10th March 2010

Been ages since I have been to Liverpool and my GOD it has changed beyond some recognition- big flashy shops and a weird area just full of expansive expensive shops like an LA mall or something. But it is lovely and that’s cracking, though I don’t understand why building big concrete shopping museums as a way of regenerating a city is helpful- but am not educated in inner city regeneration, so what the hell do I know?

I am staying in lovely flash serviced apartments; it really is so awesome-but the doors bother me. They are HUGE doors and all marbled flooring throughout. The doors on my flat don’t have a chain or lock, just a plastic card with numbers in indelible ink crudely scrawled over it, then scored out and rewritten. You just hold the plastic card against the door and it unlocks, so when I am in bed I worried I couldn’t lock my door, so I put a metal grill pan handle I found in the massive kitchen (which is beautiful) and balanced it on the handle so if anyone opened my door that metal handle would clatter to the marble floor and alert me of the intruder. I thought of balancing a big kitchen knife but that would have just given the intruder something to attack me with.

Yes, I may be paranoid, but…as it turns out the two other flats on the marble landing were inhabited by a big group of people who constantly knocked, banged and slammed loudly each others doors from 7am in the morning.

To be fair, it’s not their fault that the doors automatically slam loudly behind them, but the noise is like a gun going off and at one point the doors slammed eight times in succession around 8am. The vibrations of the door slamming knocked the grill handle onto the marble floor and I nearly wet the bed.

After the 18^th knocking and slamming of the doors, I opened my door and asked the young lady if she could possibly try and not let the big door banging happen as she entered the flat (how can she not hear it?) and she agreed, walked in and let the door bang behind her. I conceded defeat and tried to sleep as the noise of cannon fire door slamming continued. I wonder why people who spend so much money on creating these flats didn’t sit back and think, ‘Those doors slam loudly, they are bigger than normal doors and the marble floors resonate the noise, maybe we should put something on the door hinges to delay the closing like they do in hotels?’

They didn’t think that at all- they built giant shopping malls instead.

I sound very moody, but I have been trying to sleep since 7am!

The new club in Liverpool is called Comedy hell (a strange name) and it is really lovely. The seating is all fixed to the floor and the bloke who runs it is delightfully lovely. The downside is some noise of the upstairs bar’s music does leak into the room later on as the night wears on.

That is something that can be fixed but all in all it’s a great room.

Just fix the doors please on the serviced apartments please? Give us a chain to assure us of security, give us some gadget that stops the giant doors from banging behind us and let me sleep?

So that was Liverpool, I headed home on the train to Glasgow, which needed a first class upgrade as the train was mobbed. On £15 but with no free tea or lovely free sandwiches, there was free nothing as the catering bit was broke. But what we did get for free was a young bloke verbally and possibly attacking a seven year old boy outside the toilets. I did intervene, I did challenge him and it seems I couldn’t prove he was hitting the boy. He didn’t like being confronted by me and sometimes when you get involved with a bully and pull them up in public, they go away and beat their victims more so in private.

Anyway I have stopped smoking and am on diet.

4th March 2010

“Don’t let the cat lick your eyelashes” my great niece Abi shouted.

There was no danger of me letting her evil cat near my face; it has the temperament of Naomi Campbell on one of her hormonal days.

I have never known such a moody cat in my life. Seriously it goes into attack mode from the far end of the hall when it sees me and it regularly cuddles up to the kids then turns on them. It’s stopped using its nails on them and basically boxes their wee cheeks with its pads…but the intention is still there.

I do love going over to see Abi, Shaun and Julia but Myra Hindley the cat always manages to have a go at me for no reason and I LOVE CATS…yet it still resists my cat luring charms.

I think it’s slightly mental.

Anyway had fun seeing Ann Mags and the kids- their house is always chaotic when I arrive and this visit was no different. Julia was doing tumbles and banging her spine off the coffee table, Shaun was clattering all over the hall with a ball and Abi was dragging the rabbit out of its hutch as Bitey McStabby the cat was being all autistic and hissing at the light bulb. Ann Mags (their mum) was in the kitchen fighting on the phone with the gas people who apparently ‘broke into’ her house when she was out, they changed the meter and left a note to say they had kicked in her door and changed the locks and gave her new keys!

Yes, they can do that for no good reason…I was surprised Hitler the Cat let them in the bloody door. So whilst she was screaming at the gas people about her rights, the kids and all their animals took the opportunity to go crazy when I was trying to calm them down. The rabbit was banging on its cage door, the hamster was doing strange upside down tricks and the doorbell didn’t stop with a stream of visitors for the kids.

I was exhausted just standing there watching it all.

In am off to London this weekend to do a gig at Shepherds Bush Empire and then onto Liverpool to do two shows at Lenny’s comedy gig.

Travelling is my favourite thing but am tired and my hair is going through its abstract period and my skin thinks I am fifteen and has decided to have an acne breakout.

Good news is…I am off to LA in June to catch up with old pals and meetings – I love LA more than I ever imagined I would. So am all giddy with excitement.

I still have to get through all the process of organising my Edinburgh Fringe shows, and perform at Glasgow Comedy festival on 25^th March at Tron Theatre in Glasgow (still tickets for sale) and the Soho Theatre in London on April 29^th/30^th and 1^st May.

Life is a wee bit mental but at least I don’t have Peter Sutcliffe the Cat in my hallway waiting to slash me on my way to the loo.

