Hoor Haiku #1

Well the hoors have been quiet for a wee while now... So I thought I'd brighten up my blog a little by the introduction of a new medium: The Haiku.

According to http://home.clara.net/pka/haiku/haiku.htm,
- a haiku usually has 17 syllables, often in the form 5-7-5.
- a haiku can describe almost anything
- you seldom find complicated themes in a haiku.

In fact, according to http://www.toyomasu.com/haiku/#howtowritehaiku, "some of the most thrilling haiku poems describe daily situations in a way that gives the reader a brand new experience of a well known situation.

Thus educated, I present here my first attempt:

my neighbours arehoors
men they service in their flat
cockney hoors are they

Search Engines

This is going to be a very short one... I've just signed up for this thing where you can find out how people are linking to your site... and I found a lot of funny stuff - thanks to everyone linking to me! :)

But the best was this...

A google search on "brothel" and "interior decorating"...
...


...

...
(stifles a giggle)

Interesting Social Experiment

Coo!

According to Blogshares, My Neighbours Are Hoors is categorised as "Social Commentary."

Does this put me in the same league as The Baghdad Blog and Charles Dickens?

GAAAAH! part 3.

Well...
The door HAS been fixed.

But it has been fixed by a Bloody Great Screw of Death which is protruding through the outside of the door by at least 1 1/2 sharp centimeters... I'm considering going down with a wee hammer and flattening it's sharp nastiness or just sawing the tip off. (I feel you men cringe).

Hmm. I wonder...

If you're in Asdas and there's a foosty old cabbage on the floor and you stand on it and go skiting off into the display of chicken curry pies thus dislocating your shoulder... Then you can sue them right? And I assume they must have some sort of insurance?

So. If you're a punter and there's a foosty old sharp screw sticking out of the brothel door and you lacerate your hand on it... What then? Can you sue a Hoor? Do they have insurance for bad screws?

Gaaaaah Again

Since last night, the rest of the lock has been ripped off the door and thrown on the ground.

The hall outside the Hoors and Council Man is flooded.

I mean... WTF!?!?

Gaaaah!

Just before I went away for the weekend, I was delighted to find the door to the tennement had been fixed. I was going to fluff happily on about it when I got back. I was going to stick up a notice thanking the fix-er for his/her hard work. That was on friday.

BUT!!!

I come home today and what do i find? Some bloody bastard has kicked the door in again! I mean... HELLO!?!

Just because your druggie mates don't have a key to the tennement it doesn't mean you can just kick in the newly fixed door!
GAAH!

help wanted

So... does anyone know of a web page where you can "dress up" a "doll" ?

You know... like when you were a kid you got those cardboard doll things and then cut out clothes to put on them with silly paper tags... They always fell off and then got sucked up the hoover leaving poor cardboard dolly displaying her carboard qualities to the world...

Anyway. Somewhere on the net there MUST be something like that... If anyone knows of on - then I can have a dress up hoor dolly and copy our hoor's outfits everytime I pass them in the hallway.

Let me know!

Gardyloo!*

My Neighbours are Hoors - and 18th Century Peasants!!!

Or so it seems anyway. You come home from a wedding. You park your car. You get out of your car and as you are locking it, you sigh as you hear the 24 Hour Party People partying with the window open. You grumble as you make your way down the street to your tennement. You panick as you hear them go "Heymin! Dinna bother waitin' fur him tae get oot! Just CHUCK IT OOT THE WINDAE!"

Was I being paranoid that I panicked and crossed the road and waited 5 minutes in the shadows before daring to tiptoe across the road and up to my flat? I didn't get covered in a bucket of pee though.


* Gardlyloo. (gär' dè lòò'). interj. (a cry formerly used in Scotland to warn pedestrians when slops were about to be thrown from an upstairs window.) [Anglicized form of F gare (de) l'eau beware of the water] (Webster's New Universal Unabridged Dictionary, © 1989 - Dilithium Press, Ltd.)

I'm Not Alone!

J, who used to be my upstairs neighbour just mailed me the following article which appeared in the local paper while I was away.

It seems that I am not alone in being teh neighbour of teh hoors... perhaps I should keep my eye out for similar blogs in my city! :D

Placenames have been changed... to protect the, um. City reputation (?)

"POLICE IN CRACKDOWN ON RENTED FLATS USED BY CITY'S PROSTITUTES


16:00 - 21 August 2004


Police have launched a crackdown on brothels in The Grey Toon.

Letters have been sent to solicitors and letting agents after police found people are letting properties for themselves then sub-letting them to prostitutes. Two women have been reported to the procurator fiscal as a result of the crackdown.

Three addresses were given in the Hardgate and Union Grove area of the city, where flats were being sub-let to prostitutes who were using them as brothels.

Grampian Police's Detective Chief Inspector Eric Leslie said: "As a result of this information we found that people are renting properties, which they themselves are leasing from agencies, to prostitutes to make money.

"In effect these people are party to habitual prostitution, which is an offence.
"We sent out the letters to raise awareness among businesses in The Grey Toon who are letting flats in the city.
"I felt it was important that they were made aware of what was happening.
"Officers have been calling round as well to let them know.
"The letter tells them that if they are aware that this kind of activity is going on they could be committing an offence."

Police discovered that some people are sub- letting the flats to the prostitutes for around £600 to £700 a week, more than they would be paying the letting agent in rent.

Investigations are continuing into the problem. But police are also hoping that if any solicitors or letting agents discover that people are breaking the law that they will contact them.

Another part of their ongoing investigation is newspaper advertisements placed by prostitutes. Hookers are using some newspapers to advertise "massages".

