Time for A Change

So yeah.

Anyone who has vaguely followed My Neighbours Are Hoors over the past few years or who has even had more than a casual glance, will realise that my Neighbours Are No Longer Hoors.

First of all they got closed down by the Polis and then I moved out into a much more salubrious neigbourhood.

So the front page of the blog needs a bit of an update. Hence I will change the sidebar.

Just for my own reminiscence, I'm going to cut and paste in the stuff from the sidebar that I'm going to change.

Aaaah memories...

First, here's the intro. I put this in so that noone would think I was having a go at the hoors. I never got that many flames though - just the odd "Heymin, is it nae a bit sad tae spend a' yer time writin aboot yer neighbours?" which begged the obvious response "bugger aff"

Yup. My neighbours are Ladies of Negotiable Affection... and it's TOO INTERESTING not to share.
Hoors?

* Yeah... My Neighbours Are Hoors. This is a blog mainly about the brothel on the ground floor and what its occupants get up to. Hoors is my affectionate term for them. I'd like new visitors to my blog to know that I really don't intend to cause any offence to the girls downstairs. I respect what they do. Sometimes though, the goings-on are just too enjoyable not to go down in writing!


Names have been changed to protect the... um... er... Innocent?

Well I did change the names... Up til I moved out of the block of flats, only one neighbour gave me a nod and a wink about "When will you run out of things to write about." I did my best blank look. He was not fooled. I grinned. It was not brought up again. Either noone else from the tennement read the blog or they were too polite to mention it. Gawd bless you one and all...

Anyway... As of January 2006, this was the cast list:

The Main Characters- January 2006

* I have decided to list the main players in my blog in a handy column to ease any reader's confusion. That, and I want The Nice Neighbours to read this before they think I'm slagging them off and come downstairs to beat me up with a big hammer!

NEIGHBOUR OF TEH HOORS - i.e. ME. I have been living above a brothel for almost eight years. The novelty still hasn't worn off.

THE HOORS live on the ground floor in a one bedroom flat and are Prostitutes. They aren't from round these parts, but come up to The Grey Toon from places like London, Liverpool, Bristol and Birmingham because The Grey Toon is tolerant and full of oil money.

THE DEAD MAN is the (ex?) alcoholic who used to look like a Zombie. Has been looking very healthy lately, so I think he's given up the drink

THE COUNCIL MAN lives on the ground floor opposite the hoors and is a very nice man. He works for the council and once offered me the use of his drain rods.

SHETLAND BOY lives with his girlfriend in the flat above me. Both are ideal neighbours! Not actually from Shetland. I think one of my friends thought he was and so the name stuck.

SHETLAND GIRL owns the flat next to Shetland Boy and is also very lovely. She has moved out though and her Little Brother lives there now. Again, not actually from Shetland.

LITTLE BROTHER/BUSTED now live in Shetland Girl's flat. Seem to be very polite spikey haired youths.

TNWTCH or, The Neighbour With The Cool Hair - lives next to me. Also an ideal neighbour.

THE BOY is my boyfriend who moved in a month ago. So far he is not put off by the fact his girlfriend lives above a brothel

And finally there was the Suzi Quattro Disclaimer. Turns out I wasn't the only person spelling her name wrong :)

Suzi Quattro Disclaimer

* Many apologies to those who have been innocently Googling for the legendary leather clad songstrel, Suzie QUATRO. It seems you have been mis-spelling her name as badly as I. I know I'm now the 6th hit for this popular mis-spelling of her name, and would like to take this opportunity to point out that she is not a) my neighbour b) definitely doesn't get paid for nookie. That is all.

Christmas Close

It turns out that I have moved into Christmas Close.

1st of December, out came the European lightbulb mountain which was promptly stuck to the front of my neighbours houses. Our close glitters so much it's like someone covered us in glue and rolled us through Claire's Accessories.

I was considering how to react to this.

