Hoors? Yeah... Hoors. Prostitutes, Tarts, Hookers, Ladies of Negotiable Affection, call them what you will. For 8 years or so I lived in granite tenement. My Neighbours Were Hoors. Sadly for us all (!?) the brothel was closed down and I moved out of the area. I never did get around to writing about the court case though...

Sunday, June 18, 2006


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.”

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