27th February 2010

So, I brought forward some meetings I had at BBC as well and just spent the past week in London. I do love the place and despite being all discombobulated I had some quality time doing nothing much but sleeping and wondering why someone can die suddenly so young and what that means to us all.

The rain battered London into submission, I even managed to stand on one of those wobbly cracked concrete paving stones that are secretly submerged in a puddle, so when you land on it, you lever the puddle up Tsunami style and the water is projected right up into your crotch at 30 miles per hour.

My ass and lady parts were drenched in fetid dirty street water that ran down my legs. I was disgusted and walked like a cowboy trying to get it to dry off.

Then to make matters worse, I headed onto the London Tube and managed to fight at least three times in ten minutes as stupid foreign people stood in a huddle at the top of the escalator of the Piccadilly line just staring about.

They then decided that the entrance to the escalator was the exact spot to pull out a tube map and huddle close. The bottleneck of people behind them grew larger by the second with me at the front of the enraged mob.

“Move – you crazy people decide if you are going down or MOVE!” I screamed and did nothing for the London tourist board. My big accent scared the bejebus out of the folks, yet still they stood in a brood staring at the map. Finally the mob behind me pushed and I eventually pushed them in a big domino effect, they were going down whether they wanted to or not now.

Then at the bottom of the escalator they couldn’t decide if they wanted to go east or west on the Piccadilly line and created yet another bottleneck. There was about nine of them, all just standing at the entrances to things huddling close like fucking blind stoned pandas with no sense of awareness. There was a space they could stand to make a choice, but they preferred to be in everyone’s way. So guess who had to shove them onto the east side of the Piccadilly line? Yes, me…I just pushed them as the crowd pushed me, I was being used as a battering ram for tourists who couldn’t make a decision.

They all glared at me, it wasn’t my fault, but I was enjoying being a conduit for other people’s anger, it was somehow enjoyable. Once on the tube they all stood at the entrance, of course they did, they didn’t know how to move down the carriage did they? No, that was MY JOB to shove them down.

We all stood in silence as the train rattled on its merry way, a young woman in the group of irritating Italians, (did I mention they were Italian?) anyway she spoke in broken English to me “You stop pushing rude” the group agreed and looked at me.

The other passengers who had been using me as a battering ram looked away (of course they did, they didn’t need me now) I looked at the pretty Italian girl and simply said “I am sorry I don’t speak English” in my clearest BBC English voice (which was surprisingly good) and went back to dancing to George Michael on my IPod.

People ignored me, I spotted my stop and pushed the Italian group out of the way (will they never learn?) and got off the tube. When I met up with friends they said to me “The best way to remember Jason, is to be nice to random people, he was always so patient and kind”

So I have failed already. Sorry Jason.

So got home in time to do a Masonic gig in Glasgow, I often cross over into the after dinner speakers especially when I actually won after dinner speaker of the year award last year! Loved beating seven men famous footballer included!

Anyway the gig was just a whole room full of just men. Loads of them glaring at me. Outside when I had a ciggie with the blokes before the gig they said “Do you hate men and do all that stuff about men being shit at sex. Do you talk about your womb and vagina all night?”

I laughed and said “why is that what you like?” and stubbed out my ciggie.

The after dinner speaker circuit is full of lovely blokes in suits who are usually ex footballers and professional speakers from all walks of life. A lot of comics really don’t like them, as they do mostly use Chic Murray’s material and every other joke off the internet. They do make great cash and they rarely very rarely have women on the bill.

I often find myself at a ‘top table’ with men who are really nice but bemused at me. They do a good job, but it can excruciating listening to the same jokes over and over from blokes who have pieces of paper and read through them. I actually enjoy watching people laugh. Despite the plagiarism and the blatant sexism peddled, I still laugh.

So this Masonic night was no different, the sheer amount of sexist and sectarian stuff can be hard to swallow, but I know when I get up there I do comedy and that is so different from what they do.

The Masonic night was proving a hard one as the ‘head man’ did explain that it was nice to have a lady for a change. The room went quiet, but I absolutely stormed it, I took the piss out of the Masons gently, laughed at their attitude to women and made the room burst with laughter. I even got a standing ovation, took the cash and left the room.

So that’s my life, one more night one more audience won over.

23rd February 2010

“Be kind to the hamster” is another rule, but when I put lipstick on it, she shouts again. The hamster loves lipstick, its smiles at me when I do it and then it licks its lips which I know it means it wants more. Cuddling the goldfish is out; it makes its eyes go funny and I suppose it doesn’t like cuddles.

There are three girls upstairs with the same faces that are brown, mummy says I have never to say that as it makes me sound like the bee and peas, I don’t understand that as I don’t like bees or peas, but the girls all have the same brown faces, why is that wrong to say?

Their mummy makes me laugh as she dresses up in a black mask and a cape, mummy says I have to stop clapping my hands and laughing at her, but my mummy doesn’t dress up and hide her face, I wish she would do it, it looks like good fun and it means she wouldn’t take ages to fix her hair and stick the hot things in it which I am not allowed to touch.

