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.

On Returning Home

Some people just attract the attention of wandering lunatics. I am one of them. From an early age I have come to accept this. (There could follow many tales of being adopted on planes, trains and buses by Chinese Fortunetellers, Men of the cloth from Ghana and a Dundonian pauper with a penchant for Tolstoy... But I don't want to bore you).

Hence when I'm walking down the road with random people shouting "Hey you! Heymin! You!" at me, I tend to keep walking... just in case they try to show me their spoon collection or something.

So when I was getting the usual "Hemin! Hey! You! Youthere!" on the way back from the pub the other night (see previous post), I just ignored it. Until the guy went "Hey You! Yeah you! Neighbour!" - Well then I had to stop. Just in case it was Council Man and he was going to tell me more about the state of the hoors pants on the washing line...

But it wasn't him! Oh no. This was someone else. In fact two other people I'd not spoken to before. They'd obviously recognised me though, because one of them (drunkenly) introduced himself as the guy that had just bought the ground floor flat in the tenement UP the street. And his friend lived on the second floor of the next tenement DOWN the street (the one with the rottweilier hanging oot the windae).

"Helloooo Hellodere!" says Up-the-street. "Me an ma pal here want tae ask ye a question!"

Short pause as Doon-the-street introduces himself to The Boy (who is looking highly amused with the proceedings).

Up-the-street goes on. "See thae flat there..." he says, jabbing his finger at the hoors window. "Is it true? Is thur prossies in there than?"

Having had an enjoyable evening out, he's a bit pished and is altogether unconcerned about the volume of his question. I nod and confirm that, yes, there are hoors in the ground floor flat. I wonder what will happen if a hoor overhears and comes out to give him a good seeing-to.

"Faaaaaaaakin hell. Yon wifie in the chip shop telt me! But ah didnae believe it! How aboot that then? This area's got aaathin! It's close tae toon, there's a chipper and athin' and now I find oot we've got oor ain knockin' shop!"

"See yez round then," said Down-the street and the two off them staggered off.

In The Local

So we were in The Local on Saturday night.

I muscled my way past the man-with-the-twirly-moustache and the-man-whose-wife-comes-in-shouting-at-him-after-Eastenders and propped myself up at the bar waiting for the Blonde Bombshell to serve me with my usual glass of water and a winegum.

Who else was propped up against the bar next to me, but The Council Man With The Drainrods. (He had no drain rods on him at that particular point in time, but had a big grin and was pleasantly worse for the wear.)

After a short conversation in which he complained that The Boy was surly and should say Hello in the corridor, we discussed the overgrown back garden (lawn mower not mentioned) and did I see the state of the Hoors knickers that were hanging on the washing line? (No. I didn't. Had I seen the alledged "state" of them, I would undoubtedly have reported it here... Had they been newsworthy).

There was a pause as Council Man With the Drainrods giggled into his pint and I paid for my glass of water and a wine gum... Then Geoff Capes appeared to approach us and slap Council Man With The Drainrods on the back. (Thanks to the new smoking law, he'd been outside having a fag.) I was introduced to Mr Apparently Geoff Capes as "A Neighbour."

A big hairy Eyebrow Of Capes was raised. He looked questioningly at The Council Man With The Drainrods.

"Oh hey min. Naw. Nae aene o' THOSE neighbours!" Council man grinned, and emitted a laugh not unlike Sid James.

"This aene disnae get paid fur it."

Cheeky bugger.

Yaay! She returns!

Things have been dull Chez Hoors. As dull as the current series of Big Brother...

So imagine how delighted I was to return home to my favourite hoor! Yes! The Liverpudlian Hoor! As detailed in Eight Days A Week

So picture me, if you will, struggling up the stairs at an ungodly hour with my heavy bags full of the tools of my trade, messed up hair, makeup smudged, just generally travel-worn... and stopping to shuffle throught the Tenement Post (a lonely pile still full of loan offers from Mr Jones that died way back in 1971). And imagine, if you will, the smile creeping across my face as I hear The Liverpudlian Hoor's melodious tones as she makes an arrangement on the phone with a punter for the next day:

"Yer, yer - y'aright! Tewmorrow's greight! Fiive theirty. Shore. Feewl Massarge!" The phone clicks.

