Belated Greetings of the Festive Type!

Just back from Christmas Gallivanting - so a belated Merry Christmas to you all! :)

That Bloody Pissing Tramp

I've been try to keep my cool over this.

The Nice Council Man With The Drainrods was asking me the other week if I'd seen a particular tramp going around the area lately.

Yes. I had. "He's nae lookin' well." "He's aye drinkin Cider" "Far does he bide?" The conversation went on. Poor Council Man couldn't sleep one night because of the singing beneath his window!

I sympathised and thought nothing more of Mr Tramp.

But then just the other day I was coming out of the block of flats when I heard a TINKLING noise! No it wasn't Evelyn Glennie doing a star turn on a glockenspiel in the middle of the street. No, it wasn't a Grey Toon Fairy coming back from the pub after a hard day's wish granting.

I thought to myself "My God. Has that leaky overflow still not been fixed!?" But then I looked up the street where Mr Tramp was slumped against the tenements creating a rather turbulent flow of "spent cider" down our fine pavingstones. Tinkling explained.

Filthy bastard had the biggest grin on his face you ever did see. Not sure if he was just impressed with himself or leering at me.

Bloody Pissing Tramp.

The Taxi Driver's Tale (another one)

I really am in two minds whether or not to publish this post.
I'm don't mean to get on my high horse and think I'm better than anyone and I'm not being naive or anything cuz I do know what goes on (dontchaknow) but there's something about this story that makes me go "Ewwwwwwwwwww" or shudder or, in fact, go "Heeuuurgh!" (Which isn't a very lady-like noise).

Onwaye. A friend of mine was getting a taxi out to the airport and by all accounts she had one of the Grey Toon's finest taxi drivers. Like most taxi drivers everywhere, he was willing talk about anything and at great length too. The conversation eventually turned to the hardships of being a taxi driver. What, my friend asks, do you do when you get drunk people, violent people, dodgy people hailing your taxi?

Well this taxi driver would take them all. Drunk folk? So long as they don't peuk in his car, that's fine. Violent folk? They wouldn't bloody dare try mess wi him. Prostitutes? ...one of the most lucrative types for a taxi driver as you hang around with the meter running to take them back. Junkies going to see their dealer? Ditto.

And then he told her this story:

He was on his way back in to town when he picked up a fare. A tarty wumman and her young daughter. Now this wumman asked him to take her to a certain bridge in the Grey Toon. Now, readers, the Grey Toon hasn't many bridges and if you're local, you'll probably figure this one out for yourself. Apparently this bridge is the place to go for buying certain illegal substances, and this was a well known fact to Mr Man-Of-The-World Taxi Driver. So he dropped her and her daughter off and waited for the wumman and wee quine to totter back.

"So," he asks the wumman. "How can you let your wee lass stand there and watch you buy your drugs? Are you nae worried it'll have some sort of ill affect on her?"

"Ha!" cries the wumman, "Wee Lass!? She's Sivinteen! Half o this is fur her!"

Mr Man O The Wurld Taxi Driver is horrified for once and at a loss for words.

"Half for her? But she doesnae look 17!"

"Aye." says the wumman smugly. "And ye ken fit? She earns twice as much as me." Smirk. "Punters think she's just a kid, ye ken?"

And then, according to the taxi driver, he let the two of them off at the docks ready for a night's gainful employment.

And now I shudder and go back to my sweet and innocent life. *Couk.*


Old Hoor prepares her 17 yo daughter to go out for a night's hooring. "Ere, she looks 12 y'ken!"
Note dealer on pantomime horse in background flogging hard drugs to passengers on the Number 19 to Tillydrone.

Boaby Massage - now only 25 quid!

So there's a Chinese medicine shop at Holburn Junction...

I was sitting in traffic the other evening, preparing to run the gauntlet of drunken neds running across Union Street, and I chanced to look a a nice new shiny advert in their window which proclaimed - "Only £25! Foot and Boby Massage!"

And I wondered... Had it been an accidental mis-spelling of Body? Or even more tragically, had they been intending to offer a boaby massage for only 25 quid?

If it was a boaby massage, I wonder if the Grey Toon Polis Cuttin-Doon-On-Hoors Division should be informed?

Cosy Hoors

Yeah, I know - I've been awfy quiet of late!

Of course with the Hoors gone, there's not that much to write about! (Well there is, but I can't. This will all make sense some time in the future.)