The girls upstairs with the same brown faces don’t speak to me, I tried but they always look away when I ask them their names. One day I am going to show them my rabbit and show them how to put lipstick on the hamster. Yesterday their mummy poked her hand out of her cape and stroked my face and smiled with her eyes, she has lovely kind eyes, so I showed her my big girl’s pants and the mummy laughed and clapped her hands. She had a big laugh and my mummy and her giggled together. So I guess I can show my pants to people who wear capes.

My mummy tells me to eat vegetables, but when I eat the carrots out of the blue basket next to the fridge she shouts at me “they are dirty” if carrots are dirty why does she feed me them? Eggs are funny, they are hard but go squishy when you throw them in the Wendy House, mummy doesn’t like that.

I love my cat, but sometimes it goes funny, mummy calls it ‘on heat’ but it isn’t hot, it’s just all bendy and makes a noise that sounds like it its singing with a deep voice. The cat sometimes tries to get me to put a crayon near its bottom, it shoves its back bottom near my hand and makes the bad singing and my mummy goes really high and screamy. Maybe the cat likes crayons under its tail? The cat spits at mummy when she pulls it away. “Don’t go near the cats bum Julia” mummy shouts. I don’t go near the cats bum; the cat puts its bum near me! Once the cat tried to get me to put the karaoke stick in its bum, but I knew that was bad and just whacked the bad cat with it, mummy screamed again. I don’t know all the rules, I am only three.

Yesterday I stared out of the window and saw the woman with the blue coat again. She walks about and I don’t think she knows where her house is, as she knocks on all the doors, but she does like to talk into the mouth of the post box. Maybe someone is in there? I saw Dr Who and he lives in a police box so there might be a lady in the post box. The old lady with the blue coat watches me and waves at me. She wears big girl’s pants as she shows them off a lot. I like her. There is another lady who hugs her and takes her back to the right door where she really lives and then the wee woman in the blue coat cries and shouts, maybe its time for her bed and she doesn’t like nap time.

Mummy sometimes shuts the bedroom door and tells me to stay out as she is on the phone, but she isn’t talking she is smoking which is bad and makes you kill children with the smoke; I saw that on the telly. I sit behind the door and shout “Smoking kills childrens” and mummy tells me to go watch a cartoon. Tomorrow I am going to try to go out myself as I can reach the door and open it, mummy says I must never go out alone, but I sometimes stand in the landing when nobody is looking. The lady with cape upstairs saw me doing it and shook a finger at me, clapped her hands and pointed at the door. She didn’t speak but she knows I was doing a bad thing; she made a clicky noise, so I have to make sure no one sees me doing it.

I am three and am going to be four soon, talk later.

21st February 2010

Jason Wood the lovely comedian aged 38, died on Saturday 20th February 2010.

He transcended all the bitching, all the jealousy and all the clichés that comedy generates and actually made us better people for knowing him.

It’s not often in comedy you meet a gracious lovely human with no bad words to say about anyone and Jason Wood was that man. He was a great comic and amazing singer who worked the circuit all over the world. I met Jason years ago through a mutual friend and then we renewed the friendship years later when I got into comedy and it was as strong as ever. You see that was thing about Jason he touched the heart and made a connection with everyone he met. We all had a special friendship with him.

He twittered me on Friday afternoon to encourage me to play a game on IPhone with him and always sent wee uplifting messages when he instinctively knew you needed them. That’s who Jason was, someone who always had your back.

We last spoke on the phone when he called to ask me if he should retweet a twitter message he got mentioning his standing ovation, he didn’t think it was gracious to accept the compliment or to let others know he got such praise. I told him “RT that now! You deserve to take every accolade going and its not being vain, its being happy someone loved your show”

He was so worried that people would think him up himself for putting the good praise on the web, that’s who Jason was. I would have retweeted that comment in seconds without a backward glance, but I don’t posses the grace that Jason had, but I will now need to learn it. Because that was who he was, someone who taught you stuff about yourself.

I could go on and on about the lovely things he told me and the nice words of sincerity that he heaped on me but he did the same with everyone. He had a space in his heart for everyone he met; he had the ability to make you feel you were the one person worth bothering about.

I don’t think I will ever meet anyone that good again and that’s why I cry, for my own selfish wants, I want him alive, I want him singing and I want him here. See you in the next life Jason You Star!

16th February 2010

I was in London last weekend.

The wind whipped right through me at Battersea Park, it was like a cold sharp knife seeking the warmth in my body, so it could slice and dice the heat into fragments to jagged ice through my old blood. Do not go out there people. I saw skinny folk jogging, I felt eternally sorry for them but they probably had better arteries than me, so who am I to judge?

I walked down past the Latchmere theatre to find a hairdresser to get my ever present grey roots dyed as they push up through my scalp like persistent weeds. Why can’t someone invent a chemical pill that you take which dyes your hair from ‘inside’ your head and grows out that particular colour? Why can’t that happen? University’s get funding to write papers on why biscuits go damp in tea or why women don’t like slap stick comedy, why can’t someone spend cash on the hair dye pill?

Anyway I went searching for a hairdresser’s and came across one where the woman hairdresser wears a Burka and as much as I am liberal enough to understand women’s right to wear what they want, I am not getting my hair coloured and blow dried by a woman who doesn’t actually show her hair in public….ok I am saying that tongue in cheek and it isn’t meant to be a racist slur, but am I alone in that thinking that? Anyway the real reason I said no to their shop was that they didn’t take credit card, and I didn’t have enough cash on me.

