The Bilin' Lavvie! (and other conspiracy theories)

So now I've been in the new hoose a few months, I've started to notice odd things about the place. This could be due to sinister things, chilling plotlines and scandalous gore of the past... or it could just be due to some dodgy DIY.

Consider the following:

Evidence 1:
When you leave the kitchen light on for more than 10 minutes, it gets hot enough to burn your fingers off. Yes. It could just be dodgy wiring... but is it?
Surely there was an episode of Most Haunted where a poltergeist was blamed for electrical problems throughout an ancient mansion? Lights were going on and off, radiators were getting hot! The phone was ringing at strange times and it wasn't just Heavy Breathing Henry getting some of his usual jollies...
Maybe my kitchen is haunted! Aaaah you may scoff. But just wait until you hear about evidence number 2!

Evidence 2:
So the first thing you do when you move to a new house (except cleaning up the butterkist that was behind the tv unit all coated in dog hair) is EXPLORE. If it wasn't part of human nature to thoroughly explore new places, The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe would never have happened... Let alone Alice Through the Looking Glass. (I read that once at University. It was sufficient to ensure I never dabbled in illegal substances).

Now I'm not sure about the rest of the world, but in Scottish houses of a certain age, there is always a "cupboard under the stairs." Basically a place for hiding stuff like brooms and stock-piled cans of pink salmon in case the apocalypse happens. Also a good place for hiding all the empty wine bottles when your mum comes round. The "cupboard under the stairs" is also hilariously referred to by those of a certain generation (and the estate agent that showed me round) as "the glory hole." Now I know what that means and I'm sure many of you out there also know what that means, but that's no reason to stop it being used by little old ladies selling houses. Perfectly charming I think! "And here's the glory hole. Young Willy used to keep his Mecchano down here."*larf*

But I digress... So in day two in the house (to be said in a Wearside Jack type Big Brother voice) we decided to check out the Glory Hole (lol). What did we find? Well, initially I thought it was just a couple of floorboards that had been removed to put in the central heating. But was it!? I accidentally knocked a dust pan down there. I paused. I waited. Probably only seconds had gone by, but it seemed like an age before the dust pan hit the bottom. So I did what all sensible young girls should do... I poured myself a glass of wine and shouted for The Boy. (Yes, he came with me. I didn't have the heart to leave him behind).

The Boy got a broomhandle and poked it down. He poked it down into the deep hole within the glory hole and do you know what he hit!? Nothing. He ran out of broom handle and arm before he managed to hit solid ground. We tried shining torches down there, but the batteries were always mysteriously dead... We tried using a lighter, but a mysterious wind always blew it out. Eventually I got the leg bone of a skellington that was sitting in the glory hole, ripped off some of it's hair and wrapped it round the leg bone and dipped this in the chip pan. I set that alight as an impromptu torch and lowered it into the deep hole within the glory hole and saw... nothing.

Curiouser and curiouser... So I phoned My Dad. He came up and asked no questions but nailed some fresh floorboards over the deep hole within the glory hole. So sorry to end a tale like this, but we've no idea what'd down there. I might be tempted to say that the space was big enough to fit an entire Austrian family.... but I'm not that sick.

Evidence 3
But a few weeks back, I had some friends over to do a serious bit of drinking in the back garden to celebrate the last day of warmth before a miserable Grey Toon Winter kicks in. Songs were sung, wrongs of the world were righted and eventually we retreated into the house where certain members of our party were free to go off and Talk To God on the Big White Telephone. (ie peuk down the lavvie.)

Now I'm not saying that there is anything at all wrong with The Grey Toon shire's water department, but is it NORMAL for at 4am after a few good flushes for the water in the cistern to boil?

Honestly. Our friends had left, I had a shower to stabilise myself slightly before passing into a coma, and I opened the bathroom window to get rid of the steam... leaning on the cistern for balance. And wtf? It was hot!

So I flushed the lavvie - and believe it or not, STEAM. Steamy hot lavvie water! Now I ran the cold tap in the bathroom and the kitchen and they were both running hot - at 4am on a sunday morning.