Within minutes of contacting one of the adverts in a national newspaper we found that a massage could cost around £40 but a range of "extra" services were on offer. Without further prompting a list of extras was given, including sex for £50 for half an hour. One woman who answered another line said that for an hour with one of the women it would cost £100. She said they had a number of women on offer. We passed our information on to the police.

DCI Leslie said those sub-letting the properties were charging the prostitutes a fortune in rent.
He said: "They are making a lot of money from it.
"It is a problem which we are addressing and, with the assistance of many others it is a problem that should go away.
"As you have discovered some girls advertise in newspapers with mobile phone numbers under different services.
"This is also something we are looking at."

DCI Leslie said that most of the prostitutes operating in The Grey Toon were from London, Manchester and Liverpool. But police have also found foreign nationals working as prostitutes in the city.

Prostitution is not just a problem within flats in the city. The Grey Toon still has a problem with prostitutes working the streets around the harbour. The Grey Toon has introduced an experimental tolerance zone to combat the street prostitution in the city. The zone covers St Clement Street, Miller Street and Church Street. If girls stick to working in these areas they are left along by police - if they step outside it they are arrested. A prostitute drop-in centre has also been introduced in the harbour area. The centre provides information about stopping or reducing drug-taking, employment and housing. The centre has two members of staff who are aiming to build up a trust with visitors.

However, a similar tolerance zone in Edinburgh no longer operates. The zone in Leith was axed after complaints by locals. But Independent MSP Margo MacDonald says that since the tolerance zone was scrapped assaults on prostitutes had soared 10-fold.

My conclusions?
1) I'm really quite privileged to have these fine women as my neighbours
2) You don't need good grammar or spelling to work for the local paper...

A Falling Out

I'll keep this brief because, to be quite honest, I haven't a bloody clue what was going on last night...

I was woken up at about half three in the morning by bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang... (of the slamming on door kind, not of any other banging the hoors might be doing) and to start off with i didn't even realise the screaming was in english...

So it took me ages to wake up and figure out what was happening (as usual) and I figured out it was this:

1) two hoors work in the ground floor flat together (rather than one hoor and one welsh dumpling).
2) Hoor one has nicked 100 quid and run off with it.
3) Hoor one has shacked up with the 24 hour party people and is refusing to come out.
4) This is why Hoor two is now banging furiously on the door of the 24 hour party people and why I am not getting any sleep.


Evidence for this conclusion:
1) hoor number two banging on door of 24 hour party people in what I figured out to be a Yorkshire accent going "Come out ya bitch! That's my money too you know!"
2) Hoor number two going "If you don't come out I'm phoning the
police!"
3) Hoor number one and 24 hour party people keeping very still and silent.
4) Hoor number two making a very loud and pointed phonecall to the police featuring the following quotes:
- "Hi yes. My friend has stolen 100 quid and has shacked up with the wierdo druggie upstairs. She's not coming out"
- "No, we're both from leeds. We're just staying here with a... friend."
- "What do i want you to do about it? I want you to go in there and get me bloody munnee!"

I got names and ages and everything... but I won't use them. That'd be crass.

Google Whacking

Sadly "Welsh Dumpling" is not a true Google Whack. Use inverted commas and this web page is the only result, but if you don't use them... This is the 12th result.

ooh and if you put in Hoors and Neighbours, I am most of the results! Me and religion.

God I'm bored.
+

The Welsh Dumpling

I was thinking about The Welsh Dumpling and how she's not been seen for so long.

She used to be the Madame of the House (of Negotiable Affection) and, sadly, I only ever had one encounter with her.

I was happily skipping down the stairs in my steel toe caps (which I wear for work, not for kicking people) at 7am and poor sleepy-headed Welsh Dumpling opened the door to the Hoor's flat.

"Good Morning" she croaked in a beautiful Valley lilt (honestly, she did!) "Do you live above me?"

I stopped on the bottom stair. I was Torn between being amused at the Welsh Dumpling (whom I'd read about on the "Which Hoor" webpage - see my post on 15 March 2004) and being guilty about waking the poor woman up. "No, I'm two floors up," I said.

"Oh right," she said sleepily. "It's just that... Well. I know that we ladies here can hardly complain, but whoever lives up there (she points), makes an AWFUL noise - and we're lacking our beauty sleep you see." (You have to read this in your head like Gladys from Hi De Hi to get the full effect)

I apologised for skipping about in my doc martens and told her he (the guy on the first floor) had sanded his floorboards and that was what was making the noise. She smiled and vanished back into her boudoir.

Now. I was delighted to find that the Welsh Dumpling was actually Welsh... and I can imagine that, in the eyes of some old punter, she could be a dumpling... but I have been thinking... And the results of my thoughts were this:

An equation. To describe the welsh dumpling (who is in one word, matronly.) And this can be summed up by the following graphic:


The Welsh Dumpling = Annie Walker off Coronation Street in the 80's + Peggy Mitchell off Eastenders in the 90's + Wales. (There may have been a bit of Tammy Wynette in there too, but I can't imagine the Welsh Dumpling standing by any man for more than 45 minutes.)

Silence

The text equivalent of a tumbleweed rolls across my weblog.

I have been away for 3 weeks and there has been nothing broken, nothing stolen, no grafitti daubed, no car scratched, no credit cards nicked, no dead hoors in the newspapers, no windows smashed and no dog turds on the doorstep.

As part of my Pavlovian response... am I happy? Am I relaxed? Comfortable in my home environment? Chilled out? Pleased to see no death, vandalism, theft, vice or other chaos?

No. I'm bloody Suspicious. That's what.

Massage

I can't believe I've never told this story!