Finally did get my hair done and had a wonderful show at Hammersmith Jongleurs which is awesome by the way- a whole audience facing front and being attentive was just refreshing.

On Saturday night I went out my favourite Soho club with my mates Monica and Elaine, all was fabulous and I finally got to relax. I have been writing for other people recently and my head has been filled with words that aren’t destined for my mouth and that can be confusing.

Sunday morning- I head to Heathrow- got on a plane and sat beside two very young soldiers just back from Afghanistan’s Helmand province (the word province makes it sound so genteel and villagey doesn’t it?) anyway they both looked about 12 years old and of course we got chatting.

“Why did you join up” I asked them both.

The one at nineteen with a flushed face, skin so burstingly bright and full of energy said “I saw what the Iraq’s done as they bombed the twin towers and I needed to stop them bombing us”

“You do know it wasn’t Iraq’s on that plane and there were no bombs used on the twin towers don’t you?” I whispered as people across the aisle watched us. My opinion doesn’t bode well being said loud in public, as they shit folk are fed by the press make them comfortable in their fear.

“Yeah, well that thing that happened in 9/11 made me want to protect my country” he added. He was about 11 years old when the twin towers were attacked by Saudi men and sharp knives (not bombs) and he looked so eager.

“Well, good for you, though I can’t believe they let you have a gun! You are so young. My daughter is 23 and would probably shoot her own eye out trying to light a fag with a gun” I giggled. He laughed and his mate giggled. Bless their wee strong hearty souls I thought to myself. They were sitting there in their camouflage soldiers outfits and gulping down cans of beer.

Just then a wee boy aged about 6 years old with thick glasses and a heavy blond fringe popped over the seats in front of us and said “Are you real soldiers”

“Aye, we are, do you want to be a soldier when you get big?” the dark haired soldier to my left asked him.

The wee blond boy said “No, I am going to invent a computer game, have you killed anyone yet?”

Everyone went quiet; the wee boy was dragged down into his seat by his embarrassed mum. “I want to know if they have shot bad men in the desert” the wee guy hissed. The soldiers went quiet and stared into the beer cans.

“I bet you the computer game he invents will have guns in it” I said quietly. They boy soldiers smiled wanly.

“What kind of work do you guys do?” I asked to break the tension.

“We do mapping and patrolling really” one said.

“My mum doesn’t know I am coming home” the brown haired fresh faced soldier said “I am going to just turn up at her door” he smiled.

I told him to ease up on the beer as he will end up vomiting all over her face if he didn’t stop necking the cans! We laughed and I told him I was a comedian, and then we just chatted about comedy and life.

When the plane landed, everyone was smiling at the soldier boys and patting them on the back, I felt so strangely sad for them They looked so young and full of life, I hated to think of what they went through and will go through out in Helmand Province.

We all headed downstairs at Glasgow Airport to get the luggage and I stood by the belt allocated to our flight, I noticed the boys were at another belt for a flight from Gatwick. I gingerly tiptoed after them and whispered “Guys, I know you do mapping and work with intelligence but you need to know that your luggage is going to come out over there” and I pointed to the other conveyor belt.

The laughed loudly and followed me over to the belt. All I could think about was some mother was going to open the door and see her son standing there back from a war zone.

“Janey, maybe one day we will see you in the paper and we can say ‘we met her’” the taller soldier laughed as we parted.

“Well, I hope I never see you in the paper” I whispered as I hugged both of them tightly, I felt so sad for them and worried for their future.

Life goes on for me, but I am glad my daughter isn’t in uniform standing in a desert at such a young age with fear and a gun in her hand. But bless all those young folk who do and I hope they get out of that dirty illegal war as soon as possible.

I hope my two big soldier boys have fun back in Scotland and stay safe forever.

11th February 2010

Anyway he told me this story to impress upon me why he doesn’t like Edinburgh people….seriously? One scythe to the head and you don’t like a city? So I suppose he wont be coming to the Fringe to see my show…not with all that scythe action happening.

There are lots about my dad I don’t know, it’s all coming out slowly.

Today is the one year anniversary of my step mum’s death and we all miss her terribly, my dad most of all, I know this because if she were alive he wouldn’t tell me scythe fighting stories!

The other thing he told me was that his grandfather whom he was raised with suffered from gas injuries and a hole in his arm from the First World War, the poor old man used to walk about the house wheezing and could never settle. The old man worked as a watchman back in the 50s and one night a gang broke into the factory he was looking after and hit him with an axe to the side of his head, but my great grandfather never left his post and fought the men off.

So the men in my family often get whacked with steel implements to the skull, that’s what I learned yesterday.

Thought I would share that with you.

I am off to London this weekend, hopefully will have tales to tell you all.

4th February 2010

Andy Murray got beat at tennis and I got a camera up my ass.

Yes, the day dawned for my colonoscopy, heres what happened, months ago I told my doc I had some bowel issues, now I would write the Latin word but my spell check is having trouble with Diarrhoea – maybe that’s the right spelling eh? Anyway…my doc got me a hospital appointment and the specialist booked me in for a colonoscopy…as fast as that!

And as fast as that my Diarrhoea disappeared, yes it did!

So, I was told to drink FOUR litres of a powder that the hospital sent in the post, not an illegal powder I hasten to add, just something called Prep-klean…I hate ANYTHING spelt with a K when it really means a C but anyway I had to dilute these evil smelling granules in water.