Well... tonights post. It is written as I sit here in the freezing chill of a Grey Toon summers evening, huddled round my Bombay Bad Boy (TM). And tonight my thoughts drift towards the poor hard working girls doon at the harbour who only have their skimpy tops and "pelmet for a fanny" skirts for warmth - outfits that make the job of the Grey Toon Hoor just that little bit less cosy of an evening.

And I'm not the only one that feels sorry for them when I drive past on the way home from picking up a pizza... For back in June, the kind hearted Sex Industry Forum announced that one way to spend some of a £200,000 grant intended to "solve the problems of prostitution" would be to give the poor freezing hoors an early Christmas
gift of some nice wooly tights and toastie gloves.

See the full story over at the PeenJ - linky


'Ere Luv! You wouldn't 'ave any wooly tights in there would ya? It's bloody freezin' out 'ere!


I'm sure the punters will greatly appreciate a warm hoor of a cold winters evening.

What Could Have Been An Ethical Conundrum

People have been coming and going from Shetland Girl's flat that is up for sale, you can hear them go up the stairs.

The Boy and I were busy wrestling some heavy DIY detritus down the stairs and The Dad of a Potential Purchaser was just in time to open the door for us. (What a nice man).

He smiled and asked a few questions - like you should when you're buying a flat. Such as:
1) Do the buzzers work?
2) Does the roof leak?
3) Is the Council Tax particularly high?
4) What's it like parking outside?

All fine and well.
Happily I didn't have to lie to his next questions...
5) What are the neighbours like?
6) Is there a brothel on the ground floor?

Away went Potential Purchaser and her Dad, happy with my answers and discussing the Estate Agent's shirt.

Flat for sale!

It's been a good long time since Shetland Girl's little brother's mates (aka Busted) got a bollocking from Shetland Girl for peuking all over the stairs outside our flat(see this post) a (Also this post and this post leading up to this event). And I have to say things have been very quiet indeed upstairs - obviously Busted had been banned by Shetland Girl from renting out/squatting in/wrecking her flat and it has been empty!

On friday I came back home from Glastonbury to find a contortionist from a local estate agents dangling out the top part of the window putting up a big For Sale sign on the big windowpane below... Which is a shame because Shetland Girl (along with all the other tennants at the moment) has been a great neighbour. In fact for the first time since I moved in 8 years ago, the tenement is a peaceful place where we say hi to eachother and don't have any problems to sort out.

Now we get to start a whole new panicking train of thought. Who the hell is going to move in!?

Since I've been here... we've had drug dealers, Nazis, The Hoors (obviously), the mafia (or so the theory went at the time), a good few occasions of assault, credit card/lingerie/identity theft and numerous breaches of the peace. Before that there was reportedly a paedophile...

What are the odds? Realistically? Surely statistically we're due a pillar of the community something?

Ugh. Something tells me I'd better look up Amazon for the Usborne Serial Killers Spotters Guide

Back in a bit...

No posts for a couple of weeks as I'm off to swim in the mud at Glastonbury!

Poor Girl!

I should have posted about this a while ago but never got around to it...

I was talking a few weeks back to the young lady who has moved into the flat previously occupied by The Hoors. After a few minutes of chatting she asked who lived in the flat before her.

"Aaaah, ummm, aaah, errrr...." I fumbled looking for a way to break this to her gently.

"Och, don't worry about that! I know what TYPE of people lived here before - I just need to know what name the phone was under"

"Ohhhhh.... It was under the name of A. Madame."

"Thanks very much," she said, "only I need to phone up BT and get them to change the phone number."

There is a few brief moments as my sleepy thoughts process this information and the penny finally drops.

"Oh no. No. Really!? They didn't change the number before you moved in!?"

I look pale. She grimaces and nods. "Oh aye. After a couple of incoming calls, I soon figured out what the flat was used for."

I know what your cat has been up to

Ladies and Gentlemen. Sitemeter is a very useful (and free) tool. Never let it be said that I don't give any blogging tools free publicity.

You can see where people accessing your site live.

You can see when they access the site from their workplace (and hence I'd like to say a big "HI!" to all the uk government workers out there :)

And more to the point, you can see what they were searching for on google when they found your site.

And that, faithful readers, lets me know an awful lot about the strange people out there. I have previously blogged about "my neighbours don't like me," "what should I do if I suspect someone is running a brothel" and "How do I decorate my flat like a brothel interior." But nothing could have prepared me for this:

"Why does my female cat like to play in my dirty undies"

...