So...
This one day I was coming down the stairs about 4pm. It was a bright and breezy saturday afternoon and I was absorbed in checking my mail. I trotted down the tennement stairs and I took a bite of my apple and read a postcard as I approached the tennement door. (Artistic licence). I flipped the latch and opened it... still absorbed by my (genius) postcard.

Outside there stood a meek and gentle man. He was short in stature with a childish chubby face and a puzzled expression. He was perusing the buzzers.

I stopped on the step for a brief second as I saw him. He looked confused, guilty, panicky and then appeared to reach some sort of conclusion all in the space of one second.

"Aaaah... ehhhh... Hello!" He said. He grinned. It's a stereotype, I know. but it was a sheepish grin.

"Hello." He said again. "I was told there was a... ehhh... Massage Parlour! In this here building" he grinned again, this time triumphantly.

I admit to rolling my eyes and pointing to their buzzer. If I was a liar as well as a storyteller, I'd have told you I pointed to the buzzer of the 6ft 4 bodybuilder on the 3rd floor.

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nightime

A post being written purely because of the suitability of the Title.

It's hot just now so I'm sleeping with the windown open.
At 4.30 am this morning I was awakened by the sound of heavy breathing in my ear!

Well! This was an unexpected turn of events... However, as my brain slowly switched on, I gradually woke up to the fact that the noise was coming from outside the window and that there wasn't a panting axe murderer in my bedroom.

Fully awake I pictured some poor dog who had been tied up to the wheely bin outside our house who was (by now) pining for his otherwise-occupied master.

Right enough... at 4.45 I could hear the lovable-cockney sounds of our friendly neighbourhood hoor coming out with her punter. "Awwwwwwww innee luvvely!? Ooo's a good boy then!"

Pooch-luvvin' hoors :) yay!


Why doggies are tied outside to wheely bins and not allowed into brothels.

My idea - the decision

Ok. I am going to put them on the washing line. I don't want to insult the hoors or anything. But I suspect they cater for fetishists - and I'm pretty sure one of their customers likes to steal things off washing lines.

The scenario -

1) Hoor goes out to put out her washing to dry. Hoor gets holiday gift. All happy.

2) Other neighbour goes out to put out their washing to dry. Finds present. Thinks it belongs to the Hoors. Much hilarity ensues. All happy.

3) Underwear-stealing punter goes out to steal underwear. Steals thong. Punter happy (and presumeably hoor also as she knows someone is impressed with her standards and has thus labelled her "professional")

I'll have to wait a few weeks to do it because I can't get into the drying green at the moment. Mysterious, eh? ;)

Being Known

I went to the hairdressers yesterday. After chatting about the usual things... the hairdresser said "Oh, now I remember! You're the one that lives above the brothel aren't you?"

hehe :)

The most entertainment a neighbour could wish for!

One night... Not so long ago... there was a Fracas.

Now this is the kind of Fracas that used to happen almost all the time "chez hoors." This was the reason I started this blog. This was the reason people used to tell me all the time that I should write a book! Somehow I never got around to blogging this particular incident.

The Hoors appear to have _Fallen Silent_ the past few months and our weekly entertainment comes from the 24 Hour Party People (The thieving bastards. I'm still very angry).

But in the past, barely a night went past when SOMETHING was going on. Barely a night went past when there was some reason to gawk out the window for a few hours entertainment. And this was one of those occasions...

The first I know of it (when I am awakened at the usual time of "about 2 am") is when a hoor cries "Get Out! Get Out! Get out of here!!!" and there is a door slammed. There is the scuffing noise of stilettoes being worn by a drunken, tottering female.

There is some shouting! "Ere!" cries a voice. "I'm in 'ere now! You shouldn't be 'ere! Get Aht!"

I lie in bed wondering if it's worth getting out of bed... or if this one will be as good just hearing it. I decide to take a wee peek.

A Hoor arrives into the street. The drunken, younger blonde (now established, in my mind, to be a work-mate (for lack of a better word) of the first hoor) stands up. They Brawl.

They Brawl! They have a cat fight! In the STREET! I can only see parts of it, because it's on the pavement and I'm a couple of floors up (I wasn't desperate enough to go up on my windowsill to open the window and peer down.) Hair is pulled, insults are thrown and eventually Young Tottering Blonde Hoor is thrown down in the street. Older Residential Hoor stomps back into the building. The tennement door is slammed and so is their flat door.



I look up and around and see that there is the usual rows of ringside seats filled up by my various neighbours peering out of their windows.

There is silence. A tumbleweed blows past. (Artistic licence.)
The Drunken Tottering Blond Hoor (DTB Hoor) stands up and crosses the road. She sits down. She finds a brick. You can practically see the collective look of horror form slowly on my neighbours faces.

"Smash!" goes the window! "Haaaaaaaaaah!" goes DTB Hoor! And then the hoor moves back towards the flat. And... I'm pretty sure that she tries to get into the flat through the broken window... (couldn't see from where I was. At this point i should have stood on the windowsill and gawked out the window but I didn't.)

So there is a scream and quite a bit of silence...