It said ‘vanilla’ flavour on the side, now unless vanilla tastes like battery acid, I have no idea what they added to the foul smelling salts, but I managed to get ONE litre down my gullet before I started throwing up.

I was to drink the four litres over the course of a night after starving myself before I went to hospital the next day. Great…now I was just vomiting up the cold battery acid flavoured granules…it came out of my nose!

I called the hospital to tell them I couldn’t keep four litres down and they told me not to worry as whatever I got down would work. I didn’t believe them.

That was until I felt an almighty grumble in my lower bowel and I made it to the loo in time to witness an avalanche as my very skeleton flew out from my bum. It was extraordinary to experience; just a torrent came rushing forth.

I fell asleep exhausted, it was sleep you have after child birth, trust me I know this! My body was shaking and a crashing brain tumour of a headache descended and woke me up at 2am. Finally I called the hospital to tell them I couldn’t drink their four litres of Guantanamo Bay torture juice but I had ‘passed liquid’. They assured me I would be fine for the procedure and I should come along.

My headache was banging above my eye and my vision was blurred, at this point I considered swapping a colonoscopy for a brain scan in the reception of the hospital, but I don’t think they have a swap shop for procedures on the NHS.

I was taken into a small room and stripped. They gave me one of those sexy backless gowns and told me to get ready to go through to the ‘theatre’. Now I love the theatre as you all know, but going in there to get the ass ripped out of me sounds odd and not the kind of thing I love at all.

I explained to my specialist that I am scared of sedation, he told me repeatedly that everyone loves it, then I repeated how I didn’t, and he told me I was being silly as he stuck a needle into the back of my hand and I told him his birth mark on his face looked like a foetus and finally the room went quiet. He fingered his birth mark and sat beside me.

“Janey, it just makes you slightly less angry” he spoke.

“My anger is what keeps me alive, can I get this done without being sedated?” I suggested quietly.

The nurses waited with the vial of sedative to be put into the valve they had opened on the back of my hand.

“Ok, you relax and you will feel the camera go in and if you breathe slowly you can do this” he spoke firmly.

I am scared of sedation; I once got sedated and had terrible feelings of despair and a panic attack in my 20s when I got sedated for a dental treatment and that never quite left me. So I slowly breathed and they did the whole colonoscopy without the sedation! My head was still banging like hell though.

The procedure didn’t feel sore, it felt weird as I could feel the camera wind its way around my insides! Like when a baby kicks you from the inside.

Anyway my bowels are fine, there are no lumps, bumps and nothing wrong with them at all. And the good news was, I didn’t need an hour recovery in a hospital bed or have to take a day off to get orientated again.

I walked out five minutes after the bowel investigation (after farting the biggest fart in my entire life- it was awesomely wonderful in a strange way) and went for a walk as my husband was gone, he was told to come back two hours later for me. I didn’t have a phone on me to get him to come back sooner!

So I went a wander and found an old man stuck in the loo door where he had fallen. I got him up and into one of those horrible wheelie chairs they have lying about, and that’s when my husband turned up- to find me pushing a strange old man about the reception!

Husband thought I had been sedated and took an old bloke hostage in my crazed state!

“Janey, what are you doing?” he yelled.

I quickly explained I had been out for ages, never got sedated and found an old man who was shaky and he couldn’t find his wife. After we reunited the old bloke and his wife and walked them to their car I went home and managed to eat something so I could take painkillers to get rid of my racketing headache!

All good! My stomach is making seriously weird noises though!

30th January 2010

It felt like January was going on forever, but it has ended now, thank God!
It’s been an odd month for me all round, lots of writing work and less performance gigs which have freaked me out slightly. If I don’t get on stage I tend to be mental, husband says am like a cloven hoofed wolf prowling the house looking for faults!

My dad decided he wanted new curtains for his windows, so we bought him some (he picked them and shouted the serial number of them into my face in the street- he is a bit deaf, still…I nearly bit his face, I hate shouting). After we delivered them and the new curtain pole, I told him to give us a few days before we could come up and fix it into the wall. He agreed and spoke at length about the dangers of an old man going up heights, but as we drove away, I saw the silhouette of him erecting the ladders through his blinds! He is a stubborn old bugger!

Ashley and I have been writing hard for a radio show. People always ask what it’s like writing with your daughter or writing with your mum and we have always worked together. We did a sketch show at Edinburgh fringe in 2006 and toured New Zealand and it was awesome fun.
She has a great writing skill and am great at saying words out loud that she can type, she is very professional and I just watch her in awe.

We are not best pals, I disagree with that idea, she is my daughter but we have very similar yet very different comedy bones and that works. Also she is much more disciplined than me, she is aghast at how I prepare for shows, or how I quickly write for newspapers etc…but that’s a university education for you! As you can imagine I am very proud of her, as is her dad.

He just stands back and watches us both banter words back and forth, he doesn’t speak, he supplies the coffee, makes the dinner, irons the clothes and calls us ‘His talented girls’ and occasionally adds a word when we do a read through or he voices his confusion over a paragraph. Its great coz he has Aspergers Syndrome so when he doesn’t understand something we know an audience won’t get it either, his mental capacity is a great sounding board. Every writer should have an Aspergers Syndrome person listen to their ideas!

