My Neighbours Were Missionaries

So I'm back from holiday now and from what I can make out, bugger all happened while I was away. However, I feel that you, my loyal readers, deserve more than that - hence I'm about to tell you about some other neighbours I had previous to moving in above the brothel. Yeah. Missionaries!

It was when I was a student and my good friend and I had rented a flat in one of the most popular student areas of the Grey Toon. We were moving in one sunny saturday and we went to put our names on the buzzer. While we were there, we peered at the other buzzer names and were delighted to see one buzzer, not with just a name, but with a colourful hand drawn picture of a wooden cross on a green hill with a smiling yellow sun in a blue sky. Below this was written "The Missionaries!"

In a moment of youthful delight we dashed inside, found our own crayons and did our own buzzer label stating that the new tennents (amongst some badly drawn orange and red flames) were "Satan's Happy Little Helpers!" We laughed and all was fun. Everyone who came to our flatwarming that night thought it was fun too.

So the next morning we were awakened (not for the first time) by a rousing chorus (all in perfect harmony... it was like living below the Osmonds) of "His Name Is Jesus" (which was their favourite song. We soon learnt the words.)

Then there was the mad panic to get dressed and run outside to remove our hilarious buzzer sticker. Oops.

(Yeah ok, we did consider changing it to "The Newborn Converts" - but thought that might not go down too well with them upstairs)

A post in which your neighbour fails to be an Investigative Journaliste

Typical.
I go away for the weekend and exciting things happen.

I was (loudly) carrying some furniture to be chucked out down the stairs yesterday and passed the first floor flat below mine. The door opened suddenly and Lovely Miss and Master Downstairs peered out with faces full of paranoia.

"Oh! It's you!" said Miss Downstairs, "Would you like a hand with that?" And so Miss Downstairs helps me to my car with the old furniture.

After the usual smalltalk, how are you, bloody awful weather we're having, didn't the neds make a lovely pattern on the stairs with their vomit, etc... I tell her

"So. I was away for the weekend. Did I miss anything?"

"Naah. Well... Actually yes. Someone was kicking the Hoors door in at 4am on saturday... So we called the police. And the police came in for a cup of tea and hear everything. But it's ok because they were entitled to be kicking the Hoors door in"

"Really?"

"Yeah. They got the door fixed. Hence all the staples in the wood"

And so there is. The Hoors door is a door in name only. Otherwise it is just a pretty selection of splinters all held together by hope.

I really, really wonder what part of Scottish law allows you to kick in the door of a brothel :)

Is there, for example, an ancient law excusing "Menne Of The Towne In Desperate Neede Of Aye Shagge"?

Hmmmm.

Door

I'm off on holiday, but I'll leave you with this...

There was a lot of banging going on at the weekend.

Stop that. Clear your filthy minds out this moment!

The hoors were finally getting a new front door. It is a rather pleasant green and has some nice Victorian-style panelling. It looks like it could withstand a few good kickings.

Our hoors may now sleep safely at night.

Assuming they’re not doing the night shift that is.

Grey Toon Vice

I'd just like to point out that this is not our hoors. I know you've been wondering because I can see what you've been typing into Google to find me. (And I know what else you've been typing... You dirty little beggars!)

To summarise my favourite parts from the Press and Journal's report of the latest brothel raid in the grey toon...

Police raiding a flat in the west end of The Grey Toon, which was reportedly being used as a brothel, discovered an assortment of whips, paddles, handcuffs and a vice.

Officers claim to have found a wooden bench with further restraints, a set of wooden stocks and attached to the wall were allegedly nine whips, two wooden paddles, two leather paddles, a small metal vice, clothes pegs, handcuffs and more arm and leg restraints. Fantasy clothing and footwear was apparently also found in the same bedroom as the equipment.

Officers reportedly found a large wooden cross with arm and leg restraints attached to the wall and electric prods on the floor.

Oh. So it *reportedly* might have been a brothel, eh? I think there's a pretty bloody good chance!

It's the cleaning lady I feel sorry for. One minute she's hanging up the hoors smalls in the back garden, next minute she's been dragged off by our finest boys in blue for being in possession of a dangerous clothes peg...

Balls

We were having a quiet after work pint the other day in The Local. There were the usual punters… the one that looks like the geeky guy that came second in Big Brother 6 last year, the one with the twirly moustache that wouldn’t look out of place in a Kitchener family portrait, Groundskeeper Wullie from the Simpsons…

And we sat down to quaff our fine ales and scoff our chicken inna basket. Now the local is kind of split into a bar and a lounge. Prior to the smoking ban, they were two quite separate places – not really due to the partitioning of the pub… but due to the fact you couldn’t see into the bar from the lounge due to the smoke.

However, now that the air in The Local is as clear and sweet as twirly-moustache-man’s breath after a few pints of heavy and a couple of packets of pork scratchings, you can see right the way from the lounge into the bar.

And from where we were sitting, you could see two very shapely young ebony divas in short skirts, plunging necklines and totter-high heels giggling a lot and playing pool with two plump middle aged moustached men.

Our conversation went something like this.

“Neighbours?” *gestures with chip*
“Mmph?” *finishes mouth of curry and looks up*
“Neighbours?” *gestures with chip*
*Much craning of neck*
“Aye.” *Nod. Stuff chip in mouth.* “Hoors.”

Gossip: Neighbour Of The Hoors

I was over at my mum and dad's the other day and we were talking about where we used to live when I was a kid.

