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.