Plumbers and water department of the shire... I beg you... Is this NORMAL? Or is there a ghostie in our cistern?

Hmm. At least come the cold winter months, we can gather round it on a cold day. Rather like Van Gogh's The Potato Eaters, but with a lavvie instead of a plate of tatties...

My Garden!!!

So one of the best things about my new place (except the absence of women selling themselves for sex in my basement) is the fact I have my own back garden.

I can not tell you, ladies and gentlemen, exactly how thrilled I am to hang out my own pants on my own washing line (Ok. It's nae a washing line. It's a whirly. Do I need to do a translation of whirly for the non-Scots reading this? or is a "Whirly" self explanatory?)

Not only can my pink and black starred goth knickers flap around innocently in the breeze of a sunny afternoon without some punter nicking them, but I can actually do stuff in the back garden!

So far this has included:

1) Going round it with a trowel flinging dog shit over the fence at the bottom into the field-of-mystery beyond. This was more fun than it sounds. It felt like I was playing Lacrosse. Not that I went to a posh school, ken. My school was more about violently knocking divits out of each others ankles with the knackered old hockey sticks... or I remember the time we went cross country running and all sat in a ruined old house watching some of the boys sniffing poppers. Ah them were the happy auld days.

2) Filling in the holes dug by said dog. This involved a bag of compost and a bag of grass seed and a nice bottle of Cava on a Sunday afternoon.

3) the purchasing of plastic daisies. I will never live up to the diorama of Deeside being reenacted up the road a bit, complete with plastic Bill and Ben made to look like Victoria and Billy Connelly and a simple looking Gnome ... but the plastic daisies are my admission to the world that it will be some time yet before I turn the excrement-covered bomb-site that is my back garden into the Xanadu my new neighbours are all undoubtedly wishing to see...

4) Leaning over the fence discussing the local news with my new neighbour. Leaning over a fence! Gossiping! I feel like after experiencing tennement life for the past 10 years, I have finally found my home. Seemingly I have spent my whole life destined to natter over a fence with a like minded lady about how "him-across-the-road" lost his wife to the milkman and how her two doors down has had a face like a smacked arse since it turned out her daughter in law was up the duff to a polish plasterer.



You can now put a face to me. I look JUST like Les Dawson as Cissie (or was it Ada?) In fact, I'm off to New Look to get meself a leopardskin print headscarf right now.

A Link To The Song...

After attending the Cullerlie Traditional Singing Weekend the past three days (My Neighbours Were Folkie Folks In Tents), I promised some to make the link to the Hoors Song easier to find.

So here it is: http://myneighboursarehoors.blogspot.com/2008/01/i-wrote-song.html

Home. Aaaah. Home. Sweet Home.

So yes.

I have been Absent. Not just mentally (that is nothing new) , but from t'internet as a whole. For an awfy long time. And why? I hear you ask impatiently?

Well, I couldn't really say anything about it at the time without giving away my oh-so-secret identity, but...

After 10 years in my flat, I started getting itchy feet. Looking at the housing market, I decided that if there was any time to get a ridiculous price for my flat, then 2008 was the time.

Ladies and Gennlemen... I have moved. I was no longer Neighbour Of Teh Hoors... Now I have gone even further and am now Ex-No-Longer-Neighbour-Of-Teh-Hoors.

At this point I have to say that keeping a blog about the selling of my flat and subsequent house hunting would have been BLOODY HILAROUS. Sadly you won't see that here unless I go back in fill in the spaces. Which I might do. I'm just DYING to tell you all about the woman in Cove who didn't tidy away her 40yo son's porn collection... But I digress.