We used to have this neighbour. She stuck her nose into everyone's business. If someone was getting a divorce, she was the first to know. If someone's son was in jail, she was the first to know. Apparently one local girl was pregnant and unmarried (this was the 70's I think) and the woman went to the door of her mother (a complete stranger!) just to find out... to get her facts right before she went round to spread the gossip!

I found this hilarious... and almost a little unbelievable. But my mum assured me this kind of woman was common in the days when neighbours met in closes and out in the drying green and on the stairs.

"Oh! It's such a shame people like this don't exist any more!" I squealed, mourning the loss of such an amazing cultural stereotype of times gone by: The Gossipy Auld Wifie.

The auld wifie whose business it was to know what all her neighbours were up to...

Who was shagging who...
Who had a drink problem...
Who had lost their job...
Who was in trouble with the police...
And the auld wifie whose place it was to make sure that everyone else knew what her neighbours were up to. It's such a shame they're a thing of the past.

Then I paused. Considering "My Neighbours Are Hoors."

Shit.

Pot.
Kettle.
Black.

The Boy Forgets His Keys

*mutter mutter... mumble mumble...*
*drool*
*snore*
Fast asleep. Away in the land of nod am I when...

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

No! Not the polis. Not a hoor demanding sanctuary. But the boy. He has forgotten his keys.

Sleepily I let him in. "Sorry, I forgot my keys, the buzzer isn't working and my phone ran out of batteries" he gasps.

"So how did you get into the building?" I ask, when I've woken up a bit. "Was the door on the latch?"

"Nope" says he.

"Did you press The Nice Council Man With The Drainrod's buzzer?" I ask.

"Nope" says he.

"Punter leaving let you in?"

"Nope."

"Oh. So how did you get in then?"

"I stood outside and shouted up at the window until Master First Floor shouted some abuse out at me. Then he let me in. Once he found out I wasn't punter..."

Brave lad.

When a Hoor had a go at Busted

So... that sunny afternoon when I was outside cleaning my car... Not only was I approached by Bill Oddie, but Shetland Boy came out on his way to work. We exchanged the usual pleasantries, discussed the broken door ("Probably due to the high amount of traffic we recieve") and just as he was about to leave, he asked "Did you get disturbed the other night by one of the hoors?"

"Um. No?" - I've gotten used to wearing earplugs you see and could sleep through a bomb nowadays - the hoors probably haven't become well behaved all of a sudden - they just don't waken me up anymore. "What happened?" I asked.

Apparently... Busted were up to their usual nonsense - music, screaming, smashing and the like and about 4am, Shetland boy and his girlfriend heard a door open and close on the ground floor and then one of the hoors started shouting up the stairs "Can you lot bloody 'ear me or wot!?"

Well, there was no response and so she stamped all the way up the stairs in her slippers and dressing gown and then started banging on the door screaming "I've lived here 10 bloody years and I've never 'eard the like!"

Then there was what the tabloid press would call a "ruckus" and eventually she must have terrified the spikey haired little darlings into shutting the hell up.

(Obviously Busted have a far higher volume than the Nazi Ned and his Orally Challenged girlfriend, or The Dead Man when he sings.)

(Oh, and she's not been here 10 years - that would mean that the brothel would have been in full swing 2 years before I moved in and there's no way I'd have bought my flat knowing there was a brothel on the ground floor!)

Is There A Hoor In?

So... I was washing my car last wednesday. No, not doing the Liv Tyler thing... just trying to remove some of the scratches it got when some comedy genius put a traffic cone on it.

For the entertainment, I ought to do this more often.

You see, I was coming out of the tenement with my polish and my shammy and, because the bloody door is knackered AGAIN, some Bill Oddie type was making his way into the building without first being buzzed in. (NOTE: He was a Bill Oddie type because he was short, stout and bearded... NOT because he was being chased down the street by a giant kitten or anything like that). He cheerily greeted me as if he knew me. I knew what he was up to and gave him the usual nod and a raised eyebrow.

So I was polishing my car accross the road and down a bit, polish polish polish, and out of the corner of my eye I see him come out of the tenement and look up and down the street, puzzled. Hah! I thought. Either she's busy or she's out getting her nails done. Nae shag fur you pal!

So he waits there an uncomfortable amount of time and little old ladies with their shopping trollies pass and give him dirty looks and all this time he's not bothered at all and just stands in the doorway waiting for the current Hoor to come home.

Finally he gets bored and I see him crossing the street. Going towards his car. No. Not going towards his car. Ah. Coming towards me. Avoid eye contact. Polish Polish Polish. Tum tee tum. Right. He's standing behind me... isn't he?

"Scuse me!" he chirps, "Is Sharn in?" (NOTE: This would be the local pronounciation of Sharon... He wasn't looking for some sharn. Which is the local vernicular for "cowshit")

"Um?"

"Sharn. You know... Sharn. One of the lassies from the ground floor?"

"Um. I dunno. Just got home from work." Go away Bill. Godammit where are all those giant kittens when you need them!?

"So you don't know when she'll be back then? Is she out getting her shopping?"

"Um. Dunno. I just live a few floors up." Please go away now.

"Ohhhhh" he says. "So you're not... Oh! OK then. Thanks anyway!"

And off he goes.

Um. So I'm not WHAT, exactly!?

Did he think I was her maid? Did I look like I was polishing her car? Do I look like a hoor's valet? Is my car a hoor's car!? (I once saw a hoor's car in Montreal. It was bright pink and I was only 15 so I loved it. - I know it was a hoor's car because she was stretched accross the bonnet and my aunt told me it was the "working girls district")

I now have a nasty feeling of unease :(

Hoors - Nul Pwah!