Answer: I don't know. Perhaps there is a Dr Pussy Freud out there with a comfortable couch and inkblots of balls of string and toy mice that might be able to help you out?

Either that or stop washing your pats in new Bold Non-Biological Catnip Fresh.

One of those awkward silences

So me and my mate were out the other night being Ladies Wot Dine at one of the Grey Toon's favourite establishments, Le Ristorante Poshe.

Awaiting our fine cuisine, we were few glasses into a bottle of fine pink wine and starting to put the world to rights. Neds? What's to be done with them! The Grey Toon Bypass? A shocking state of affairs! The Grey Toon Housing Market? What's the world coming to! And why the hell did they grind the Grey Toon to a standstill for months just to do THAT to Market Street!?

Finally, we got around to discussing Council Tax.

"And we've gone up to a band B! says I, indignantly. And a a slightly higher volume than usual as the backround noise was quite loud. "We used to be an A! Up to a Band B! Upgraded!"

"Why's that then?" says my friend. "Well... Maybe it's because there's not a knocking shop on the ground floor now!" I guffaw.

You know those bloody natural silences you get in public places? Just when you're shouting out something really inappropriate for the place you're in? I time it right every sodding time.

Park Nookie

As promised in my last post, here is a newspaper report from the time of the couple caught "in flagrante" in a Grey Toon park by a thievin ned. Good on them for having the nerve to report the thefts... That's all I can say!

A couple who were having sex in an Aberdeen city park, had to walk home stark naked, after their clothes were stolen. The “gentleman” involved in the open-air event, is said to have run off after his clothes were taken at Bon Accord Terrace Gardens, leaving the 23-year-old woman to walk half-a-mile home, through Aberdeen city centre. But she did cover her modesty with 3-sheets of newspaper. The evening got worse for the young lady, for when she got to her flat, she found that her flatmate had locked her out, and her set of keys were in her stolen jacket. A neighbour had to call police, who arrived to let the woman in and rumour has it that her flatmate is also her boyfriend. A police spokesman said, "There is obviously an element of humour to this story. But there is also a serious side, when someone drinks so much that they do something they would never dream of doing sober."

A typical Grey Toon sight. The result of too many Bacardi Breezers.

Remember that time there was a naked man in your back garden?

A friend's dad brought up the subject a couple of weekends ago "Remember that time there was a naked man in your back garden?"

Initially there was a bit of confusion over which of three incidents he was referring to.

Was he talking about...

1) When there was a naked man knocking on my door in a hotel a couple of years back. (No. I hadn't ordered one.)

2) The actual incident he was referring to where a young couple stopped for a bit of midnight rumpy pumpy under a bush in a park in town (not anywhere near my back garden, but I think he was referring to The Grey Toon as my back garden) and some cad ran off with their clothes for a laugh. (So funny I might actually do a seperate post on this)

3) The time a Hoor phoned the police because there was "A Man" in our back garden.

I won't bother going in to 1) or 2) here... but ahahaha... 3) is definitely worth a mention.

It was about 11 o'clock and I was just having me pre-bed cup of cocoa and making sure my night-cap was sitting demurely on me head when there was a bit of a noise coming from the back garden. I peered down. Some of the Grey Toon's finest constabulary had been called in by the current Hoor-In-Residence. It was summer and the windows were open, so I could hear the lot.

"I sor 'im I did! Froo me winda! I sorrr 'im!"

"Can you tell us exactly what it was you saw, Madam?" asks Mr Policeman (Hah. he got it wrong there. She wasn't the madame... Just one of thae hoors!) (Obviously I couldn't see them, but I can imagine him looking her up and down, taking in her undoubtedly fantastic outfit, wondering if this is all part of some punter's fantasty...)

"'E were all runnin' arand! Out 'ere! All frantic like! Not right for a wumman ter be alonnnne in 'er flat with that type runnin around!" (Pause, as Mr Policeman digests this, wonders how long she was intending to be alone and wondering exactly what "that type" must be for a Hoor to be objecting.)

She continued. "All long 'aired 'e woz! Wearing dark cloves! Runnin arand! I'd check them outhaases I wud!"

And then there was a switching on of a flashlight followed by a shriek from the over exciteable hoor who saw a shadow move or something. (Perhaps she'd been watching the Ring. Ahahaha.) The light from the flashlight bobbed about the garden, highlighting the whirley, abandoned lawnmower and the empty shells that are our sheds. Nice Mr Local Bobby then Proceeded to check the sheddies. A process which involved some murmurings of interest as the Bobby and his companion discovered The Godfather's stash*.

