Fucks!

There is peuk ALL OVER THE SODDING STAIRWELL. (Americans: I have added Peuk to the Glossary)

And who slept through it? Me. I'm so damn hard working, you see. Either that or it's the earplugs I've been wearing because the boyfriend's snoring is so loud. The Boy sleeps so soundly that even my poking him in the ribs to stop snoring doesn't wake him. The noise of vomiting teenagers is hardly going to rouse The Boy.

Anyway. So I got home and The Neighbour With The Cool Hair had been out the night before and had missed it all until he came in this morning.

It seems that Shetland Girl's brother wasn't in to recieve his evil little friends last night... and so they just made themselves at home on the stairs. They had pizza. They had coke. They had chips. And then their stomachs didn't want such quality morsels in them anymore so they peuked everywhere. Gads. I mean Yuck. I mean... you manky little Fucks!

Shetland Boy's girlfriend, like me, was fast asleep. She's out there right now heroically CLEANING and thus earns my respect and worshipping. Shetland Boy came home at 4am and tried to find them so he could beat them to a pulp, but they were long gone. Shetland Girl is out there at this very moment on the phone to her brother (who is still AWOL) demanding that said friends be brought to justice.

The Residents, meanwhile, appear to be forming some sort of Peuk Justice Force. Any further appearance of said friends will result in PULVERISATIONS! PAIN! LOTS OF PAIN!

I'm going now. I need a drink.

Comments

OK. It looks like I've finally sussed out why I was getting no comments. Turns out I switched on the "moderate comments" thingy on haloscan. And here I was thinking nobody loved me! *sob*

So now I have all the comments from way back in the dawn of time to enjoy over and over.

I'm off to play with haloscan now. More on teh Hoors later