Just thought y'all might like to know the Hoors (and friends) are foregoing a night's earnings and are watching The Eurovision Song Contest at full volume!

Dirty Little Buggers - further developments

Hmmm. Now that I'm back from working abroad, I can tell you about the full tragedy unfolding upstairs.

When I arrived home this evening, there was *stuff* everywhere around their flat - kind of like when we were students and the woman downstairs kept throwing her boyfriend's stuff out of the window (which was particularly amusing at the time if anyone wants to hear about it).

*Stuff* includes another 2 leaking bin bags and an armchair (that looks like it's been nicked from the local) sitting on the stairs, a blender (containing red substances unknown) on the landing and some particularly nasty pants hanging from the railing.

Wonder if they're being chucked out? How will we sleep at night!?!?!

Answer: Soundly.

Dirty Little Buggers!

Last night the boy and I were awakened from a well-deserved slumber by none other than Busted.

They weren't getting in a bit of late night practice, oh no! The spiky haired littled darlings appeared to be doing a bit of clearing up. Clearing up that, by the sounds of things, consisted of hauling an elephant down the stairs, arguing with a tramp and rounding the whole lot off by having a Greek wedding style attitude to any dirty dishes that might be lying around - specifically when they got the stuff all the way down 6 flights of stairs and out into the street and celebrated by smashing crockery in the middle of the road. And then laughing loudly.

As I left my flat this morning, I was treated to a brand new experience. Had they left a note of apology and a nice bunch of flowers? No. They did leave us all with a really, really PECULIAR smell.

I just can't put my finger on it.

Jilly Goulden would have a bloody FIELD DAY.

There's definitely a hint of vomit. Also the suggestion of past-it camembert... Some heavy overtones of ripe sock, a tinge of rotten cabbage and most definitely the exciting aroma of running stark bollock naked through one of our fine city's municipal dumps.

They've also left a nice trail all the way down the stairs and out the door to the bins - you know when the contents of your bin bags go liquid? I think that's what it is. Either that or they owed Jabba The Hut some money and Mr Slug himself paid them a visit.

Little Bastards. I'm going to phone up Kim and Aggie for their latest challenge. *grumbles*

(Note: I'm so considerate of my forn readers that I have included links to the Pop Culture Icons mentioned in this post... I'm sure you'd have to live quite some way off not to have heard of Jabba The Hut, but my mum wouldn't know so I assume others like her might be reading)

Crackdown!

A workmate asked me yesterday...
"So. Have yer hoors been shut down yet!?"

Apparently his mate is in the Grey Toon Police Force, specifically the Hoor Crackdown dept and they're going round the Grey Toon's Tennement Brothels one by one CLOSING THEM DOWN!

So we wait with baited breath. It can only be so long.

Unless one of their Chief Inspectors is a regular of course.

Hoors Auf Deutch

A friend has pointed out that Hoors now come in German! :D (Oh go on. Make your own jokes)

German Hoors

Stigma

Some guy that works with us has just returned after a long absence. He joined the usual group for lunch.

To give him credit, he did manage to restrain himself a full 10 minutes before asking "So! Still living above the Hoors?!"

Sob!

cock.

I come home from a hard night's doing-what-I-do-of-an-evening (keep it clean guys) and try to park somewhere closer to my flat than... say... STONEfeckingHAVEN!!!

Can I?

No.

Why?

Because some fecker has parked his car outside the hoors flat - taking up TWO SPACES!!!

I'm going to go right down there and draw a cock in the frost on his windscreen. With a finger dipped in grease so he'll never get rid of it.

HAH.

SB 04-100 Smoking, Health and Social Care (Scotland) Bill - Smoking Ban in Certain Wholly Enclosed Public Places.

To keep topical, I really should have written this post on Sunday when Scotland's ban on smoking in public places began. But sorry. I was busy.

For those of you unaware, as of Sunday March 26th, smoking is now banned in enclosed spaces such as workplaces, pubs, clubs, restaurants, shopping centres and social clubs.

The boy and I skipped back from the pub on sunday, stench free and clear of lung.
Workplaces and social clubs, eh?

I wonder if the smoking ban includes brothels?

The Hoors flat has more than three walls. Does this mean that the punter will be charged an extra 50 quid if he is found smoking there? Will the hoor herself be charged an on the spot fine of 200 quid for not stopping him?

Will punters be forced to stand outside in their kecks for their post-coital fag?[1]

Just wondering...

[1] Note for Americans. Fag means cigarette in Scotland. Don't get confused.

Relating to the last post....

So when I was doing other blog related stuff, I did a search on "UK Prostitution"

And on the RHS under Google Sponsored Links?

Prostitution

Compare Prices and find great deals
from thousands of UK shops.
www.shopping.net

Another Comedy Google Search

I'm still cackling at this Google search that led someone to My Neighbours Are Hoors earlier today -

"Where have all the prostitutes gone in Birmingham?"

A question truly worthy of asking Uncle Google. I will give you an answer. Downstairs. The lot of them. All servicing punters and organising tricks in their black country patois. You can barely move down there for Birmingham Hoors!

Sorry Birmingham. Perhaps you can steal some Hoors from Kings Cross? Maybe like a Hoor Experience Placement or something? Maybe put it on their CV...

This post will only make sense to a few Brits of the right age...

I'm sure I must be wrong here... But I swear I just saw Captain Sensible putting rubbish out into one of the big communal bins...