Suffice to say that I have upped and gone from the Grey Toon and flitted far, far, away. Well about 20 miles or so anyway. I am now in Commutersville! (no. you probably won't find that on googlemaps)

This means a few potential changes to the blog:

1) I have to call it "My Neighbours Aren't Hoors" for fear of having a very strong wireless broadband connection and my new neighbours logging on to the Beechgrove Garden web page, only to get paranoid that I think they're running a brothel, not the local chapter of the WRI.
2) I can tell you lots of scandalous stuff I couldn't tell you before about my old neighours! Except that they were all so damn lovely and that I'm going to miss them LOTS. Seriously. After all the undesirables left, we were a harmonious little tennement with cheery vibes that would rival the residents of Sesame Street
3) I can tell you all about the sad demise of the Hoors. I can tell you what actually happened. Why they left, where they went, and how we all had to go to court to do our bit for Queen and country! (Actually, maybe I can't. I'm sure there's some law about not doing any of that before it's been in the Peenj. Hrm. I will find out.)

Anyway, that's enough for now. I will continue when I have the energy. All this unpacking, painting, drinking of Asda's Cava and sharing of cups of sugar with the new neighbours is tiring you know...

Until then, toodle pip!

On Pogo Sticks

There are many fine things in having a friend live just a few doors up from you. One is borrowing cups of sugar (much easier to go a few doors up than to borrow possibly-contaminated sugar from your hooring neighbours). Another is meeting in the local for a bottle of cheap pink wine and some chicken in a basket.

Another is when you receive a text like the one I just got 10 minutes ago:

"Quick. Look out your front window. There's a man on a pogo stick pogoing his way up the street."

I jumped up onto the windowsill and opened the window to lean out and see this rare grey toon spectacle. Never let it be said that use of the pogo stick is restricted to small 60's children on sunny afternoons. It's pissing down out there. Personally I can think of modes of transportation less ridiculous for a rainy tuesday night...

(Edit, 5 mins later... I just got reply to a text i sent back... "If I hadn't heard the boing-ing, I wouldn't have noticed it!")

(Note: Wikipedia has the following section under it's entry for "Pogo Stick"
Famous Users
Enoch Powell
Andrew Roberts, respected historian.

Oh the mental images...)

All the world's a stage...

... Especially for these people who don't realise that light's on and curtains open mean that EVERYONE can see in on dark nights (och but I'm glad those nights are fair drawin' oot now here in the Grey Toon - aye. I saw my first bee of the spring today!)

Hence I would like to publicly congratulate my neighbours across the way on the fine performance they're putting on - as I'm sure I speak for all the neighbours who can see in their window. There's a cello! There's a violin! They're doing that wobbly headed thing that classical musicians do when they're really into what they're playing! (or being a bit pretentious) And occasionally something in pink (and possibly tulle) glides past the window.

It's all really very impressive. Wonder what they're up to? (Oooh! Granny just put in a tray of biscuits!)

P.S. yes, there has been a bit of an absence of presence from My Neighbours Are Hoors. This is because things are still afoot and I can't post my massive backhistory of posts. *sigh* but one day my friends! One day!!!

A Journey Through HoorVille

So we went to see Sweeny Todd a couple of weeks ago. I won't fill this post with my amazing guru-like film like criticisms, but will tell you what happened after. *

We enjoyed the movie (for you 'Mercans. "Pictures" for the rest of us), had the usual hassle getting out of the Cineworld car-park and then drove towards our destination, Our Local Chinese Restaurant, through the Red Light District.

At this point, it's worth noting that the Green Light District has been KO'd by our ever-thoughtful Council. That's worth another post though. (In which I'll probably get a bit Political). As a result of which (and the usual Grey Toon Pissing Doon Rain), the drive home was particularly quiet with regards to Street Hoor Presence. Usually you get at least 5 hoors plying their trade - even in the bucketing rain. But not tonight. Oh no. It was like some post-apocalyptic Grey Toon. Not ae single hoor on the streets. I was half expecting to turn the corner and see kids gazing into the flickering skeleton of a tv screen except... Shock! It's only a fireplace.

We were only half way up St Clement Street when my friend (Neighbour Of The Neds to those of you with a good memory) says "Hey! Hadn't we better book a table?"

Good point. So we pull over in the middle of HoorsVille to make that vital phonecall. Not that my mobile phone numbers consist of restaurants and pizza places. Honest!