They prodded around in the sheds for another minute or so before there was a subdued "Ewwww!" as the WPC trod on something unsavoury and then they decided that there was clearly no one there.

"Well, naebd'y there" said Mr Bobby. "But if there's any more carrying on, just give us another phone."

"'Ain't right." muttered the Hoor as they took her back into the tenement, "Folks runnin' arand all dressed in black. Likley to give a lass an 'art attack it is!"

Poor Hoor. I'd hate to be frightened by a shadowy face looking into my boudoir. Mind you, maybe it wasn't all that sinister, maybe she should have checked the window for a box of Milk Tray...

*The Godfather was a Brando-esque, sinister, portly gent with terrifying eyes who occupied the flat the Council Man lived in. His shed was, and still is, filled with bikes and TVs (of the electrical, not ladyboy variety) and other suspicious boxes. The neighbours and I intend to have a good rummage some day to clear up space for the multiplying bikes and also to see if we can find any hoards of cash/drugs/things to sell on ebay).

The Hoor Census

Which Grey Toonser or ex pat of the Grey Toon can claim they have no knowledge of The 24 Hour Porn And Popper Shop?

Yes. I can hear you all sigh in reminiscence of the time you stumbled up there at 4am to purchase a nice apple pie, a bottle of fizzy wine for 99p and a few bags of those bizarre Norwegian cracker things that have been reduced to 25p because they're 3 months past their sell by date (not that anyone would notice because these things are like rocks anyway).

You'd probably have been served by a small child, despite the late hour and there would have been about 10 other people in there all also tempted in by the promise of cheap fizzy wine (ach, screw the licencing laws), mince pies, and sherbert dip dabs all at an hour at which most other shops will be shut. My dad once told me the only reason they keep it open is that if they close, someone breaks in.

Obviously, for legal and slanderous reasons, I'm not going to name this shop. Also I'm a coward and am scared they'll come after me and beat me up with a packet of rock hard norwegian cracker breads. Suffice to say it might just be near George St.

Anyway. It's name. It's honorific. It's called The Dodgy 24 Hour Porn and Popper Shop for a reason. It sells more porn than I have ever seen in my LIFE (except maybe on that trip to Amsterdam where I was surprised to find not one, but two (!) issues of "Horse Loving Transvestite"). They don't have a top shelf, they have a whole wall of the stuff. (And a small section reserved for such distasteful mags as Gardener's Weekly and the Radio Times.) And if you ask nicely, they have a good selection of poppers* behind the cash desk.

When I used to go in there during my student years (Sherbert DipDabs and Norwegian Crackerbreads with cottage cheese being essential for the studying mind), I saw something else in there...

For in those days, it also had a small discreet booklet. A valuable document most valuable to the punters of the Grey Toon. It hung on a rusty nail behind the door next to the wall of porn and was yellowing and well thumbed. Further investigation all those years ago also informed me that it was regularly updated with the odd page added with a staple or two to the back. I believe it was entitled "Saunas and Massage Parlours of The Grey Toon"

Even back then before my familiarisation with the GreyToon's prostitution industry, I was surprised at what a vast range of friendly services are available in our fine city...

* Amyl Nitrate for those of you wot don't know.

Grey Toon Hoors !

It is my great pleasure, to bamf you over to a fellow Grey Toonser's blog where he has achieved something I never had the guts to do. Yes folks, Darren was able to lean out his window and take photos of the hoors arranging business there! (Outside a very recogniseable blue and yellow door.)

Linky: http://moblog.co.uk/view.php?id=242474

On behalf of all the hoors neighbours of the world, Darren, I'd like to congratulate you on your
a) photographic skills and b) dedication to the cause :)

Also - a thought. She does look a bit like the Carol Vorderman Hoor. This one looks like she has teeth though.

Darren, I salute you!

Welcome to the Brothel!

I can't remember if I ever wrote about this, but we were talking about it in the pub the other night.

Once, long ago in the late 90's, we (the residents of the tenement) found out that Our Neighbours Were Hoors.

Our first reactions on discovering this? Well, they included gossiping between neighbours behind closed doors over cups of tea (and in the case of the dead man, a Tennents Stubby), reporting them to the honorable polis of the grey toon (who didn't really care), and watching the sweet little old lady across the road note down the registration number of every car that parked outside. My father at this time made a point of telling everyone who would listen that his daughter lived there and he was just doing a bit of DIY for her and definitely wasn't a "visiting uncle."