"Nee naw Nee naw Nee naw" goes the police siren. Some wise person (probably one of the ringside faces with the phone in his hand) accross the road has phoned the police. It then follows:

"Allo Allo Allo" (artistic licence again)
"Are you all right? Your arm is all bleeding!"
"Yer... I wuz just tryin' to get inta me flat!"
"You're obviously very drunk. I think you should come with us and go to the hospital"
"Naaaaaaaahr... i wanna stay 'ere - I gotta get inta me flat!"
"Have you been out drinking? You don't sound like you're from around here"
"Naaahr! I'm up here ta work - this is me flat... i cahn't get in!"
"You're working up here you say? Do you work from this flat?"
(Brief pause as something dawns on TDB Hoor)
"Um naaah. I don't WORK up 'ere... I'm from Leeds! Yer. That's it. Leeds! I'm up 'ere for a bitta fun!"
"Oh you are, are you? You came up all the way up to The Grey Toon for a night's drinking?"
"Yer! that's it! A night's drinkin'! I like it up ere... Everyone's so nice to ya. You're being nice in't ya?"
"So this isn't your flat? Do you have a hotel room booked?"
"UM naaaaaah. This in't me flat nah. It's me.... (thinks) friends!"
"your friend's? Is this who you were out drinking with?"
"Naaaaah. It's me mum's flat!"
"Your mum's. I thought you just said it was your friend's flat"
"Yerrrrrrr! It's me mummmmm's! Me Mum IS me friend! I luv 'er"
"Right. So. You're not working from this flat but your mum lives here. And you came up here for one night to go out drinking. So why aren't you in the flat?"
"I wanna get inta me flaaaaaaaaaat!"
"Well we need to do something about your bleeding. Have you cut your stomach?"
"Naaaahr... it's just blood from me arms! Loooooook"
(TDB Hoor presumably partially removes top)
"Right. Ok. You can get dressed again now. Please."
"Can you give me your name and address please?" (Hoor gives name)
"It's 'ere! I live 'ere!"
"Now we both know that's not true. Don't we Hoor X?"
(Softly like a child who's been caught out)"Nope"
"So what's your real address?"
"52 Carnaby Street"
"Carnaby street."
"Yer. In Lahndahn"
(nb - this is the address of the Smash Hits offices - I boggle silently)
Deep sighs from both policemen
"Right. Are we going to take you off to hospital or off to the police station where you can sober up and spend the night?"
(Panicking) " Naw ! Naw! I gotta get inta me flat!!!"
"So if we leave you here you'll be ok?"
"Yerrrrr"
At this point, Older Resident Hoor appears to come out and drag her into the flat cursing quietly.
Police drive off.

The next morning I tiptoe downstairs. The street is covered in blood, glass and a lace curtain. (Like some sort of russian tradgedy)

I dare to peek through the broken, curtainless windows. A straggly hoor lies sleeping on a bed in the corner. She flinches. I leg it back to my car.

(The decor was, indeed, early Ikea).

An idea!

I have been pondering about what I could do with the Hoor's holiday gift!

I could put it on the washing line in the back garden...

Revenge!

I feel like I haven't slept for a week... No longer do I seem to be able to sleep through just any noise. The plan is as follows:

1) Purchase Marschal Stacks
2) Place said stacks face down on floor
3) Borrow crap music selection* from colleague at work (who buys whole boxes at car boot sales and treats us to the dregs)
4) Wait until the 24 Hour Party People are all partied out (it MUST happen sometime and I am prepared to wait)
5) Put said crap music on repeat and go out for the day. AHAHAHAHAHAHA! (Much maniacal laughter)

* "The Magic of Brass," "Harry Secombe - the Early Years," "The Yodelling LP," "101 Tinkly Piano Hits by Wayne Karr"

I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them I ...

I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them!!!!!

Not the Hoors. Them I love as ever... It's the druggies downstairs.  (Not confirmed to be druggies, just highly suspected). And I hate whoever it was that kicked the door down while I was on holiday and I hate whoever it was that chose to steal 5 packages i was waiting for - worth over a hundred quid!!! I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them.  And apparently there's nothing the police can do - and besides... what on earth are they going to do with 5 bras in *undisclosed unusual bra size*!?!?!  It's not as if they can flog them to anyone on the street! 

Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them I hate them

etc.

Holiday gifts from neighbour to neighbour

I got a present for my neighbours while I was on holiday :) I hope they like it.

You GO girl!

Also...

My neighbour was about to get out of bed in the middle of the night some time last week, get dressed, and go give the 24 Hour Party People (new name for the bellowing-people downstairs) merry hell when he heard one of the ladies get out of her flat and scream at them furiously in a mancunian accent for keeping her up all night by partying!

YOU GO GIRL!!! (does the Ricky Lake dance)

I love the Hoors :)

Sleeping like a log

It is official! I sleep like a log.

I was just talking to my neighbour just now (one of the nice ones!)... and the conversation turned (inevitably) to the tenement's "goings on."

Apparently... there was more anguished bellowing from our friendly neighbourhood druggies this week. Seemingly I have finally gotten to the stage where I'm so used to slum-livin' that I peacefully slept right through it.

oh hurrah.

Punter-Cam

I wonder what legalities would be involved in me putting a web cam focused on the front door of the tenement? Perhaps across the road in a tree... Perhaps in the hoor's buzzer itself. Imagine being able to check out the front door of a brothel in real-time as the punters buzz for the hoors!

Hmmmm...

Ello Ello Ello II - the sequel

Ok.
They came back after my last post. And it turns out they were from the drug squad. :|

I asked them if they're sure they were asking about the right neighbours as there is a brothel on the ground floor.

"Yes" nodded one. We know about them.
The other smiled sadly at me: What a lovely building you live in!

Me: *sob*

Ello Ello Ello

The police were here again today. These were proper exciting police who were looking for the ned downstairs that keeps me up late at night playing crap rave music and having people screaming and bleeding all over the stairwell.

And they were IN PLAIN CLOTHES! (which is relatively more exciting than your bobby on the beat)

They didn't know what flat he lived in and I was a bit unwilling to give any information until they showed me their ID's.
"Police eh? It'll be him downstairs"

I managed to restrain myself from saying "Unless you're after the Pimp for the ground floor?"

Quote of the month!