So I'm dialing the number. Sitting parked in Street-Hoor-Central between an ancient Escort and a hefty auld fish van. Waiting for the restaurant to pick up. Totally distracted by the potential of Chili King Prawns. Tapping my teeth and willing them to Pick Up The Phone. Come on. Pick Up The Phone you buggers!

And my friend goes "Turn the headlights off"

"Whit?"

"Turn. The. Headlights. Off"

And then I realised. We're sitting in the middle of the Grey Toon Red Light district with the headlights of the car on. Maplight on so I can see the number I'm phoning. Dressed as young up-and-coming ladies do of a Saturday night in the Grey Toon. In an EMPTY red light district.

And it was like some sort of remake of Dawn of the Dead! Punters. Staggering towards us. Their arms outstretched (possibly hingin' with a doggie bag fae the local Polish Craws Nest Ristorante) towards us. Or maybe like the bit in Jurassic Park where you're screaming at the stupid blonde kid waving the torch at the dinosaurs so they know EXACTLY where she is... "TURN OFF THE FECKING TORCH YOU IDIOT!!!"

Time slowed like in the very worst of horror movies. I could hear the restaurant phone pick up. A long drawn out phonetic spelling of my second name was made... The booking was made. We drew a deep breath.

As the first of the Zombie-punters made their way to our (now locked) car, I speedily hung up, went into reverse and practically handbrake-turned up towards Millar Street, taking us miles away from the drooling Zombie punters of the Grey Toon Red Light District.

Damn good Chili King Prawns though...

*although bloody hell! How DID they achieve that red blood?! I KNOW from watching stupid "the making of" documentaries on SKY that blood looks black in the dark. It was directed in Burton-Vision for Gods sake. It was almost ALL in the dark! How come the blood was red!? Did they add Fluorescein to it!?! **

** Also. It was the 3rd most gory film I've seen after Sin City and Passion Of The Gibson. *** It also made me want to decorate my kitchen in greys and reds like a 1800's thieves kitchen. "Oliver!" had the same effect on me. But I digress...

***Actually... The best Mel Gibson pun I ever heard was in the Sun after his temporary "indiscretion" in August 2007. It was as follows (as I remember it anyway). Ahem. "They said when Mel Gibson filmed 'Braveheart' that he could never truly play a Scotsman. But hey! Now look at him! Now he's Drunk AND Racist!" Lol. ****

****I digress again. The funniest Sun Movie review pun ever was for "Troy" I think. "The main highlights of this film are in Brad Pitts hair." Classic. Right. Better go write the actual post... :P That means you have to scroll up again to the main body of text. Sorry...

I Wrote A Song

In the style of Father Lionel Fanthorpe... I wrote a song. And here it is, it's called "The My Neighbours Are Hoors Song"

It's to be sung to the tune of Nicky Tams - because apparently everyone's first song has to be written to the tune of Nicky Tams. (OK. It's not my first song. That was "Prozac at Christmas," and that was co-written to the tune of "Happy Christmas (War is Over)")

It's also in doric. If you need a translation, leave a comment.

My Neighbours Are Hoors

Well, I bought my flat in a tenement in 1998
It was auld and quite a mess and I'd hae tae decorate
But I got myself a mortgage, everything was going fine
Til one day the upstairs neighbour said “Can I hae a quick word, quine”

“Ye see I think ye need tae ken fits goin on doonstairs
There’s been lots o mannies visiting, and sometimes they’re in pairs
They just bide fur half an hour or so and they’re comin' at a oors”
And that was when I first found out that my neighbours were hoors

So then I’d tae be paranoid o’ openin’ doors tae men
There were times that I wid hav tae say “I’m nae aene o them!”
My mither she was horrified, my faither nae at a
He said "Maybe they’ll gie ye a job if ye need a bob or twa"

They’d be queuing at the door sometimes, two or maybe three
For there’s mony a lonely oil man will pay for company
And the passions o’ the punters were very clearly stirred
For the sounds o’ whips coming through the wa was occasionally heard

Well the neighbour fa bides across the road wiz nae impressed at a
In fact she cam and said tae me “I hiv informed the law”
But the polis kent a aboot them, they hidnae escaped detection
In fact, it seemed a o’ Aiberdeen kent o’ our Ladies of Negotiable Affection