Traffic Cone

I'd just like to take this opportunity to thank the comedy genius who was kind and thoughtful enough to leave a traffic cone on my car this morning.

Truly sir (and I have no doubt you are a sir), you are the funniest man that ever lived.

Ahahaha.

The Boy's First Experience

"I think I saw a punter today!" cried The Boy when I got home from work the other day. He seemed quite surprised by this.

Actually, people are often surprised by the fact that I often come across punters during my comings and goings from the flat. There's a brothel down there. Men come to the brothel to have sex with women for money. To do this, they have to enter the building. To enter the building, they have to ring the buzzer and wait. They have no powerful ability to turn themselves invisible or turn themselves into a mist so they can enter through the letterbox.

Unless X-Men are so shunned by society that they find themselves coming to the Grey Toon for a bit of company. I don't know.

Anyway. The Boy left the flat and found an old man standing there. The old man asked him if this was "Address Of The Hoors, The Grey Toon" and The Boy replied that yes indeed, it was. Then the old man kind of shuffled around in an embarrassed manner.

Poor guy. I do hope he didn't think The Boy was a Rent Boy and that he'd come to the wrong kind of establishment...

Hooer's Flooer

I should have posted this last week, but I was aff gettin' pished in London.

I was saddened to observe, last wednesday the 15th February, a rose. A crushed rose lying in the gutter outside the hoors window.

I shan't spoil the bittersweet feeling you're all undoubtedly having right now by making any smug observations.

(P.S. Where is our favourite hostie's blog?)

My Readers Are Plumbing Fanatics

Never did I think I'd get so many questions about drain rods! There have been other questions which I suppose I could answer too.

I could just add these to the FAQ, but can't be arsed.

So.

What is a drain rod?
Well! I'm glad you asked. I bet there are 1000's out there who don't know what a drain rod is. I think it's kind of like a pipe cleaner. In the same way that a pipe cleaner cleans pipes, I believe drain rods clean drains that are blocked. You can see some lovely pictures of drain rods here you deviants. By the way, I didn't realise until I was old-enough-to-know-better that pipe cleaners are for pipes that you smoked. For years i wondered how such a tiny bit of fuzzy wire could clean water pipes. OK. You can laugh at me now.

What is The Council?
They're the guys that run the grey toon. Yeah. kind of like a local government. Very good at spending taxpayers money and getting into scandal and stuff like that. Council man works for the council. I'm not quite sure what he does, although I'm pretty sure he does something useful for them like fixing broken things or cutting grass or something, rather than wearing a chain round his neck and having affairs with secretaries.

Am I John?
I got the comment "If your neighbors are hoors, then you must be john" (sic)
I'm not sure if this is a pun on the word John? Or if you think I'm some bloke called John who also lives above a brothel in A Grey Toon. I am not John. I reserve the right to my anonymity and the right to go on with my life without ending up with a hoors fist through my osmond-perfect teeth.

Ok. That's your lot for now. I will get on to what else I heard about our neighbours at that meeting eventually!

What People Have Been Googling To Find Me This Week

Right. OK. So a lot of us bloggers have sitemeter to track where most of our hits are coming from?

These can be very englightening. This is how I know that a surprising amount of you find me through our common inability to spell Suzie Quatro properly.

Today someone in New Zealand found my blog by Googling for "My Neighbour Just Hung Himself."

Dude.

If you're old enough to connect to the internet, then you're old enough to know that when your neighbour commits suicide, you should be calling the emergency services. Uncle Google may be everyone's friend, but in this case, not your first port of call.

Frozen Punter

It has been a touch on the chilly side of late. The rivers have been frozen for the first time I can remember and there are all Victorian people skating about. (OK. There aren't, but the bus journey to work is a long one and my imagination gets a bit out of control sometimes).

I've explained in the past how I can come home from work and see a punter at the door waiting to be let in. Sometimes I just hang around accross the road, giving them privacy, until they go in. Sometimes I'm too impatient and just shove past them with a bad attitude. Sometimes you can play with them too!

Like yesterday. I approach from accross the road wrapped up against the -7C breeze. A man in one of those very thin white shirts (and trousers and shoes too obviously) is outside looking like he's going to go up and press the buzzer. I'm in one of those "Sod you pal, it's too cold for me to be concerned about your shyness for paying for sex" moods. So he sees me coming and shows a great deal of interest in a drainpipe. I approach and get my keys out, wrap my scarf even tighter round me as my cold fingers fumble for the lock. He shivers. His teeth chatter.

Then the little devil on my left shoulder nudges naughty thoughts into my head. The little angel on my right shoulder actually appears to be on the little devil's side too and eggs me on as well. Oh! What's that? Is my mobile ringing? Cue lenghthy fumbling in bag. Oh me oh my! I seem to have forgotten how to use it! Seconds pass. Frozen punter has lost attention in the drainpipe and is now avoiding my glance by examining the wheels of a parked car.

The little devil on my left shoulder giggles and prods me on with his spikey red fork thing. Time to fumble for my keys again. Oh! Maybe I should check the wheelie bin. Chatter chatter. Shiver shiver. Stampy stampy of feet.

I eventually felt sorry for him and let myself into the block of flats so he could approach the hoors' buzzer again. Poor guy. I went inside and flicked that little devil off my shoulder.

So. Lesson for all you punters out there. LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHERS. It's a bit nippy out. If you're going out looking for a hoor, wrap warmly or you will CATCH A CHILL!

That is all.