When I am not blogging, I play an online game (lawks! fluffs and flames to you all, dearies!)

Tonight I was telling my mum all about my blog and my web page and how I spend time working on them of an evening...

My mum: so THIS is why your phone is always online?
Me: yes!
My mum: and when you're doing this... are you on the game?
Me (not catching on): Sometimes.I'm usually talking to people... but

My mum: Um i don't mean "on the game" i mean... er... um... well...


Yaay mum! :D *big grin*

Salvation!

Usually, when I come home from work and park my car across the street and there is someone standing perusing the buzzers, I sit in my car and wait til they go in or give up and go away. Sometimes they stay there a LONG time. A Long Long time. And so I give up and stomp into the building past them.

This one time though. I wasn't in the mood for hanging around at all and when I saw two guys hanging around outside the tenement with clipboards browsing the buzzers I just decided to park my car and stomp past them. This I did. I didn't want to think of this particular Punter/Hoor/Punter/Clipboard fetish for any longer than I had to. However... They were in the way.

"Excuse me," said a beaming, smartly dressed American.
"Yes?" says I.
"We're trying to get someone to answer a buzzer in this here block of flats" says the other. Also beaming and smartly dressed.
"Yes?" says I.
"Do you live here?" asks no 1.
"Yeeessss?" says I.
"What about these other here buzzers?" asks no 2.
"Ummm. Well... This one is offshore..." I point to the buzzers, "This one is empty... This one does night shift... This one will still be at work... This one is also empty... This one is me... This guy I don't know... And this one here... ummm. I don't know about."
"Ah well!" enthuses no 1. "We're from The Church of the Latter Day Saints..."
"Ah!" says I. The beaming-ness and the smart dress... And the aura of good-ness. I can tell you all about Mormon Missionaries. In fact... That is a WHOLE different blog! Perhaps I'll get around to it later.

Anyway. I continue, politely: "I'm afraid I'm already following my own religion.... Although! I do respect what you folks do and how you're fighting the good fight and all that, I'm afraid I'm not up for converting"

"Well! Thanks for being so straight with us ma'am! It sure is appreciated, he beams"
We shake hands and I put my key towards the lock.

"Ah... before you go... is there anyone else here you think may be in need of some salvation?"

Me (pausing with a key half way into the lock): *evil soap opera grin*

Taxi

Look. Hoors. You KNOW I love you. I leant you my candle and we cut that tree down at your back window. You ARE loveable cockney hoors... but for goodness sake. PLEASE don't piss off every taxi driver in The Grey Toon?

Every time. EVERY TIME I get a taxi... they ask me about you.

Please try to be a little more discreet. If you're visiting a punter, please make sure your last punter has left before the taxi arrives? If you're making them hang around for 5-10 minutes waiting for you... please have the good grace to smile apologetically at them out of the window and assure them you're coming? And if you're getting mysterious packages delivered from the dodgier side of town? Please disguise the fact that it's Class A drugs...

Cheers.

Fairytales

My neighbours are wierd. (see below)

but last night was fun!

I woke around ummm. 3am? What did I hear? "Fee Fiii Fohhh Fummmm!"
*knock knock knock* Feeee Fiiii Fohhhhh Fummmm!"

I shook my head and fell asleep again.

5 minutes later i was awakened again. "Little Pig! Little Pig!" said a voice. "Let me in!"

"Not by the non-existant hair of my chinny chin chin" thought I. and went back to sleep.

Lunatics the lot of them.

My dad's Policeman friends

My dad knows everyone!
Lords! Ladies! Traffic Wardens!

And he knows Policemen. And Policemen know THINGS.

One day my dad parked outside my flat to walk into town. He met a friend, a policeman. This policeman remarked on what a long walk it'd be for my dad to walk all the way into town. "Not that far!" sez my dad. "I parked outside my daughter's flat"

"Oh, where's that? " sez Policeman"

"x Number, Z Street" Sez my dad

"Oh!" Sez policeman. "What does she do for a living?"

Fluffs to my dad who pointed out his daughter wasn't a Hoor and that she merely lives above a brothel ;)

Gardening Fun

Another time, my upstairs neighbour, J, and I were clearing out the back garden of the tenement.

All sorts we found!!! A wasps nest... Fishing equipment... Diving equipment (gas, flippers and all)... Ice skates. Perhaps an old resident went through a phase of looking for the right hobby... I don't know. (Excluding the wasps nest. I can't think of many hobbies that involve wasps nests).

We made an old toilet bowl into an attractive planter for poppies. We peered into the shed at the end that we reckoned The Godfather (ground floor right) was keeping horses heads in. We restrung the clothes line. We returned the supermarket trolley to Iceland (the shop not the country) and then we put our hands on our hips (in manner of I Love Lucy - we even had the spotted headscarves) and looked at The Big Tree.

I don't know what kind of tree this Big Tree is. Only that since I moved in, it has been cut right back almost every year and by September it's thriving again. Bastard thing. It's still there. Bullying everything but the dandelions.

So we got out the secateurs. We got out the saw... We cleared the window on the first floor first of all and then eventually the window of Ground Floor Left. And then the curtains on Ground Floor Left (the Hoors' flat) twitched. A face appeared. A face vanished. The back door to the tenement creaked slowly open. A Hoor appeared! Wearing what I can only describe as half of an outfit. i.e. A red jumper on top and items I can only describe as "saucy" on the bottom. Plus some scuffed stilettoes. Actually perhaps she was wearing her entire outfit for the day and had only put on the red jumper to cover up. I don't know.

"Wow! It's so LIGHT in there now! I can see SO MUCH!"

