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...

Tuesday, February 27, 2007

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.

Monday, February 19, 2007

"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.

Thursday, February 08, 2007

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

Saturday, February 03, 2007

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.