A post in which stories are postponed and I have a RANT about new issues

Right. OK. I was finally finding time from my busy schedule to sit down and write a post. I was going to answer some of the questions you've been asking in comments. (Such as "What is a drain rod" and Am I John?") But now I am going to do a LiveJournal on you. I am going to have an online STROP.

Often I think I'm going to have to face facts that the hoors aren't as interesting as they used to be and that hey, ho... it's going to be the end of "My Neighbours Are Hoors." (I'm currently persuading my friend to do a blog about her neighbours that like to set fire to things as a potential replacement, but she's only got as far as mastering ebay and we're taking it one step at a time.)

I was thinking a few weeks back about my closing post... about how all the horrors of the past have moved out and how 7 out of 8 flats are full of normal people and how the Hoors have been on a Hoor Behavioural course.

I even commented today to a work colleague about how peaceful things are chez Neighbour Of Teh Hoors (i.e. me) ... And then I came home.

Little Fuckers! The Nasty Horrible Little Cretinous Pieces of Shit! The Unbelieveably Disgusting Little Morsels of Dog Crap!!! Fuck Them The Fucking Fucks!

There is peuk ALL OVER THE SODDING STAIRWELL. (Americans: I have added Peuk to the Glossary)

And who slept through it? Me. I'm so damn hard working, you see. Either that or it's the earplugs I've been wearing because the boyfriend's snoring is so loud. The Boy sleeps so soundly that even my poking him in the ribs to stop snoring doesn't wake him. The noise of vomiting teenagers is hardly going to rouse The Boy.

Anyway. So I got home and The Neighbour With The Cool Hair had been out the night before and had missed it all until he came in this morning.

It seems that Shetland Girl's brother wasn't in to recieve his evil little friends last night... and so they just made themselves at home on the stairs. They had pizza. They had coke. They had chips. And then their stomachs didn't want such quality morsels in them anymore so they peuked everywhere. Gads. I mean Yuck. I mean... you manky little Fucks!

Shetland Boy's girlfriend, like me, was fast asleep. She's out there right now heroically CLEANING and thus earns my respect and worshipping. Shetland Boy came home at 4am and tried to find them so he could beat them to a pulp, but they were long gone. Shetland Girl is out there at this very moment on the phone to her brother (who is still AWOL) demanding that said friends be brought to justice.

The Residents, meanwhile, appear to be forming some sort of Peuk Justice Force. Any further appearance of said friends will result in PULVERISATIONS! PAIN! LOTS OF PAIN!

I'm going now. I need a drink.

Comments

OK. It looks like I've finally sussed out why I was getting no comments. Turns out I switched on the "moderate comments" thingy on haloscan. And here I was thinking nobody loved me! *sob*

So now I have all the comments from way back in the dawn of time to enjoy over and over.

I'm off to play with haloscan now. More on teh Hoors later

Merry Christmas Everyone!

That's it. Just a Christmas greeting from me :)

Nothing exciting downstairs, except that they got a Christmas card from a punter.

Awww nice punter :)

Merry Christmas y'all! :D

He ate her liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti...

Sometimes I worry about the Hoors.

They're letting God knows who into their house and I'm sometimes concerned about their safety. They let some really wierd folk in there you know...

Anyway. I've been working away from home for a few days and was really excited about going to the pub this evening. I put on my headphones and bounced down the stairs, sang along and danced past the hoors front door. Then I opened the front door of the block of flats.

And there he stood.

Motionless.

Hands by his side. A slight smile on his unmoving features.

It was...

No it couldn't be. Just like when you first see him in the film awaiting Clarisse in his cell at the end of the corridor.

Hannibal Lecter.

He was actually wearing a boiler suit. Admittedly, it was a kind of faded red... but it was dark and it looked grey!! I screamed. Sorry, but I did. He just stood there. For some reason I apologised for screaming - he didn't bat an eyelid and then moved smoothly past me into the building. I ran to the pub.

The Caring Profession

I arrive home.

I check my mail.

My heart is immediately wrenched by the most sorrowful of wailings coming from the brothel.

Some poor dear (young, female, high pitched) is upset. She sobs, she wails, she moans! No. Hold on. She doesn't moan. She's upset, not working.

Ok. So. She... howls, laments and blubbers a bit too.

Then after that, another voice. Older, deeper, giving the mental picture of someone more nurturing... more... experienced.

"There, there sweetheart... *sigh* If it wasn't meant to be, it wasn't meant to be."

"!!!!!!!" says I. What's this? What drama is playing itself out a couple of floors below me?

I am ashamed to admit I hung around to see if anything else happened. It didn't. Thus my overactive imagination is picturing Pretty Woman - the alternative cut. Where Richard Gere's Edward (I knew his name! I am teh Pop Culture Queen) decides he doesn't like Julia Roberts' Vivian (stupid name for a hoor anyway) - even though she wore a very nice red curtain to the opera.

Naked Neighbour! Denied!

It must have been his birthday!

Or a sudden drive on energy-saving...

Or he has put on weight, caught leprosy and grown another head...

Or his mother has come to stay!

Anyway. Neighbours of this world weep, hang your heads, wail and grind your teeth...

For the naked man has bought curtains.

Amen.

Rejection!!!

5.30 on friday when I'd just got home from work. A sad looking man is at the front door of the tenement pressing the hoors buzzer.

I do the usual thing and sit in my car waiting for him to go in before I get out and let myself into the block of flats. (Usual unless I'm in a huff and in no way patient enough to give punters their brothel-entering privacy). I give the usual estimated amount of time before opening the door that will allow him to make his introduction to Hoor of the Week and get out of the hallway and into the hoor's flat.

