Christmas. Ah Christmas. The Festive Season. Yule. The Season of Overindulgence, and in my case... The Ceremonial Eating of Cheese.
Sorry Girlies. I could give up Chocolate. I could never sully my tastebuds with Cadbury's ever again. I could skip past the Bournville Factory, twirl past the cocoa fields of this earth and, verily sprint, past the combined chocolatiers of Belgium, Switzerland, Austria and your deepest darkest imaginations... For I have an alternative. And that alternative is CHEESE.
This year was the year that Everyone Got The Hint!!! Stilton... Dolcelatte... Edam... Haloumi... Brie... The smellier the better. The packages had sat under my tree, disguised as socks, for days and weeks... until Christmas day when they were set free! Opened! And then swiftly shifted to the fridge with the comment "Oh Shite. I bet they've gone off." And gone off they had. Blue!? They were Indigo! Moulded? They were Rancid! And I consumed my cheese, "Oh my Darling Cheeses!" with glee!
If you're from my work and you're reading this. Yes. I know. You thought I was joking and I'm not. I tried to give it up once... I got THE SHAKES. I went COLD TURKEY. And I found my soul to be weak - oh, weak! Ohhhhhh gorgonzola how I love thee.
Anyway. I'm digressing big scale now. Num num.
Cheese. Dreams. Those are no old wives tales! Cheese does indeed give me odd dreams - as does Red Bull. I often think that in times gone by, I'd have been seen as a Seer on account of my prophetic and truth-telling dreams. (Until the day I run out of cheese and get hounded out of the tribe, having to make a living as a swineheard).
And the dream I had last week after my post-yule Fromage-Orgy?
Well! Sit yourselves down my children and prepare for my tale...
I had lost my job. Maybe a turn in our industry, or maybe just "cost cutting" - I dunno. The dream didn't specify. There was only one way to pay my bills and a job in Asdas wasn't considered. Perhaps the fluo green uniforms would have clashed with my hair. I don't know. But in this dream, I was to become what I blog about on a regular basis... I was to become a HOOR.
Of course, in this dream the Green Light district was long since gone and I found myself lurking around the lower reaches of Market Street in the freezing cold Grey Toon winters gloom. I have to point out that I was ae Classy Hoor. In pinstripe. I might have had a bustle and one of those little Victorian hats, but we can put this down to the cheese.
I walked back and forth. It was absolutely baltic! My fellow hoors weren't being all competitive over their turf, but welcomed me to their most accommodating collective bosom and tsk'd and clucked when I told them my tale of woe and job-less-ness. In my dream I was surprised to note that most of them had their own teeth. It was raining, we had to pee in doorways and we had to hide whenever the police went by, but eventually a car drove up. He rolled the window down and leant out. He had a ridiculous handlebar moustache, but I stifled my dream-giggles and started to say my long-practiced lines that I'd learnt from my fellow hoors, The Bill and Band Of Gold (and possibly an episode or two of Sharpe, from the accent) ... "Ello Sir, Are ye lookin' for business?"
Just then my company's van screeched up and the punter glanced round and accelerated up Market Street towards Torry. I panicked - but for no reason. It was just my ex-workmates who had brought me a flask of tea. I was most grateful, but begged them not to tell anyone (How Dickensian that sounds!).
Off they went and I drank my tea, bemoaning a splash of Earl Grey on my pinstripe Hoor-Outfit and sharing it with a couple of my hoor friends. We'd look out for eachother.
But then... A Limo approached. Not any limo... not the kind hen nights and teenagers get for their birthdays, but a Limo. A vehicle of Class. The window whirred down and a man sat there holding a glass of champagne. I wondered for a minute if it was a Dons footballer, but his hair was too coiffured, and there was something familiar about those beautiful white teeth!
He smiled and asked me if I wouldn't mind helping him "entertain" his friends back at his penthouse. I did my best to elegantly lower myself into the back of the limo, desperately wishing I could come up with some better topic of conversation than "Balmedie eh? Fit a Shambles min!" I was quite confident that I could engage anyone in intelligent Balmedie-related Golf banter, however. Just so long as I could remember my " The Rain In Spain Falls Mainly on the Plain."
But within no time, we were arriving at the hotel and I was marveling at the deep pile of the carpet on the way up to his penthouse. (Couldn't have been THAT good if there was no lift. Honest.)
I got there and settled on a sofa. A sofa so soft I almost dissolved into it. I considered that if Mr Trump were to pay me, I'd never have to Hoor myself on the Streets Of the Grey Toon Again... and then I wondered what was to come next.
A maid entered. A packet of Jaffa cakes was laid quietly on the coffee table. Mr Trump smiled.
All he wanted me to do was watch him eat Jaffa cakes.
While he was Nekkid.
Then I woke up.