The next eight years were eventful for these hoors were nae discrete
It could be mair entertaining than Coronation Street
Twa hoors aence hid a party, the wine it freely flowed
But the evening ended, they were apprehended for fightin in the road

One day there was a trail o blood, horrid thoughts ran through my head
A Doric Jack the Ripper, had killed them in their bed
I called the polis straight away, they left the door ajar
I keekit in and saw twa bobbies rifling through their drawers

One day the Jehovas Witnesses were coming roon the doors
Unaware oor tenement housed twa hard working whores
First they lectured me on Godless deeds and the dangers o temptation
Then they ask-ed me if I kent onyone that could do wi some salvation

Well the de'il on my shoulder, he gave oot a gleeful cry
And he said “This opportunity, it cannae pass ye by”
So I said “Kind sirs, If you’re looking for those that sorely need your prayers
Ye neednae look nae further than the tarts wi hearts doonstairs"

Aifter eight long years I’m sad tae say the brothel was shut doon
Now the hoors must walk the streets at nicht the ither side o toon
I miss my harlot neighbours they were the best in Aiberdeen
For they said good day, they worked hard, and they kept their passage clean

A Dream...

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!

It was...

Donald Trump!

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.

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 :)

Seasons Greetings!

I'd like to take this opportunity to wish you all a Merry Christmas/Saturnalia/Yule/Holidays - whatever it's called in your part of the world.

Thanks everyone for your kind comments and begging letters asking me to insist that the Hoors haven't, in fact, left the building. *sob*

It's all so touching!!! *sniffle*

Oh I think I've had too much sherry...

*hic!*

Gone.

Well...

It looks like the Hoors have gone.

Pas de Hoors.

Yes. Really.

This evening when I came home, the dirty old screen was gone from the window, there are bright and shining new curtains, there is a nice pot plant in the window and the sun was streaming into the front room. All signs point towards new neighbours... Perhaps first time owners as the only furniture thus far is a couple of those chairs you get for fishing with a bit to put your beer in. The floor is otherwise strewn with woodworking tools and pots of paint.

So. Um. Looks like that's it then?

Red Light District

Just suppose the Hoors are gone... Does this mean I can put my Christmas Tree up this year with the red fairy lights I bought in 1998 before I discovered My Neighbours Were Hoors?

Am I now safe to have a red glow coming from my window?

Exodus!

Hmmm. So we came back from the pub late last night full of what Enid Blyton would have called high spirits. There are still no curtains at the hoors window.

Blind to the dangers of climbing onto window sills, the boy and I drunkenly levered eachother up onto the hoors windowsill so that we could look over the grubby lace screen, and peered in and saw…

*a pause of great drama*

NOTHING.

Not ae thing. No furniture, no carpet, not even a bloody lightbulb (for perhaps they took with them all they could get).

I'm really starting to think they’ve been chucked out!

Empty

Hmmm.
Curiouser and curiouser. After the tea drinking visit of the police to the hoors the other week, I was sent away with work and I haven't had the change to tell you of the new developments… Mainly the appearance of some flat pack kitchen units and some lino in the tenement hallway. Then on Monday night there was a lot of hoovering and related cleaning noises. Then on Tuesday evening we noticed that… the curtains were gone! OK, so this doesn't really mean all that much. The dirty lace screen is still hanging up at the window, meaning we can't peer in. But the Hoors without curtains? Surely curtains are an essential for an operating tenement brothel!?

As for all the noise and stuff in teh hallway... Are they getting a bit of um... winter cleaning done… or has the whole tea drinking police/cleaning/kitchen improvements thing got a deeper meaning? Have the hoors finally been moved on?

Perhaps they’ve been evicted! I will keep you updated.

Police Presence

Eeeeeh but it's all so exciting!

As I type, there is a couple of police cars parked across the road and the hoors door is slightly open. When I came in just now, I could hear a Cockerney Hoor asking them if they wanted a cup of tea. (2 x Milk and 2 sugars).