We Shuddered. We heard her buzzer go. "OOOOOH! ExCUSE me! Must be going. Thanks you two!" she grinned. We smiled and waved. "Lovely girl" we noted.

Then she reappeared at the window. Winked. And drew the curtains.

We shuddered.

Then we heard her chatting quietly to her punter.

"Shall I go in and get a radio?" I asked

A couple of licks and we're done!

PAINT. You filthy perverts... Paint.

The poor dears! Slander! I come home from the pub one night (as these blogs so often begin) and someone has sprayed something on the tennement door! "PROS" it says... And I don't think they're talking about the professional environmental consultants, dentists and lawyers living in the area.

"SLU"... another word begins... but happily I cannot read it! For the Hoors have a troglodyte! A troglodyte with an apologetic grin and a paintbrush. He smiles and shrugs nodding towards the cringing Hoor who is overseeing the graffitti removal. "Sorry 'bout this luv" she says, taking a draw on her cigarette with her bright red lips... Her red nails gripping her other elbow in a classic old-woman-with-hairnet-off-1960's-Coronation-Street pose.

I giggle drunkenly and totter off upstairs. (As so many of these blogs end...)

I Love My Neighbours!

I love my Hoor Neighbours!
They are so nice and pleasant and kind!

Only nice Hoors can be overheard giving advice to their punters on the best pubs to visit in London and which parks they should take their mothers to...

I didn't stay around to hear more, like...

Sausage Rolls

"Do you get discounts or freebies?" asks a friend.

"Discounts!? Freebies!? What in the hell would I want with discounts and freebies!?" I reply.

"Well. Next to where I work is a deli and sometimes they give me free sausage rolls..."

Me: Blank Look.

Trans-Hoor Convention

I often wondered if they just came up here for a couple of weeks and slaved away with no nights off... Like they were offshore.

But it seems that our lovely ladies DO INDEED get a night off!

My friend and I (the one who helped me lift my microwave the other month) were putting the world to rights in The Local. The Local is a really nice pub with all comfy chairs, wooden tables, a well stocked bar and a creepy old drunk at the bar who gave young ladies like myself Cadbury's Cream Eggs (that you politely took from him despite the fact they were probably injected with Ruphanol...) They also have a stupid 6ftx6ft "dancefloor" put in so that people could dance to the dodgy karaoke that turns up every saturday.

I daren't name it in case the buxom blonde behind the bar reads this and scowls at me EVEN MORE when I order my two pints of Carlsberg (only 1.75 a pint and hence why we drink there.)

So after an hour or so my friend points out the good looking chinese girl at the bar wearing octopus trousers (those unneccessary things that 12 year old goth girls and Pink wear) that is getting so much attention. "She's cute. I'm not so sure about her mate though. She has an air of 'I look so good' about her"

Sure enough. There is a leggy black woman with bleached blonde curls at the bar smiling winningly at everyone. She is so good looking and so feminine in a totally over the top kind of way she could be a man (in manner of the woman that works in Whiplash Trash on Cockburn St in Edinburgh). We look. I frown. She looks familiar. "I think it's one of my neighbours!" I say. We ponder. They sit down next to a group of 3 similar looking women (similar in a leggy-self-confident-glamorous-we're-fabulous! kind of way). Then I realise the familiarity... It's my lovely neighbours! Or at least a couple of them are.

Now we realise everyone at the table behind us (potentially including Federico from Big Brother 4 going by his tshirt, suit jacket and white trainers) is discussing them. Other tables in the pub are also looking at them. One guy is having his arm stroked by the good looking chinese girl. His girlfriend is scowling.

Thing is, our brothel usually only has a couple of girls there at one go. So perhaps they're having a hoor convention! With the Westhill Hoors or the Great Western Road Hoors!

It's good to see they get to let their hair down occasionally.

Fear

Every now and again, something bloody wierd happens and you never quite find out exactly what's been going on. Sometimes there is the odd dent in the pannelling on the stairs, sometimes there is blood on a doorframe...

Tonight I really want to go to the chinese for some chicken. But there is NO WAY I am setting foot out that door...

I was having a snooze when a door slams and some screaming begins. Well... screaming isn't really the word. Neither is shouting. It was more like roaring or bellowing... Full-on angst-ridden terrifying bellowing right outside my door. It went on for about 5 minutes while I didn't dare move and then stopped... I haven't heard anyone move since and that was half an hour ago. And more importantly, I haven't heard anyone leave the tennement. Sod the chicken.

It was like someone had Father Jack Hackett in a cage...

Decorating

Going by the plaster in the hallway and the flatpack packaging outside their door, it appears that the Hoors are getting some decorating done in their flat. Perhaps they pay good attention to my blog... and thus got to know that their flat is "a bit early Ikea."

It begs the questions:

1) Do they do their own decorating or do they "get a man in?"

2) If they've "got the painters in..." does that mean they can't work for a few days?

I was just pondering...

Wha-tssssssssh!

Do I ever hear the sounds of passion? I was asked.

Not from my flat up here. Not above the bloody racket of the psycho raver downstairs anyway. However, you do occasionally hear the comedy-springs-of-passion. You never hear them in Hollywood movies.

Eeeh-ee! Eeeh-ee! Eeeh-ee! Eee-eee-eee-eee-eee-eeeeehhh!

Then there was another time... the mail falls down behind the tennement door and i had to bend down to pick it up. It must have been something about that particular spot in the wall I was bending down next to, because all I heard was "Wha-tsssssh!" "uh!" "What-tssssssh!" "ow!" "Wha-tssssssh!"

They must be branching out...

A vital and neccessary service

Not just the obvious I mean...