I am looking forward to my one woman show at Tron Theatre on Thursday 25th March for Glasgow Comedy Festival, ticket sales are going great guns!

I am glad January is over; it felt so long and dark.

28th January 2010

We flew into London at 8am on Friday morning, both of us exhausted as we don’t do mornings well and I hate folk who fight for elbow space on the London tube. Some nasty wee man started pushing his elbow right into my side as he read his paper. Ashley was sitting opposite and glared at him, whilst making silent angry eyes at me, I waited till he got comfy and gave him a proper Glasgow dunt (a big shove) right back. He was startled but gave up trying to stick his arm under my left breast. I felt like turning round and saying “We will need a lubricant if you get any closer to my side boobs” but the dunt did it. He had the cheek to look at me as if I was wrong!

Anyway we got to the Crownlawn apartments at Point West on the Cromwell Road and they were AWESOME, seriously – a huge two bedroom flat with enormous patio! My niece Ann Margaret was coming down for two nights, but the poor wee mite was doing the ten hour bus journey as she doesn’t have a passport or is into flying yet!

Ashley was furiously learning her Burns poem and I was silently ignoring mine; it will be all right on the night!

Ann Margaret arrived on the Saturday morning after the journey from hell on the bloody Magic Bus…trust me it wasn’t magic, it was evil.

On Saturday afternoon we all got ready and headed into the club to prepare for the big meal and the Burns performance. Little did we know that John Landis and his wife would be in attendance, its one thing winging a poem in front of a small audience and another doing it in front of a big Hollywood film director. To make it worse there were a few very famous faces from the big screen, Ashley stared at me with a pale face and I felt my bowels do the Macarena!

There were only about 50 people in this small room…so it’s not as if you can huddle into a corner if you totally fuck it up! Anyway, after the most amazing Address to the Haggis by a lovely Scottish actor, Ashley was first up with her rendition of ‘A mans a man for aw that’ and she was really good, her clear voice and determined attitude saw it through.

I did my poem and some Burns based comedy, as did other fabulous performers, it was a lovely night. Mr Landis congratulated Ashley on her lovely poem and chatted to her, he was so bloody nice!

Then we all had karaoke, which Ashley and Ann Margaret LOVE! They sang, danced and chatted the night away, fabulous stuff!

All in all it was an awesome night out, despite having nerves performing in front of some famous people!

So I am back home and back working, writing and trying hard not to think about my colonoscopy next week, but my bowels know its going to happen and they are rebelling in a way I will never describe in words.

20th January 2010

What I don’t understand is- with the sheer amount of unemployed people that we keep reading about in The Daily Mail why do the courts want people who are terminally busy?

Do busy people have better judgement? I don’t think so, I think if I had better judgement I would not work and lie in bed all day. I am a stupid twat that chose a career; if I was smart I would do piss all and sleep instead of working in an industry that still thinks women aren’t quite good enough for the job.

Anyway, I dragged myself out of bed at 8am on Monday, thought ‘suppose I better wash my hair, I don’t want to turn up looking mental….hang on…maybe looking mental is good?’ So, instead of coiffing my bunnet, I merely bushed it up further into what can only be described as a hysterical angry terrier hanging off the side of my head.

No make up either, a blotchy pale face with two red vicious spots on my chin completed the Susan Boyle effect I was going for. Husband stared at me silently, I could see him trying hard to think of something to slip out of lips, but having been married 30 years this is a man who knows to think really really hard before he says stuff about my hair or appearance. Holidays have been ruined by a sneery look at my summer shorts.

“Nice” was all he uttered.

“I am going to look mental, feels strange going out like this” I explained.

“You look like that when you sit about the house anyway” he stepped into a burning puddle of verbal hell, he didn’t know it, he was unaware of the liquid fire chasing his heels, but I let it go. I needed to get to court.

9.45am it stated clearly on the form. So I was there for 9.30am, the cold wind had chaffed my face and made my hair sufficiently psychotic, but the room they put me into was blisteringly hot. That was after they searched me and shoved me through a security arch that was set up at the front door. Within seconds I was sweating, people started filing in, before long the room was stuffed with folk. There weren’t enough seats; people were standing, nobody talking, all staring at watches and phones.

At 10.30am I lost patience, I slammed out of the ‘steam’ room and walked to the info booth. I explained to the pale man that the clerk was late, the room had 43 people and only 37 seats and that the heat was intolerable.

“Open a window then” the man said indolently.

“Well, its ground floor and it could breach security, that’s why I didn’t open the windows, you could easily pass a gun through the window and bypass the security at the doors” I said too loudly. The policemen, who were standing about laughing, stopped and stared at me…the word GUN flagged up in their head. But I was merely pointing out a fact.

Just then the court clerk Sue Perkins turned up, well she was the absolute DOUBLE of Sue Perkins and I know Sue, she even spoke like her. I was freaked out, was this Sue? Was it a trick?

It wasn’t Sue- she was the court clerk and she announced “everyone into court seven please” I was trying hard to get her attention to let her know I needed to be excused and because Sue Perkins (the real one) is so friendly I assumed her doppelganger would be as amiable. She wasn’t. Actually that isn’t fair, she was just efficient.

Finally we all sat in the court and shouted ‘Here’ when our names were roll called.

After eons of time passed she finally gave us an opportunity to come forward to ask to be excused (it was like school games time).