It was all very calm. None of the usual screaming and carrying on that usually accompanies a visit of the police to the brothel on the ground floor...

Neighbours From Hell (because I enjoy a good pun as much as anyone else)

Yeah! So it's been Hallowe'en.

And last night, in between worshipping the ancestors, cuddling ravens and dancing widdershins round our local bonfire, I popped home for supplies.

And, making a hell of a lot of noise getting in the front door (broomstick got wedged in the hinges), I obviously sounded like a punter arriving. So as I was passing the Hoors flat, the door opened - and there stood one of the more attractive Ebony Divas grinning out at me - clad in a red nightie, wearing CFM Red lipstick and boots, holding a three-pronged-forky-thing and matching horns.

Neighbour From Hell.

(gettit?)

Oh nevermind.

Anyway. I saluted her with my broom and cackled and she went "OOOOOOhhh ahahahaha! Marvellous!"
I love a hoor that observes her traditional holidays. Can't wait to see what she does for Guy Fawkes...

Pube

Now, I'm not accustomed to telling people about arguments in my private life, let alone publishing details of them on t'internet for the whole world to see... But this is relevant.

I just got locked out after going outside to get something from the car. I had to buzz upstairs to the flat to get back into the building. And I don't care WHAT The Boy says... That WAS a pubic hair on the buzzer system!

End. Of.

HELP!

OK,
I need the help of you lovely intellingent people out there!

Scroll down the page a bit to the archives and you'll see archives by month from November 2003 to January 2006. I can't figure out how to get the rest of my archives linked in the side bar!

Under "settings" under the tab "archiving" I have selected Archive Frequency as Monthly and under "enable post pages," "yes" is chosen.

Can anyone help? Maybe it'd be best to have posts grouped as 3 or 4 month blocks, but there isn't an option for this. I mailed Blogspot a few weeks back, but noone has gotten back to me yet.

Thanks!

EDIT: All sorted now! I have a nice drop-down thingie on the right! Oh, and I'd like to take this chance to apologise to aberdeenblogs because it looks like My Neighbours Are Hoors have spammed them for No Apparent Reason. *grovel*

Mamma Mia!

Hahahah!
Pardon me for such a badly written, roughly put together post, but I just came in from work and there was a short punter wearing a pair of dungarees and a flat cap and the most luxurious, bushy moustache I have ever seen!

Super Mario 4 - Mario Conquers the Hoors!

(P.S. He was also carrying one of those dry cleaning bags - I bet it was a Princess Peach outfit)

Edit: In my enthusiasm to write this post, I didn't check to see if there was a green dragon thing parked outside in the street. Damn.

Knickers!

For some bizarre reason, our wheelie-bin lid has been nicked. What neds can possibly find to do with the lid of a wheelie-bin at this time of year is beyond me... I mean, it's not even sledging season!

So for the past few days, in the late September sun, our wheelie-bin has been a veritable funfair for the seagulls, rats and other mysterious beasts of the Grey Toon. Which makes putting the bin bags out a bit more exciting than usual.

Yesterday, I risked a quick peek at the bin before I chucked our rubbish in (just in case a seagull launched an attack on me for disturbing its lunch...) Know what was in it? Go on guess. Go on. Go on go on go on...

Give up? A pair of pink knickers on a stick!

Now, I'm not sure if this was on purpose or by accident (discarded DIY offcuts, discarded tools of the trade) - but it really looked deliberate...

Barbers have a red and white striped pole, pawn shops have their three gold balls, our tenement has a pair of pink knickers on a stick.

Hurrah for advertising!

Floppsy

A punter was standing at the buzzer as The Boy and I drove past the tenement the other day, looking for a parking space. I didn't notice, because of the cars parked outside the flat what he must have been carrying...

(Yes. Mysterious, isn't it?)

So we parked and let ourself into the tenement, struggled with our shopping bags and put them down in the hallway so we could search through the junk mail for anything that might be ours. Muffled voices could be heard from within the Hoors flat. Voices which were soon slightly, yet politely raised. We hid on the landing (just to be polite) and continued searching through offers for loans and chocolate that contains negative calories (I kid you not).