One day I came down the stairs to where a sad little man (sort of a cross between Rigsby and Roy Cropper off Corrie) was being bid farewell by what (one has to admit) was a rather matronly Hoor. I hovered looking at the post on the landing to give them some privacy.

"BahBye then," she said, giving him a (matronly) hug... "And I hope everything goes well with the wife..."

"Yes." he nodded sadly... "so do I. And... thanks. For everything..."
He left. She waved. She smiled up at me and went back into her boudoir.

Hoor or amateur agony aunt? Who needs Claire Rayner when you have loveable matronly hoors.

Why I don't want my candle back

Now... Let me get things straight.

I do not in anyway hate the hoors. I respect them for what they do, for their choice in how to make a living, for the services (both the councilling service they provide and the obvious) and also as the nice friendly lovely people that they are.

OK, I usually only see them occasionally when we happen to be coming or going at the same time and we pass briefly in the entrance hall... but they smile prettily and they are very pleasant and likeable in a cockney daaahlin' kind of way.

I mean this, I really do... and I don't want anyone to think I'm slagging them off or thinking myself better than them in anyway.

I am the first to admit I'm not the most practical person around and that common sense is not always at the front of my mind...

However. There's this one hoor? I'm not saying she's stupid! No! Just that she may not actually *think* Perhaps she was the same one with the dog turd and the doormat... I don't know. Anyway...

It is very dark in my street in the winter. Now, there are security lights that occasionally come on when you enter the tennement. Which is nice. If anyone is lurking in the stairwell... I'd like to know about it before they stab me repeatedly, who wouldn't? Quite often it's pitch black however, and I inch up the stairs in the manner of some stupid teenager from some horror film.

It was one of these times when I was coming in from work. 4.30 and it's already pitch black... So I tentatively feel around in the dark for my post and then continue my brave ascent into the unknown. And I hear something from below. "Coooeeeeeee!" "Coooeeeee Luv!"
'Lawks!' could there be a loveable country witch selling firewood in the hallway? aaaaah no. It'll be a loveable cockney hoor!
I dump my stuff in my flat (aaaah light!) and go back down where said loveable cockney hoor can just be made out in the streetlight coming in from the small window above the tennement door. She is wearing something that can only be described as "flimsy." Now get this...

"Hallo Luv! Ave you got a torch I can borrah? Only me lectric's ran aht and I cahn't see to put more money in me metah!"
"Sure" I'll go find you something, and I leave to head back up the stairs. Will a hoor laugh at the fact I have a teletubby torch? I wonder...
But before i go, she continues. "Me lectrics run aht and I've been trying to get this light out ere ta go on. It won't go on! it must be broke! Why won't it go on?"
Me: "Ummm. did you say your electricity's run out"
Her: "Yer"
Me: "Only, your light in the hall will be run from your lectric, I mean, electricity... So if you've got no electricity then the light won't go on"
Her: "Yer! but it wahn't go on! I tried it! It won't go on and without it I can't get me lectric back on cos i cahn't see inter the flat and I can't put me money in the lectric metah! I've been trying wiv this switch! It must be broke!"
Me: Yeah. But you have no electricity therefore it CAN'T go on. It's probably not broken at all.
Her: "Yer! but it must be broke! It won't go on!"
Me: I'll get you that torch.

So I gave up explaining and went upstairs to get her some light. Except I'll be buggered if she's borrowing my teletubbie torch. She'll probably not be able to switch it on and thus proclaim it "broke." I got her a candle and some matches and she promised to put them in my mailbox later on once she'd sorted the broken light outside. (All of a sudden someone who couldn't grasp the concept of a light not going on because she'd run out of lectric seemed to have turned into some sort of master electrician).

Anyway. The candle never appeared in my mailbox. And though it was a very nice candle, a gift, with all dragons up one side.... I don't think I want it back. You never know where it has BEEN. I've heard about hoors and candles... and i'm not talking about wax :|

Keep the bloody candle stupid loveable cockney wench.

A Birthday Wish!

A Birthday Card has arrived for one of the Hoors...
Miss Diane must be celebrating a birthday, and just to make sure it gets to her and not to any other Miss Dianes in the building, the sender has specifically written "right hand buzzer" as part of the address. (They have a separate buzzer from everyone else, because they are lovely ladies and don't want any of the rest of us getting bothered. Either that or because they don't want any trade going anywhere else).
There is even a heart as the dot above the "I" of Diane!
how sweet :)

Comments?

My comments bit may potentially be working again - huzzah!

One at a time - PLEASE!

So we have one of those big comunal wheely bins outside our tennement... (

And I'm using the muscles of a good friend to help me get rid of my old rusty microwave and replace it with the new, shiny, green and heavy new one...

Well, I would be... but for the two curious Little Britain-appearanced men outside my tennement. One is fat and bald and wearing a stripy polo shirt with stains on. The other is tall, thin, and hairy in manner of an inbred rottweiler. They stand outside my tennement and peruse the choice of buzzers. Hmm! would it be the 8 innocent character-free ones with sir-names on them? or would it be the big shiny las vegas one, with "PROSTITUTION" suggested by the titilating blank buzzer button?

Hmm. Let us just press them all whilst the angstful duo with the green microwave accross the street stand glaring at us waiting for us to enter the building.

So ... that's what they did. and eventually they got let into the building, allowing us to set up the new, sparkly, microwave (yay!)

So. We plug in the microwave, sneak down the stairs and hear someone leave the building. The two gentlemen are nowhere to be seen. Just a sad, hairy man ambling down the street ON HIS OWN. Can it be true!? Can the hoors be so discerning that they only service one at a time?

Surely they'd get discount if there are two of them?

Or does Jasmine dislike hairy backs?