Would I...
a) Act the way I always do, wait until the 15th December (ish) and then put up my lovely tasteful tree the way I always do, whilst whistling along to White Christmas or whatever other "Christmas Classics" they have on TV

b) Go for the Ebeneezer option. Stick a dry twig in a pot, hang one solitary black bauble from it and stick the whole thing in the window. Buy one of B&Q's "festive" funereal wreaths for my front door. (Have you ever seen anything so inappropriate?)

c) Out-do everyone in the street by carrying out a cunning Italian-Job-type-ruse in Ford Fiesta in order to steal the Bon Accord's hideous singing Christmas Display Sodding MacHappy and Sodding MacHuggy (As beautifully rendered in this person's flickr - why Billy Connolly hasn't sued for defamation of character by now, I don't know) and staple it to my roof.

In the end I just went for option A. But - Drama! Dear readers! After years of not being able to use them in case the punters got confused by the red glow in the window, the sodding red tree lights finally gave up the ghost. We made a last minute trip in to town and went to B&Q who... had their blue LED lights on sale for LESS THAN A THIRD OF THE PRICE!!!

Delightedly, I grabbed some - thinking how well it would go well with my well coordinated Christmas colour scheme (Lawrence Llwellyn Bowen would have been really impressed, oh, about 3 years ago) - and wondering why on earth they'd reduce all these lovely blue bulbs!

I now know why. These things are so damn bright you could use them in an interrogation suite. I was thinking of getting eye laser surgery - but hey! I looked at my tree and now I've got 50/50 vision. If we ever need to really urgently communicate with aliens, I'm pretty sure we could use them to send morse code to reach far off depths of space...

I just had to switch off the pulse setting because the neighbours were complaining about all the aging ravers blocking up the street outside...

My Neighbours Throw Like Girls

Aaah!
The first snow of winter and doesn't my new neighbourhood look great! It's so clean and quaint looking and there are kids out sledging and making snowmen and there's a dachsund out walking with it's owner that's having to hop skip and jump over the snow. I can just see it muttering "Slow down you long legged bastard" under its breath.

We made it through Hallowe'en without getting eggs off our windows... We made it through Bonfire Night* without getting bangers through our letterbox and yesterday on a snowy walk to the local supermarket, a Ned came up to me and non-threateningly said "Wow! Your hair is ace!"

And I thought, "what a LOVELY place we've moved to" and let out an extremely saccharine sigh.

So I was starting to let my guard down a bit last night and was just about to make myself a mug of Horlilcks (do you like this cosy Waltons-like home life I'm painting?) when...

DOOMF!!

DOOMF! DOOMF!

"Hahahahaha" (sound of running feet)

Yes. The local neds found our kitchen window too much of a target to ignore, had idle hands and just had to test out their snowball flinging abilities.

"Ah Bless." I thought to myself and thought back to those days when we used to ring Annie Lennox's dad's doorbell and run away... "Little tykes"

I peered out my net curtains and had to look a bit smug though. The deep snow had left footprints you see, and it was quite clear that they'd had to come as close as a metre to hit the window.

My Neighbours Throw Like Girls.

*For you Americans out there, Bonfire Night is an annual celebration of explosives being readily available in shops around the UK.

The Bilin' Lavvie! (and other conspiracy theories)

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

Consider the following:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Garden!!!

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

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

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

So far this has included:

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

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

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

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



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

A Link To The Song...

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

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

Home. Aaaah. Home. Sweet Home.

So yes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This means a few potential changes to the blog:

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

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

Until then, toodle pip!

On Pogo Sticks

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh the mental images...)

All the world's a stage...

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

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

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

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

A Journey Through HoorVille

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

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

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

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

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

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

And my friend goes "Turn the headlights off"

"Whit?"

"Turn. The. Headlights. Off"

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

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

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

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

Damn good Chili King Prawns though...

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

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

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

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

I Wrote A Song

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

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

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

My Neighbours Are Hoors

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Dream...

Christmas. Ah Christmas. The Festive Season. Yule. The Season of Overindulgence, and in my case... The Ceremonial Eating of Cheese.

Sorry Girlies. I could give up Chocolate. I could never sully my tastebuds with Cadbury's ever again. I could skip past the Bournville Factory, twirl past the cocoa fields of this earth and, verily sprint, past the combined chocolatiers of Belgium, Switzerland, Austria and your deepest darkest imaginations... For I have an alternative. And that alternative is CHEESE.