"Oh come on. Make an exception just this once..."

The Boy and I shared an amused glance.

"No. I don't think so."

"But Mr Floppsy doesn't like it if he's left outside in the car alone!"

"I don't care! He's not staying in 'ere. Wot if 'e escapes? Anyway. It's a bit distracting innit!"

"I can just leave him out in the hall here. He'll be fine. You won't hear a thing."

"Didn't I just say no?"

"Please?"

"I think you'd better leave."

We tried to look busy and intensely interested in our mail as a sad man in a raincoat left the brothel. With a cage. Containing said Mr Floppsy. Eating a small piece of carrot and twitching his cute little nose. Mr Floppsy the rabbit looked intently at us with his little red eyes as he was carried off, totally oblivious to the dissapointment he'd just caused.

Sometimes the Hoors' job is just plain wierd.

* The names of any rabbit in this story may have been changed to protect the innocent. (Also, Floppsy is a funny name that makes me laugh).

** No animals were harmed in the writing of this blog entry.

Who Am I?

A couple of weekends ago, we had a most pleasant time out in The Shire. The main reason for which was to go to one of the Shire's Highland Gatherings. (However I'd better not tell you which one in case you all turn up trying to discover my secret identity. As we all know that celebrity spotting can spoil the atmosphere of the games.)

Saturday evening was lots of good food, good company and bountiful amounts of good wine and those new posh Pringles. (The crisps. We weren't eating golfer's socks.) After a while, someone suggested a game. The one where the name of a famous person is written on a sticky label on your forehead and you have to guess who you are by asking questions.

Soon it was my turn, and questions went like this:

Me: OK. Am I world Famous?
Them: You're certainly known of by people around the world.
Me: Am I male or female?
Them: Female. Probably.
Me: Am I famous for... um... sport?
Them: You probably need to be quite athletic, but that's not what you're famous for
Me: Hmmm. Am I in the entertainment industry?
Them: Yes!
Me: Mmmm. So I entertain people. Am I on TV?
Them: No.
Me: Film?
Them: No.
Me: Do I sing?
Them: Apparently so, but that's not what you're famous for.
Me: A book?
Them: *pause* No.
Me: Ooooh! You paused! Have I been written about?
Them: Yes!
Me: In a Magazine?
Them: No.
Me: In the papers?
Them: Not yet.
Me: Is this in the UK?
Them: Yes.
Me: Am I fictional!? This is bloody difficult.
Them: No. You're real. (The Boy nods emphatically)
Me: I'm not getting anywhere with this, am I? Ugh. Oh! Hold on. Am I alive or dead?
Them: Alive we'd hope!
Me: So... I'm still entertaining and wasn't famous in the past then? Am I'm still doing my job?
Them (thinking I need a bit of help): It's a very old profession... You could say one of the oldest.
Me: Ohhhh! Oh crap. Am I my neighbours? Am I The Hoors?
A cheer goes up.

Bastards.

A Friend Helps Out A Crack Dealer In Need

So a friend of mine has given me permission to tell you all about an incident down at the Castlegate last saturday night around 3.30am...

He was taking the long way home from his night-time job and was passing through the Castlegate, when he saw some poor lost looking type asking some locals where he could find a hoor. Said locals were full of the grey-toon wit and were trying to send him up King Street, towards Holburn Street or off to Rosemount - basically anywhere in town he wouldn't find street prostitution. Ho ho ho. What hilarity. What a jolly jape.

So my friend took pity on this poor chap and, assuming he was a lost sailor looking for a girl in a lonely port, directed him to the streets operating under the Grey Toon's famous tolerance zone down at the harbour...

"Awww thaaanks mate!" he said, showing himself to be local and not off some foreign boat at all...

"Ah'm just looking fur a hoor tae sell this to afore ah go hame!" and at this he held out a grubby handful of crack... "I huvnae enough money fur chips and and a taxi an' need tae sell this furst!"

He turned and walked off towards the hoors and the harbour leaving my Good Samaritan friend standing at the Castlegate with his mouth open and his sense of good will a bit battered.