So I've just got in the door and look up to see The Sad Man's face fall even more as the Hoor tells him she "cahn't do now, ye'll ave ta come back latur" and then quickly shuts the door in his face...

I had to feel sorry for the guy...

Bad enough to be a Sad Man having a bad day... but to be rejected by a Hoor?

Pitiful.

The Death of Chivalry

Sunday afternoon and I'm struggling up the road with some flat pack furniture. I've just reached the door with my keys when a lanky streak of piss gets out of his car and presses the buzzer.

A hoor answers using the intercom - "Ello there?"

The lanky streak gives me a *look* and answers "Yer! Yer! It's... 'James'"

I'm trying to get my key in the lock at this point and the hoor-within uses the intercom to let him in to the building.

So desperate is he for a shag, that he shoves open the door (with my keys still in it!), dives in, and lets it slam in my face!

Truly Mrs Beaton would be turning in her grave...

ok... ok... A translation

"Voulez vous quelque compagnie pendant le soir?"
French: Would you like some company for the evening?
"Putains! Putains ici, pas trop chères! Venez ici pour des putains!"
French: Prostitutes! Prostitutes here, very cheap! Come here for the prostitutes!"

"Fraulein Jasmine ist ausserst freundlich!"
German: Miss Jasmine is very friendly!

"Potrebbe forse una puttana per stasera?"
Italian: Would you perchance like a prostitute for this evening?

"Moecha Putida!"
Latin: Dirty Slut

"Pijpen, neuken, 50 euro..."
Dutch: Blowjob, fuck, 50 euros!

Consider yourselves EDUCATED!

Hoors In The News Continued

So. Yeah. A continuation of my last post about Grey Toon Hoors in the local paper...
Where I last left off, a Grey Toon Surgeon had been caught having a "spot of tiffin" with a hoor dressed as a schoolgirl and a hoor dressed as a french maid. You have to hand it to them... there's nothing like a good imagination and an original outfit :P

Anyway. To continue by quoting a witness to the raid...

"The premises were well run - it wasn't the sort of place you would expect to find in London, it was a high-class operation.

You see? Only the classiest of brothels for the Grey Toon. You can tell I'm trying to make out that our brothel is way classier than your average knocking shop...

It goes on.

Today the man running the sex den (typical local paper language) in the city's west end escaped a jail sentence... He turned up as the search was being conducted and pretended he was a customer but later admitted he was involved in running the enterprise. Aberdeen Sheriff Court heard he had ended up losing £7000 of his own cash after splitting his profits with the girls. (What a kind pimp!)

It then says how he was admonished for living off the earnings of prostitution and after a lot of other legal stuff I won't go into, states that he is "now a languages student at Northumbria University."

Now. Repeat after me...

"Voulez vous quelque compagnie pendant le soir?"
"Putains! Putains ici, pas trop chères! Venez ici pour des putains!"

"Fraulein Jasmine ist ausserst freundlich!"

"Potrebbe forse una puttana per stasera?"
"Moecha Putida!"

"Pijpen, neuken, 50 euro..."

Hoors In The News

"SURGEON CAUGHT IN BROTHEL RAID!" cries today's local paper, The Evening Express...

"A north-east surgeon was caught up in a raid in a brothel, a court heard today."

The local is never interested in anyone that is not from the north-east. It is, indeed, a local paper for local people. I'm sure I've mentioned the story about it's sister paper (The Press and Journal) reporting on the sinking of the Titanic... "Titanic Sinks: North-East man drowns."

"The medic was found on the premises when it was searched by police...
"When the property was raided, police ound two women; one dressed as a French maid, the other as a schoolgirl"

Am I the only one picturing the doctor from The Simpsons here? Caught with a couple of big-lipped Simpsons bunny girls and one of those surgeons-light-things on his forehead? Laughing? Going hoohoohoohoohoo!
The article continues... But this girl has a night out to see to, so I'll tell you more about that later! :D

Amen To That!

A milestone!

Wow... it looks like I'm getting close to my 50,000th visitor!

A figure I'm sure the hoors passed many months ago...

Anyway, I thought I could celibrate this momentus occasion by giving away a gift. Yes! I am BUYING your friendship... The gift would be
the beautiful garment on the right which I picked up on holiday last year in Vegas.

My original intention was to give it to them as a nice gift (as I originally spoke about >here. But I chickened out and I think this would be the perfect gift for my 50,000th visitor.

I'll update this post closer to the time once I've figured out how to identify that lucky 50,000th visitor.

Hurrah! Hoor Pants! :D

Groundforce [1] - Tillydrone Style

Aaaah the last few days of Summer! BBQ's! Fresh walks in the countryside! DIY!

My Tillydrone Correspondant writes...

The neighbours have been doing some remodelling of the environs......

Bucolic summer days are enough to make even the most black fingered among us believe that there's an Alan Titchmarsh [2] trapped inside us, just waiting to get out.

I've therefore spent the last few months trying to coax, well anything to grow in my back garden. Finally as we near the end of summer I have 2 tattie plants and 4 broad bean bushes. And a forest of dandelions. I should have learned from my neighbours that destruction is far more fun, and has a far more drastic affect on your surroundings. And it is cheaper and doesn't take so long

In the last couple of weeks they've managed to fell a 20m high chestnut tree and uproot all of the traffic control bollards to create that classic "hurricane's just swept through" look. Chealsea Flower Show [3]
here we come......