Our first emotions? Well, they varied from stunned shock to indignant NIMBY* outrage to exasperated acceptance.

And it was during this final emotion that our old upstairs neighbour, J (Hi J!), was sorting the mail one day at the bottom of the stairs when a punter was buzzed into the entranceway. I expect, so early on in our knowledge of the brothel, her immediate response was that of flight or fight. And, being a little pissed off at the growing business on our ground floor, her first reaction was to do this (in her best ringmaster style):

"WELCOME!"
"WELCOME TO THE *insert street name* BROTHEL!!!"
And then she did Jazz Hands.

There are very few good excuses in life to do Jazz Hands, and I think dear readers that you'll agree this was one of them.

Wiki link for those of you who don't know what Jazz Hands are

P.S. Typing "jazz hands" into google image search is one of the funniest things I've done... well... ALL DAY!

*NIMBY - Not In My Back Yard!

Hoorspotting

So yeah. In my last post I told you about the usual game on the way back from the cinema when you drive home through the tolerance zone. (Hoor spotting).

Well, we had just taken my friend's son to see some kids film or other and we were taking that route so we could get chips on the way home. Despite the heavy rain, there were quite a lot of street hoors out, pacing up and down in their thigh high boots, pouting and smoking and generally looking available for business.

"What are all these women doing standing around?" asked the wean as we drove past a group of about 3 of them huddling in the shelter of a phone box.

"Um. They're all waiting for taxis."

"That's a shame for them. They're not wearing very much... and it's raining" Aw. Bless.

"Ah yes. Well I'm sure some taxis will be along very soon"

"Oh, look! There's a nice man stopping to give one of them a lift!"

"..."

Why street hoors are best working after dark

When you go to the cinema down at the beach in The Grey Toon, you have a couple of options for best en-route entertainment:

1) Roll down your windows, rev your engine in a manner that will make everyone think you have a tiny penis, turn up your tinny copy of 2 Unlimited's greatest hits and go Booley Cruisin down the Beach Boulevard.
2) Go down Castle Street past the now closed Crow's Nest ("Most talked about food in the city!"), past Cotton Street, round Miller Street, down St Clement St and left up Wellington St to the big beach front car park.

The second of these routes is of course entertaining because it is The Grey Toon's Green light district and hence you can play spot the hoor (as my next post will detail) if it's the right time of day.

Last saturday though we were on the way to an early showing at the cinema and didn't expect there to be any hoors out in the clear light of day. My friend in the back seat was the first to spot one out early doing a bit of overtime.

"Hey look - I thought the hoors didn't come out until dark! She's out early isn't she? Why do they usually not come out until dark anyway?"

We drove past her in silence, pondering this.

The hoor looked like Carol Vorderman from a distance - you know, in one of those short designer dresses she wears to the ITV awards... Long attractive legs, flicking her hair over her shoulder, doing a complicated bit of long division and all that. Until we got closer and she grinned at us, her potential customers. Which was when we realised she was totally void of front teeth...

Question answered.

Where have they gone?

So here I am, writing this just fresh out of the taxi of the most easily despiseable taxi driver in the whole of the grey toon.

Pal. Don't rant to me. Don't rant to me at all. Especially about:

a) The new shops they're building at the Haudagin Roundabout.
b) The city bypass.
c) Organic Farms.
d) My choice of mechanic. He is a lovely man and not a crook. When was the last time someone fixed YOUR alternator for free?
e) Other taxi drivers. Especially the ones with the green plates.
f) Wellington Road.

And then when you drop me off after taking the slowest route possible, don't ask me where the Hoors have gone! Yes. I know you like to everything that's going on and Yes. I know you had one of them sorting out her paraphenalia (!?) in your back seat. But that doesn't give you the right to have an additional 5 minute rant and inquisition once you've taken me to my destination.

Twat.

</rant>

Come see this web page!

Following the appearance of My Neighbours Are Hoors in the Scottish Sun a week or so back, I had the following conversation with a friend through in one of the other offices:

"Heymin! Come here and see this web page!" she cries, pointing to a rather familiar site. "My Neighbours Are Hoors!!! Did you nae used to live above hoors? You and this girl should get together and compare notes! She could even report some of your hoor stories for you!"