Perhaps we will never know :(

New Years Drama

Not only have I got prostitutes for neighbours... I have also got an assortment of other entertaining neighbours. Visits from one of the 3 emergency services appear to be commonplace in our tennement. Today I returned from New Year festivities in the country to discover an ambulance and a police car in the street outside. What Now?
I've made a couple of trips to the car to get those vital few items I accidentally left in my car, I've asked the various people hanging round the tennement door if "everything is ok?" and I've peered into the ground floor flat as much as I can without looking like I'm TOTALLY nosy... but I still don't know why someone is currently screaming out loud in agony.
I'd make a rubbish private detective. The little old lady accross the road is practically hanging out her bedroom window trying to get gossip.

Stupid Hoors! - A Quiz.

Ok so a big dog does a huge cartoon turd outside your tennement. One of your punters steps right in it and walks it through the entrance hall and wipes his mucky feet on your doormat.

Do you...

a) Wait til the punter has gone until you discreetly nip out in your flimsy negligee to mop up the hall and dispose of said shitty doormat?
b) The same as above, but charge the punter more?
c) Leave the hall covered in shit for 3 days until someone else finally gives up and washes it and buy yourself a nice new doormat... but instead of throwing out the old shitty doormat, just plop the new one on top. Just so everyone can enjoy the smell of dog turd for a few more days?

If you answered c) you may be a loveable cockney wench... but you are STUPID! Do you hear me? Stupid!!! STUPID!!! STUUUUPPPPIIIIIIDDDD!

"Miss Yasmina"

A handwritten letter with the postmark "Manchester" has appeared on the stairs, for the attention of a "Miss Yasmina."

Like, there's actually someone in OUR block of flats called "Agnes Yasmina" or "Samantha Yasmina" or "Margaret Yasmina."

How tempted am I to go read it? Post for a Hoor! What would it say? "Thanks for the lovely time last wednesday afternoon, love Jimmy"

Miss Yasmina my arse.

And before I forget...

The *last* time I got the Police involved in the Hoors... Wow. I was so impressed? They were doing just what I would have done in their position.

Thursday evening: I go to the pub. The door is ajar. I have a couple of drinks. I come home. The door is still ajar. I go "hmmm" and wonder if, for any reason, their flat needs airing. (ewwwww)

Friday morning: I leave for work. The door is ajar. I go "hmmm. Must need quite a bit of airing. Perhaps someone is dead in there. Oh well. if it's still open when I get home from work... I'll do something about it"

Friday evening. I come home from work. The door is ajar. I go "Coooooeeeee!" "Helloooooo! Is anybody Thereeeee!" No answer. I prod the door and it creaks like in a horror film. But doesn't move much. No views of the inside of a brothel for me, then... I go upstairs. I phone my friend. We discuss the last victim of Jack the Ripper. (I'm sure I don't need to tell you she was shredded in her room. Not a good thing for my overactive-imagination)... I phone my mum. I tell her I think there's a dead prostitute in the flat in the ground floor and how I shouted "Cooooeeeee!" and "Helloooooo! Is anybody Thereeeee!" but got no answer. I tell her how I prodded the door and how it creaked like in a horror film... She freaks out because I've now got my fingerprints on the door of the potential last resting place of my neighbour, a hoor. I freak out because I've now got my fingerprints on the door of the potential last resting place of my neighbour, a hoor. I phone the Police. They'll be round about 9. I go to the pub.

I return from the pub. The door is still ajar. No sooner am I in the door than the buzzer goes. It's the Police, so I let them in to the building. 10 minutes pass and I'm still drunkenly gawping over the handrail outside my flat eager for gossip (with the security light on and my shadow being cast over the proceedings two floors below). Finally, my curiosity gets the better of me and I go "Cooooeeeee!" No reply. Oh my god. They've been killed tooo! it's MURDER!!! But no. In a typical teenage horror film kind of way I tiptoe down the stairs and go "Helllooooooo? Is anybody Theerrrreeee?" and prod the door open...

And what do I see? Blood spattered all over the walls? No. Kidney on the bedside table and intestines on the shoulder? No.

Two policemen raking through their underwear drawer... that's what.

The thieves! They took it from ussss!

Bloody bastards.

When I started this blog, right, I thought it'd be a sort of twice yearly "my neighbours are hoors and I heard their bed squeaking" thing. Christ. Bloody bastards.

No sooner had I started the blog (last wednesday), expecting a quiet life and thus the least visited blog on the *planet* than I got a phonecall at work. From the bank... who ever-so-casually told me that the police were in possession of a) my bloody bank card!!! and b) my sodding cheque book!!! So. I had just opened a new bank account in which to put my hard earned savings (oooh. perhaps a deposit for a NEW FLAT) but I certainly hadn't asked for a cheque book.

"Eeeek!" thinks I... "I ordered no cheque book, some bastard must have broken into my flat!" and hared it home from work to find NOWT. It turns out that my new bank card and unrequested cheque book have been "intercepted" by persons unknown. Well. Unknown to me... Mr Nice Policeman let me know this much: "We have a woman in custody"
"A woman?" says I... "I don't suppose you know if she was one of the *ladies* from the ground floor, then?" "I can't say for sure," says he. Obviously the Police know all about my neighbours. They just have more interesting things to deal with than the odd comedy hoor who says things like "Cooeee!" and "Thanks Dearie"

The following monday... I discover that 685 sodding quid has been removed from my account (thus making it 684 quid in debt) and where have they spent the money? Was it Cartier? No. Selfridges? No. www.lovelyexpensivejewels.com? No.

Fucking JB Sports and Argos.

I mean really. Can't I even get classy thieves???