N.B. For our american friends:
[1] Groundforce: BBC TV Program in which a TV crew and assorted "TV Gardeners" do up someone's grotty patch of garden in an attempt to make interesting television. They once surprised a bemused Nelson Mandela with some nice decking and a water feature.
[2] Presenter of said Groundforce. Looks a bit sinister. Once wrote a book now found under the section "Gardening Pornography"
[3] Big flower show in London Village. Upwardly Mobile middle class couples in silly hats admire gardens that the upper class have got their lower class gardeners to put all their efforts into so that they can take all the credit and go "Fwah Fwah. Lovely Champagne! Do you like my Pergola?"

Who used to live in my flat?

Now that some bastard has slashed both tyres on my bike, I thought I'd check to see if I could fit it outside in my coal sheddie - A place I've not been since oooohhh 1998 when i first moved in?

Full with all sorts of shite! All sorts I tell you!
And from the contents of the sheddie... This is what I have surmised about the person that used to live in my flat:

Item 1) An Agatha Christie Book: Leads me to believe that the inhabitant was a little old lady who liked a good read.

Item 2) A chest of drawers (white) containing an old biro (chewed) and a large magnifying glass: Inhabitant was a little old lady who not only liked a good read but also likes a good mystery to solve.

Item 3) A handbag: It's all coming together!

Item 4) Containing... an old bank statement! : So. An aging amateur detective who shops at... ASDA and... B&Q!!

Item 5) An axe. OK. I have to rethink. Perhaps... Perhaps!!! It's a little old lady who reads crime novels (which she buys in Asda) so as best to know how to KILL PEOPLE! HORRIBLY BRUTALLY! With the AXE she's just bought in B&Q!!!

Item 6) A mouldy old plastic Christmas Tree: Because even octagenarian axe murderer likes Christmas.

Item 7) Steel toe-capped wellies: For she may be a really bad aim with that axe what with her eyes going and all...

Item 8) A wasps nest and an ice skate (honest!) Because once she's got the victim STUNG TO DEATH and hacked up... she's going to skate across a frozen loch, break a hole in the ice and dispose of the body that way.

What do you think?
Hmmm.
I won't give up my day job :P

Dirty Shagging Tillydrone Bastards

More from my Tillydrone Correspondant...

So I just got back from a month away to find used condoms in my back lawn - Me (and my lovely lawn) feel violated.

The main problem is that they were found by my dad who came round with his strimmer to help me get rid of the triffids which had flourished during my month of respite!

The thing is, my lawn is fairly secluded (by almost living in Tillydrone standards anyway) so I have a list of lawn shagging suspects. these are:

1. Girl who has been watering my plants - but she is far too nice (and going through man angst so unlikely to have a lawn-sex partner)
2. Pissing postie - no way would any sentient being go near that man's cock - I should know....
3. Land grabbing round the back neighbours - has potential as their garden is full of rubble and not a suitable place for making sweet love
4. Neighbours next door who stare at everything - should perhaps talk to them they're bound to have had an eyeful anyway but it is not the best way to introduce yourself to someone: 'Hi there! I'm your next door neighbour... Have you seen anyone shagging in my garden?'
5. Population of Tillydrone (or perhaps some kind of Tillydrone/Woodside Romeo + Juliet situation where star crossed lovers can only meet in neutral locations- like my fecking back garden!) - but this _would_ involve them learning about contraceptives...

So, the jury is out...

Another definition: A Hoorin' Minger/A Mingin' Hoor

Right.
Apparently I need to put another definition on here. This is only vaguely relevant because of the word "hoor" being present... but it was drawn to my attention in the pub last night that I need to differentiate between my drunkenly slurred insults of "a hoorin' minger!" and "a mingin' hoor."

Hoor - a prostitute
Hoorin' - very much so/awfully (e.g. Look at the rain! It's hoorin' it down!)
Minger - An ugly or person, a person who doesn't look after themselves too well.
Mingin' - Smelly/dirty or ugly

Hence "a hoorin' minger" is someone who is REALLY ugly and a mingin' hoor is a smelly or ugly prostitute.

I think I've made everything clear. I also had it pointed out to me that the use of certain celebrities for clarification would be unwise because of the ensuing legal prosecutions.

Smells

You know how sometimes a certain smell will take you right back to a time and place?

I came in to the building today and breathed in... And was magically whisked off (nasally) to... Las Vegas!

I'm not sure if this is because the building smells of excitement! Hedonism! All night partying! Money! Champagne! The perfume of the Rich and Famous! Splendour! Sequinned Glamour Girls!

Or if it smells of beer, stale cocktails, cigars and dog-ends, tramps outside $30 wedding chapels, and old women who've been sat at the same machine for 48 hours churning quarters into the same "I Love Lucy" slot machine.

News from Tillydrone

My Tillydrone Correspondant writes today:

All has been quiet in my little corner of town; sadly as they say in the films too quiet.........

Was having a fantastic sleep last night, when I was interupted by some 3 Tillydronian boys having a slanging match outside my window.

'You f**king told me it was round here you f**ing c**t'
'No i didn't you f**ker'
'F**k you'
'No you F**k you'
'Go f**k yourself!'
'Well I'll f**king have tae if we cannae find this f**ing brothel'

I almost stuck my head out of the window to tell them that:
a. it was in the next street along and
b. the polis had closed it down two weeks ago.

However; even I have some self preservation instinct so I kept my pearls of wisdom to myself and watched them try to drunkenly beat the crap out of each other with one hand on my mobile in case an ambulance was needed. Luckily, they were all too pished for their punches to connect with anything and they disappeared into the night.