Much laughter followed and I promised that I would, indeed, look up the site when I got home.

"Cheeky Blog of Girl In Flat"

Faaame!

I came home to many texts and emails on thursday. For this most 'umble blog has been covered in none other than Britain's top Tabloid, The Sun.

Linky: The Scottish Sun's article on My Neighbours Are Hoors

My favourite bits are

1. the title - "Cheeky" is a much underused word. Today I will try to use it all the time.
2. the bits in bold. The Sun doing what The Sun does best - summing it all up in 3 bold words, just in case you don't have enough time in your fag break to read the whole thing "Photos," "Saucy" and "Whipping" - Saucy is another word that should be used more.
3. Their photo of what one of the hoors might have looked like - I think they've done a very good job here.

My workmates particularly liked "the sound of punters being WHIPPED echoes through the tenement"

Splendid!

My mother always warned me that if I wasn't a good little girl, I'd end up on the front page of The Sun... I am more than satisfied with "page 50, next to the debt ads." Class!

Edit: I managed to use "Cheeky" 3 times today. And "Saucy" twice. (But saucy was describing our supper).

I am evil. I am evil and I will go to hell.

Well. It had to happen. You all had comments along these lines when I first announced the Hoors had gone... And it finally happened.

Soooooo I'm struggling down the street to the door of the building with a big pile of shopping when a stringy looking man in his mid 40's parks his car (badly. Honestly. Reverse parking isn't that difficult. All it needs is a little patience and a little practice.) and hops up to the front door. He gazes at the buzzer for a few seconds and presses it. He whistles a jolly little tune and waits.

At this point, as I walk down the street towards him, I wonder if the new resident has disconnected the Hoors buzzer (they had a seperate one all of their own). God knows, the place was empty for long enough with the curtains open and that plant in the window... long enough hopefully for all the punters to know the Hoors had gone. I hope he's just an uncle or electrician or something and not a punter looking for business...

The punter gets no reply and looks up at me. I approach the door with a deep sigh and make to get my keys out and excuse myself past him into the building.

"Hullo!" he says chirpily. And I KNOW. I just KNOW what's coming next.
"Good Evening" I smile politely. (I am always polite). There is a pause.
"Do yer know if Miss Jasmine* still lives here? Only I've been buzzing and got no answer"

And I'm sorry. I just couldn't help it. I could have walked away. I could have said no... But I JUST COULDN'T HELP IT.

"Miss Jasmine?" I ask loudly, "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! You mean the Bro-thel?! No. It's been closed down. You'll have to go elsewhere I'm afraid!" I smile politely again and my key has turned the lock and I am scampering up the stairs.

Karma is so going to make me pay for that some day...

* He didn't actually say Miss Jasmine. I am changing the names to protect the innocent like they do in True Life Films and in Bella.

"My Neighbours Don't Like Me"

Hot on the heels of someone googling for "What should I do if I suspect someone is running a brothel?" someone has googled for "What should I do if my neighbours don't like me."

Aww. Once again I am going to be your friendly neighbourhood Agony Aunt. (Another top 10)

1) Give them lots of money.

2) Live with it. You could be lucky. You could have undesireables for your neighbours. You know... People you don't want for neighbours? Prostitutes? Drug Dealers? Nazis? Talking from experience here you know...

3) Bake them a cake. People like cakes. They might suddenly develop a certain fondness for you... either that or decide you're trying to poison them, talk about themselves about it and then they'll all hate you even more.

4) Start up a brothel. Offer freebies to neighbours.

5) Buy some drain rods. Offer your neighbours a shottie.

6) Move in next door to Cliff Richard. He loves everyone. (I was going to write Jesus, but some people might have taken offence. Actually. Maybe "Cliff Richard loves everyone" is a false statement. See me google for "Who does Cliff Richard hate?")

7) Park considerately. (Unlike those bastards out there with their 4x4s taking up two spaces. Do we live in the country up some muddy dirt track!?! NO! We do not. Bastards. Death to everyone who buys a 4x4 or a people carrier just to go to fucking Tescos. </rant>)

8) Stop playing Celine Dion on repeat! Jeeez.

9) Stop feeding their cat laxatives. Jeeeez.

10) Become a hermit. Buy a hut on a hillside outside Dundee, put mud in your hair, grow a Brian Blessed beard, learn to drool, throw dung at passers by.

