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.