Gie A Flooer Tae A Hoor

Awww.

Someone has given the hoors flowers! Yes. I know. It may have been their birthday and the flowers might have been from their mum or whatever... but I much prefer to believe that some nice Punter is more appreciative than most. They're carnations and they're in a lovely earthenware vase on the hoor's windowsill, just beyond the scabby net curtains.

I know for sure I'd appreciate Flooers if I were a Hoor.

Thus I would like to propose a new date for our calendars: Hoor Appreciation Day. (Perhaps on the 22nd July which is something to do with Mary Magdalen?)

And on this day we should all show appreciation for those working in the oldest job in the world and perhaps Gie a Flooer Tae A Hoor. (Translation: Give a flower to a lady of negotiable affection).

It would make the world a happier place.

Awww.

So that's me back from the Glastonbury Festival and subsequent fun in England. (Where it wasn't a case of My Neighbours Are Hoors, so much as My Neighbours were Washed Away).

Anyway.

The Dead Man (who is looking extremely grey today) just knocked on the door to see if I'm OK because he's not seen me about for a bit!

Makes a change. It's usually me sniffing at the suspicious smell and panicking that his corpse is lying there rotting.

All The World's A Stage...

And all the men and women merely players.

Never a truer word spoke. (Or is it spoken? Your narrator is a little tipsy).

So I am tired. And when one is tired of the Grey Toon? One is tired of life. Actually that is nonsense. And anyway, I'm not that kind of tired. Once more I am tired due to lack of sleep. And why? I hear you ask?

Well, because I was awakened at 6am this morning by a bit of HIGH DRAMA. Not brought to us by my neighbours, the hoors, this time. But by two brothers. One called Kevin. The other who had no name, but liked to shout "You F**ker!" "You f**king Faggot!" This would be quite unfair, only Kevin was quite happy to counterattack this with "You F**king C**t!" He did this quite a bit actually, did our Kevin...

I tried to roll over and go back to sleep. (Well, a girl has to keep her appointment with the beautician at 10am you know... Can't let hairs grow just because our neighbours are having a little domestic drama!)

So after the usual head over pillow, toss, turn, fingers in ears, head back on pillow, stare at the ceiling nonsense, I gave up and listened.

It seems that these two brothers had just come back after a night's carousing (or "getting shitfaced" as it's known in the Grey Toon) (amongst many other terms. We Scots specialise in words for being drunk... Just like the Eskimos have umpteen words for snow) and brother one (the sweary one) had discovered that Kevin was GAY.

Yes. Our Kevin had come out. And rather than have a nice wee chat over a cup of tea in their mum's front room, they'd chosen to take the issue out into the street. Next to my new car, I may point out, but that's the only starring role my property has in this tale. So they fought. Physically. I could hear the grunts and stuff and for once it wasn't from two floors below... They shouted at eachother, someone called Claire was mentioned and there was many an anguished bellow.

Eventually, enter stage left (still in my mind at this point as I'd not yet succumbed to curtain twitching) Thoroughly Decent Mum. Thoroughly Decent Mum pleaded with them (in hushed tones and the purest polite voice) to please come into the house and deal with it there! "Please! Please, come on! Don't do this! You're waking people up!" But no. The "F**king C**t" and Kevin are still hard at it. I give up on sleep and consider this (like the rest of the curtain twitching neighbours, it seems) to be a bit of saturday morning free entertainment.

"Kevinnnnnnn! Yer A F**KING FAGGOT!" Yells the "F**king C**t" from his prone position on the street (or "pavement" for you Americans)

Kevin minces up the street.

Thoroughly Decent Mum, by now is kneeling over her son who is drunk and bleeding in the middle of the road. She is wearing a black dressing gown with a pretty picture of a butterfly, her hair is immaculate and bobbed. She looks genuinely distressed. And there before me... (and my new car which now has a bloody footprint on it) she brushes her son's forehead and raises her arms and her eyes to heaven and cries "Kevvinnnnnnn! Loooooook what ye've donnnnneeeeee!"

Kevin continues mincing off into the distance, wiping a tear from his eye (probably)

Reasons to throw out my telly and forget my TV licence?

I think so...


P.S.
(There was more... staring Kevin, a mobile phone, the Thoroughly Decent Mum and "Claire" (some bird on the other end of the phone") and then an epilogue involving the beautician and a policeman, but seeing as how I have a habit of pleading for films to end JUST THERE (e.g. Revenge of the Sith, Return of the King, A.I.) I won't spoil the dramatic effect by telling you any more. Suffice to say I now feel (quite happily) that there is no better drama than the ones going on outside my front door.)

A Dissapointment?

Dear Mr Naked Neighbour,

Have you been reading this blog?

Is this why you've been investing in some net curtains for your kitchen? Or has some other neighbour sent you a letter requesting that you stop parading around nekked in your kitchen and PUT SOME BLOODY CLOTHES ON!?!?!?

New Neighbours: Busted Move In

Oh the excitement!
I was talking to the Neighbour With The Cool Hair about the roof and stuff like that (the usual boring neighbour stuff) and he commented that Shetland Girl has moved out and is renting her flat out to her little brother and his mates.

This would explain the surly members of what could only have been the splendid boyband Busted I met coming downstairs the other day.

Neighbour With The Cool Hair is preparing himself for all night pop-metal jamming sessions.

You wonder why they split up? They didn't really! They're upstairs planning their next rock-pop gem.