Hell Hath No Fury Like A Woman Scorned

In the lifetime of this blog, I've really just blogged about incidents and people who have interrupted my life and the private space in which I live. The hoors and the 24 hour party people, for example. I can't think of any occassion where I've gone out of my way to find something to write about.

This didn't just start when the hoors moved in. In fact, I was just thinking back to the time I first moved into this flat around 8 or 9 years ago...

In those days I was sleeping on an inflatable mattress in the livingroom because I had hauled off the woodchip on the bedroom walls in a brave fit of decorating bravado and half the walls had come with it... I had a kettle and a microwave and was living on potnoodles and every night I fell asleep after a hard days DIY with the smell of fresh paint in my nose and a dangerous amount of plaster dust in my lungs. Ah them were the days.

It was the start of summer and warm enough to sleep with the windows open. I read a bit of an article on how to remove artex, switched off the light and stretched out, making myself rather seasick. Aaaah my first night in my own flat!

So it was about 1am and I had just dropped off to sleep when I was awakened by what the papers would call a commotion in the street. A great deal of noise was being caused by some ropey looking auld culloch who I would have had to have described in great detail 8 years ago... but conveniently (and topically) I now just need to say that she looked just like Jade Goody's mum BEFORE the makeover. Really she did! Except she had the full compliment of arms.

Anyway. I spent most of the first bout of commotion on my inflatable mattress wondering what the hell kind of neighbourhood I'd moved in to (hah. I hadn't seen anything yet).

"Yer a bastard John Smith!* An effin bastard! I ken well whit you did wi that sluT (she emphasised the T) and by the time ah'm finished, the entire bloody street will ken an' a'! Ye cheatin BASTARD!"

And indeed we did, over the next five minutes, find out what he'd done with the sluT. In quite a lot of detail I won't go in to here. It's the kind of stuff you can usually find in "Take A Break" or on Trisha. Finally she finished and demanded that the silent John Smith come out in to the street and face her. Wisely, he remained inside.

"Get oot here, ye wee shite! Get oot here an face mi! C'moan oot here and stand up tae yer poor sufferin' wife ye cheatin bastard - or are ye too feart tae leave that Hoooooor of yours!?!? " - Looking back, this woman was practically a fortuneteller. Who'd have thought back then that within a few months our very own Hoors would move in.

After about half an hour there was silence and I thought it was all over and that it was safe to go back to sleep. But NO. Just as I was drifting off again, there was more to come.

"Right John! Ah'm back and if yer still dinna care enough fur me tae come oot and face mi, then ah'm gaen fur something ye dae care abooot!"

OK OK OK Wumman. I'm getting out of my bed. So I stood at my (still curtainless) windows and to my surprise was faced with the sight of all my neighbours across the road looking out of their windows at the free entertainment. This was a sight I'd become familiar with in later years when the Hoors and other had their fights in the street. To give you a better mental picture, it's kind of like a big grey granite colusseum but with Aberdonians in their underwear drinking tennents instead of toga'd roman gentlefolk sipping wine.

I was just in time too, for the entertainment was just about to begin. With the energy of one posessed, she hauled herself up on top of a dustbin and started to rip a branch off a tree. This done, she approached a rather nice car parked opposite our tenement and yelled out (as if to the world) "Right John! huv ah got yer attention now!?" before proceeding to energetically whack the windscreen with the leafy end with all the energy of a woman possessed.

After a while, she noticed she wasn't getting very far with this and jumped on to the bonnet of the car so as to cause a bit more damage. This didn't work, so the branch was flung away and she got down and looked around to see what else she could do. She spied a brick. Hilariously, it bounced off the windscreen. "There ye are, ye bastard!!!" she cried (possibly oblivious to the bricks lack of damage).

Unperturbed, the windscreen wipers were next. She wasn't quite strong enough to pull them off entirely, but did manage to twist them into something worthy of the Tate Modern. The left wing mirror was then given a kick, then a tug, then a kick, then a tug until it finally came off in her hands.

Triumphant (and quite exhausted and filthy by now) she lobbed the wing mirror at his front door screaming "Right! Ye Cheating Shite! - fit dae ye think o' that!?!" and off she strutted up the street. John Smith remained in his flat and didn't show himself to the dissapointed audience of residents who were undoubtedly awaiting his appearance for a final showdown. By the time I got up next morning, the car was gone and the angry wumman was never seen again...