"Ere, Sandrra! Stick a bitta mewzic on willyer?"

Following last time's splendid performance of The Hoor And Her Maid Sing "A Hard Days Night," how could they top their last performance?

There was a pause and I couldn't hide my joy when I heard...

"Can't buy me loooooove! Looooooove! Can't buy me loooooove!!!"

Damn it was good to be home.

Perverts!

You disgusting lot.

I am ASHAMED of you and what you all look up on Google to find my site.

Who the hell googles for "kittens dipped in grease"? (three times!)

Filthy bastards.

The Missionaries - Part 3. Soup Soup Soup!

Bloody hell. I can't believe it's been over 2 weeks since my last post! :| I have no excuse other than I was away with work for far too long. (A whole new blog in itself...) And while there's been a couple of "Events" since I got back, I think I should finish off telling you about The Missionaries... Just while we're on the subject! :)

It was one of the hottest summers I can remember. It was the kind of summer that people write songs about and that old people get reminiscent about when they talk about the old days when we wuz just kids and all this was fields. There were endless blue skies, the air was sweet and the 24 hour Dodgy Porn And Popper Shop had sparkling white wine for 1.97 a bottle. (There I go giving away the location of our flat. But hey, I think every grey-toonser has lived near the DPaP Shop at some time in their lives. I wholly expect a conversation about this shop in the comments from Grey Toon Ex-pats...)

We spent most of that summer in the back garden - first of all studying for our final exams and then once they were over with, just lying around wondering what the hell we were going to do with our lives now that no studying had to be done.

We would carry half the flat into the back garden out of the window and straight onto the raised grassy bit... A small fridge, a TV, a CD player so we could listen to Frank Sinatra, blow up matresses... Fondue set, Cuddly Toy...

And one day just after we had been enjoying watching the neighbours dog/horse being mauled by the local tomcat (Greebo), we laid back and listened to The Missionaries cooking lunch. They had the window open because of their clean-livin', So we could often hear them chittering. (They did that a lot. It was better than Big Brother).

"Yay!"
*long pause*
"Yay! Yay! Yay!"
"Hehe! What is it Sister Veronica!?"
"Soup!"
*pause*
"Soup? Sister Veronica?"
"Yah! Soup! Soup Soup Soup! Dontcha just LOOOOVE Soup!?"
*pause*
"Oh WOOOW Sister Veronica, YEAAaaahhhh! I LOOOOVE Soup! Soup Soup Soup! Praise the Lord for Soup!"
"Yeaaaaahhhhh! PRAISE the Lord for Soup!"

So. If you ever see someone in the soup aisle of Asda chuckling and going "Soup, Soup, Soup! Dontcha just lurve soup? Praise the Lord for soup!" - then that's probably me.

Or my flatmate at the time.

Or even one of the Missionaries shopping for God.

Or just some random nutter.

The Missionaries - Part 2

So, I previously told you about when we found out about our Missionary neighbours a few years back when I was a student.

They were Mormon Missionaries and lived directly above us. They were always females and although I'm sure they all looked different, to my aging mind they were all blonde clones of Hayley Mills in her youth (or the Olsen Sisters for those of you too young to remember Ms Mills). Occasionally they were visited by smartly dressed blonde Good Mormon Boys and another neighbour of ours once repeated a rumour that "they've been up to ALL SORTS OF HANKY PANKY!" (which became a stock phrase in our household from that moment on).

More than once there was a buzz at 8am on a sunday and a rather hungover Neighbour Of Teh Missionaries got to the intercom system and went "Nyugh. Yeahr?" only to be cheerily greated with "Goooood Morning Sister Gwendoline! I've got about 5000 Booksa Mormon out here Furya!"

Other than the early morning awakenings, they really were a joy to have as neighbours - they never once spoke to us about their religion, cheered us up by their singing (which was only irritating when we had hangovers), and never made any more noise than hoovering.

They were always hoovering - For Cleanliness Is Next To Godliness.

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.