I was there first, I smiled my best and wished my hair didn’t look raped, then told her all about my busy life, my trip to London, my inability to judge killers, my dislike of the small over heated room, the story about being caught with guns 15 years ago, my Burns night at The Groucho, my lump near my crotch, my birthday plans and then finally told her I was a stand up comedian who tells long winded stories for a living, then I muttered the last time I was in that very court room was when I gave evidence of the child abuse I suffered when we took my uncle David Percy to court in 1996….I talked for ages then told her she looked like Sue Perkins who by the way is ‘awesome’.

She simply smiled and said “ok”.

I ran out of there like one of the Guildford Six celebrating my freedom.

So life is sweet! I am all packed for London and it’s my birthday today!

13th January 2010

I did have a blocked up nose during the broadcast and was sweating slightly. The snow has been a double edged sword in my household.

On the one hand, we are all getting cabin fever, on the other we are all talking more and huddling together.

Ashley and I are writing together, I have to sit in her room as we do it and I get all distracted by staring at her book collection (why does she have Dirk Bogarde’s biography?), the bundles of clothes (are they clean or needing ironed?), why is there make up bottles mixed with bank statements and a basil Panini? (Should I sort them out?) Things come into my head and she shouts “Mum, stop looking at my stuff and bloody focus on what we are writing, we have a deadline!”

I am easily distracted. So after all this week of writing, learning a new programme on the laptop and dealing with a lump that I haven’t yet let the doctor look at, I headed up to Bingham Pond on the Great Western Rd and joined in with a skating/curling event. It was very unorganised yet totally organised at the same time- nothing to do with the council, this was community spirit at work- a bloke had gotten heaps of skates for people to have free, a lovely woman had brought hot food and the kids brought their enthusiasm!

The Bingham Pond was totally frozen over, expect for one big hole cut into the side where the ducks and birds sat sullenly around a chilly patch of freezing water.

They didn’t look happy, I have never seen so many emotional, sad angry ducks- they did look totally disenfranchised. They stared at me, sniffed and waddled off in a stumpy huff. This was there pond, why on earth why we walking on their water? What were we Jesus?

I met loads of nice people, drank heaps of hot tea, ate home made brownies, and did a bit of slipping about, perfect Sunday.

I have been keeping constant contact with my dad, despite his age he is determined to get out into the slippy ice and snow and damage himself.

“Dad, please stay in, we will come up with food” I said.

“Och, I will be fine, am just off to get myself a newspaper” he quipped.

Meanwhile I got an ear infection; it made my ear pulsate with pain. I called the NHS helpline and they directed me to the out or hours clinic, they faxed them to let them know I was coming.

The clinic was at The Western Infirmary, with pulsating itchy painful ear I hobbled in.

Husband dropped me off to go park his car, I was sitting there reading a book and trying to imagine having sex with George Michael (I do this when I am in pain- it takes a lot of concentration) when I noticed a fat young bloke snarling and muttering at his skinny young girl friend.

“They cunts should have listened to you Shania, I am gonna punch that fucking nurse, she is a cow” I could hear him despite my ear being half blocked.

Great- all I need is a fat dick in a bad mood as my ear threatened to explode, where was husband?

There was a nice Asian looking bloke opposite me, we both made eye contact and raised our brows at each other. Then the nurse called for the Asian bloke- fat acrylic clad fuck wit shouts “How come that paki cunt got took?”

This made me glare at him, the yellow NHS room felt menacing, and the skinny girlfriend looked at me with pleading sorry eyes. Fat man huffed louder and answered his loud mobile phone whose ringtone was ‘Rule Britannia’ I was amazed he liked orchestral music.

“Turn your phone off; it says so on the sign” the girlfriend spoke mouse like but adamant.

“I am dyslexic and cannae read” he sniggered. I didn’t doubt it, but I suspect it was illiteracy not even sarcasm.

Then the nurse called my name, just as I was getting up he snarled “Why is she being taken?”

At this I snapped my head round and said “I had an appointment faxed in by my doctor, did you? Shut up, you might be able to bully her but not me ok fatty boom boom?”

He just stared open mouthed and put his head down. I was only getting seen by the nurse before I go to the doctor. I was out in seconds and husband was now on the chairs waiting on me, he didn’t know husband was with me and was complaining about how some woman and a paki got it before them. I sat beside husband and glared at fatty boom boom.

Husband ignored all the words coming out of fatty’s mouth- he doesn’t like strangers talking to him, far less racist annoying ones.

Just then a skinny blonde girl and her young spiky haired boyfriend came in- she was painfully thin and vomiting into a grey hospital sick bucket.

“Fucksake Tam, I feel ill” she bleated.

The fat arse immediately recognised what he thought was his own kind and started telling them how his girlfriend was waiting ages “I am gonna punch some cunt soon” he spoke gruffly. I stared at him.

He looked away; husband laughed loudly and stared at the wall. The room felt menacing, the spiky young haired guy looked at husband and immediately smiled and stroked his blonde sick girlfriends back- he was not alleging himself to fatty.

Then fatty’s girlfriend was called in by the nurse and as soon as she went off fatty said “her period is two weeks late fucksake and she is bleeding clots fucksake and it might be a miscarriage and these cunts aren’t taking her seriously fucksake”

Husband laughed loud again and stared at the wall and the said “Yuk” out loud at the ‘clots’ comment. The spiky boy and sick girl stared at us, the sick girl smiled at me.