This year was the year that Everyone Got The Hint!!! Stilton... Dolcelatte... Edam... Haloumi... Brie... The smellier the better. The packages had sat under my tree, disguised as socks, for days and weeks... until Christmas day when they were set free! Opened! And then swiftly shifted to the fridge with the comment "Oh Shite. I bet they've gone off." And gone off they had. Blue!? They were Indigo! Moulded? They were Rancid! And I consumed my cheese, "Oh my Darling Cheeses!" with glee!

If you're from my work and you're reading this. Yes. I know. You thought I was joking and I'm not. I tried to give it up once... I got THE SHAKES. I went COLD TURKEY. And I found my soul to be weak - oh, weak! Ohhhhhh gorgonzola how I love thee.

Anyway. I'm digressing big scale now. Num num.

Cheese. Dreams. Those are no old wives tales! Cheese does indeed give me odd dreams - as does Red Bull. I often think that in times gone by, I'd have been seen as a Seer on account of my prophetic and truth-telling dreams. (Until the day I run out of cheese and get hounded out of the tribe, having to make a living as a swineheard).

And the dream I had last week after my post-yule Fromage-Orgy?

Well! Sit yourselves down my children and prepare for my tale...

I had lost my job. Maybe a turn in our industry, or maybe just "cost cutting" - I dunno. The dream didn't specify. There was only one way to pay my bills and a job in Asdas wasn't considered. Perhaps the fluo green uniforms would have clashed with my hair. I don't know. But in this dream, I was to become what I blog about on a regular basis... I was to become a HOOR.

Of course, in this dream the Green Light district was long since gone and I found myself lurking around the lower reaches of Market Street in the freezing cold Grey Toon winters gloom. I have to point out that I was ae Classy Hoor. In pinstripe. I might have had a bustle and one of those little Victorian hats, but we can put this down to the cheese.

I walked back and forth. It was absolutely baltic! My fellow hoors weren't being all competitive over their turf, but welcomed me to their most accommodating collective bosom and tsk'd and clucked when I told them my tale of woe and job-less-ness. In my dream I was surprised to note that most of them had their own teeth. It was raining, we had to pee in doorways and we had to hide whenever the police went by, but eventually a car drove up. He rolled the window down and leant out. He had a ridiculous handlebar moustache, but I stifled my dream-giggles and started to say my long-practiced lines that I'd learnt from my fellow hoors, The Bill and Band Of Gold (and possibly an episode or two of Sharpe, from the accent) ... "Ello Sir, Are ye lookin' for business?"

Just then my company's van screeched up and the punter glanced round and accelerated up Market Street towards Torry. I panicked - but for no reason. It was just my ex-workmates who had brought me a flask of tea. I was most grateful, but begged them not to tell anyone (How Dickensian that sounds!).

Off they went and I drank my tea, bemoaning a splash of Earl Grey on my pinstripe Hoor-Outfit and sharing it with a couple of my hoor friends. We'd look out for eachother.

But then... A Limo approached. Not any limo... not the kind hen nights and teenagers get for their birthdays, but a Limo. A vehicle of Class. The window whirred down and a man sat there holding a glass of champagne. I wondered for a minute if it was a Dons footballer, but his hair was too coiffured, and there was something familiar about those beautiful white teeth!

It was...

Donald Trump!

He smiled and asked me if I wouldn't mind helping him "entertain" his friends back at his penthouse. I did my best to elegantly lower myself into the back of the limo, desperately wishing I could come up with some better topic of conversation than "Balmedie eh? Fit a Shambles min!" I was quite confident that I could engage anyone in intelligent Balmedie-related Golf banter, however. Just so long as I could remember my " The Rain In Spain Falls Mainly on the Plain."

But within no time, we were arriving at the hotel and I was marveling at the deep pile of the carpet on the way up to his penthouse. (Couldn't have been THAT good if there was no lift. Honest.)

I got there and settled on a sofa. A sofa so soft I almost dissolved into it. I considered that if Mr Trump were to pay me, I'd never have to Hoor myself on the Streets Of the Grey Toon Again... and then I wondered what was to come next.

A maid entered. A packet of Jaffa cakes was laid quietly on the coffee table. Mr Trump smiled.

All he wanted me to do was watch him eat Jaffa cakes.

While he was Nekkid.

Then I woke up.