*again, names changed to protect the poor sod and to protect me from getting sued

Some Advice on Suspecting Someone Is Running A Brothel

Oh, and the person who found My Neighbours Are Hoors by googling for "What should I do if I suspect someone is running a brothel?"... Here are my top 10 suggestions (in no particular order. I just like doing top 10's)

1) Report them to the police! It is your duty as a do-gooding citizen and they may let you off that parking fine.

2) Report them to The Sun! It is your duty as a tabloid reader and you may get some "lovely lolly" for your story. (Especially if local MPs or celebrites are spotted visiting).

3) Point some friendly Mormons/Jehovas Witnesses/Other Misc Travelling Religion in their direction. It is your moral duty and you may get a place in heaven.

4) Ask them what the pay is like. You may discover a new and interesting career.

5) Buy a flat opposite. Start a blog called "My Neighbours Are Also Hoors!"

6) Start rumours that its your boss/ex's girlfriend/the guy that cut you up in traffic this morning. Buy deckchair and some beer. Sit opposite their house and wait for revenge plus entertainment in one timesaving package.

7) First confirm your suspicious and then buy the girls some nice winceyette nighties. The nights are fairy cold at this time of year and while you're at it they could do with some decent thermal undies that save their modesty...

8) Write to The Sun's Dear Deirdre expressing your concerns and wait for the soft porn photo story that will undoubtedly ensue. Don't worry, they'll probably make you out to be some Glam Chick peering out of her window wearing practically nothing, rather than the nosey old biddy with a blue rinse most of us would expect.

9) I'm writing this from a very female perspective amn't I? I forgot the obvious. Ask for a Price List of their Services and if they do discounts.

10) Move into the flat next door and constantly play music that will put them off their stroke (so to speak). The Teletubbies Theme Tune on repeat, anything religious, anything by Celine Dion.

New Neighbours!

Soooo!
The inevitable has happened! The Hoors flat has a new resident!

After the tools and camping furniture vanished from the front room and a nice begonia appeared sitting on the windowsill, a shining new "To Let" sign appeared in the Hoors window!

Now I'm not saying I'm nosy or anything, but you have to admit it WOULD take a lot of self control not to phone up the number advertised on the sign, just to enquire how much the flat was going for... And so just after Christmas, I was told it was not YET up for let! (Couldn't help myself). (I owed it to you lot afterall...)

Cunning flat owners. Leaving the flat OBVIOUSLY emtpy for a few weeks. Giving the punters a good few weeks warning that the brothel had gone before leasing it out to some unsuspecting youngster.

Inevitably, of course, this is what has happened. For my dad (who finds my flat a convenient place to have a cup of tea on his way in to town) has informed me that an innocent young curly haired blond lass was moving in the other day. Being a couthy old man and a gentleman too, he said hello before heading up for a nice cup of earl grey. When quizzed, he admitted there was a certain air of purity about the young lass.

Oh dear. I feared as much.

More news as it comes in!

Research My Arse

Don't worry Laydeez and Gennlemun, I have not totally disappeared. Posts will come as and when I find something of interest to say... In the meantime, thanks all for your kind concern about the lack of entertainment I now have in my life. It has been the end of an era.

Plus - Happy New Year! (I can still say it this late on in January - and anyway, we're only just past the Olde New Year)

Anyway. On to business. I have been pointed in the direction of this report in our local paper The Press and Journal (aka the P&J, affectionately known as the Peenj). I feel sorry for the guy, but feel it is my duty to report any Hoor-Related-Business here in the Grey Toon.

COUNCILLOR ADMITS TRYING TO ACCESS HOOKER WEBSITES

A Leading councillor today admitted trying to access pornographic prostitution websites, but claimed it was all part of the job.

Martin Greig, vice-convener of Grampian Joint Police Board, spoke out after council officials launched an investigation over his computer.

Today Cllr Greig, who is also chairman of Aberdeen's Community Safety Partnership, admitted he tried looking at prostitute websites as part of research into the hooker problem across the city - but had not told anyone of his intention to do so.

He said: "As chair of the Sex Industry Forum, I have had to carry out internet research on the problem and the rise on the internet of prostitution."

He said these were "obviously pornographic websites" but the council IT system blocked access to them.

He added: "I was trying to access sites about prostitution.

"I have never been able to access any unauthorised site."

Doh!

And from one who gets many hits from people searching for "Hooker + The Grey Toon" or "Brothels In The Grey Toon," I wonder if Councillor Greig popped in by. If you did, Councillor Greig, I do hope you enjoyed your visit :)