“You ok?” I offered some friendship at her.

“I am just pregnant 3 weeks and I can’t stop being sick” she muttered.

I told her I had that when I was pregnant and offered her sympathy she, I and her spiky haired boyfriend all chatted about sickness in pregnancy.

Fatty was left in the cold. Just then his girlfriend came out and he shouted “What happened?”

She was whispering and didn’t want to share with the group and they both left in a hurry.

“Maybe she will get away from him?” I ventured and the sick blonde girl laughed and said “I hope so” we all sat in silence until my name was called. The upshot is- I got anti biotic ear drops and need to keep using them. I was glad to get out of that place. The ears are better and am hoping the thumping infection clears up for London next week.

So Ashley and I are currently learning Burns’ poems as we are doing a wee turn at The Groucho club for Burn’s night next Saturday. Ashley is really good at it, I seem to stumble over the old Scots dialect and can’t quite get my head around it, those odd Gaelic-type words flow from her wee lips…me? Its like flip flops falling out of my mouth…I need to practice more.  

Both of us are hoping that the snow clears up so we can fly to London when needs be!

7th January 2010

The fair haired woman at the bus stop cried loudly and turned away as her male friend shouted into her face. He then slapped her loudly across the head with a plastic bag which I assumed must have concealed a bottle, for the crack that she suffered made my teeth grind and crush as I heard the impact.

He stood there, his bald head red with anger, his other fist trembling in rage and his face contorted into that of a snarling bull dog. The blonde woman simply moaned and bent over holding her head after the bottle made contact with her scalp.

“Leave her alone you crazy freak!” I screamed and stepped between him and the moaning simpering woman. “Don’t say anything.” - The woman lifted her dazed face towards me, pleading with her frightened eyes. I knew exactly what she was conveying with her eyes. “If you upset him, I get it more” is what she was saying. “If you stand up to him, he will beat me worse in private.” Those feelings stirred up old memories within my furious brain. The baldy angry man spat at her and ran off leaving us both at the freezing cold bus stop. The woman refused any words of comfort and help. She jumped on a number 56 bus and I never saw her again. I used to be her.

I got married too young to an even younger boy who never knew how to love without fear and violence. He came from a gangster background - a male dominated family, where women were undervalued and were never really respected. It took us both almost two decades of anger and abuse to work out our differences. I was told men don’t change, but I would like to think some can and –DO. When my husband talks about how he behaved towards me, he is totally remorseful and has never tried to justify or hide anything he did. He actively encouraged me to write all the details of his marital abuse in my autobiography ‘Handstands in the Dark.’ He is still ashamed and can never understand why I stayed. I know I shouldn’t have stayed but, like many women, I had many reasons to hang on. None of them right reasons; more like excuses and lack of confidence mixed with no sense of self worth.

When my husband had tried to talk about his abuse towards me, no one wanted to deal with it. He knew instinctively that what he was doing was wrong and needed help to understand what was going on with the violence and his own mental health and recurring depression that he had suffered since he was 14 years old. Other people around us assured him that it was the norm. Society accepted it.

My own mother had been murdered by her boyfriend - Peter Greenshields - and he never even got questioned by the police, despite being the last person to see her alive and having been charged for assaulting her previously. My husband recalls how, back in the early 80s, he tried to seek help from his family and the local priest about the way he had been beating and mentally abusing me, he was told “Men sometimes just can’t control themselves and it is hard when you first get married.” This spurred him into seeking psychological help from the local health authorities, which became fruitless and left with him with no other avenue so he went for private therapy. This does not make him a ‘good man’ but it did make him a good husband who has never forgotten how he terrorised the love of his life. He still struggles to understand what made him so unbelievably violent towards me. That is the reason I stay with him: if he had never tried to understand the anger, or take the responsibility for his actions, I could never have shared my life with him.

We are now married 30 years and sometimes to this day, when he shouts, I get a knot in my stomach and cringe at my own vulnerability. He will never hit or abuse me ever again, not because he has promised, but because I will never let it happen to me. It takes years to be strong inside after being abused by someone you love but you do manage it. We have a beautiful 23-year-old daughter. It is hard watching her grow up. I worry she will be hurt or let someone rob her of all that shiny beautiful hopefulness she possesses. I can only try to teach her self worth, self confidence and her father has spoken to her about how he treated me. There are many testimonials my daughter can read about women who were attacked and beaten by their partners and all of those accounts are valid and important, but I think it was valuable for her to hear it from her father - how violent he was towards me – her mother. My daughter was appalled at the level of brutality and emotional fear I had lived under from the man she loves the most in her world and him discussing it openly with her can only help her reach some understanding as to how to deal with such situations in her life. We hope.

My daughter, her father and I agreed that silence, shame, ignorance and acceptance are the some of most basic hurdles to get over when dealing with spousal abuse. The shame it brings on a woman to have to admit that the man she loves and chose to marry is the one person who is making her life a living hell is often the hardest thing to tell people. It was for me. To this day, I hope that woman at the bus stop with the cracked head got on a bus and ran away from her violent man forever. Or maybe like me, she waited and hoped her man would love her enough to stop hitting her only to realise that I had to love myself first. Both my husband and I changed, it took the two of us to get therapy to solve it: him to understand what made him violent and me to understand what made me accept it. It doesn’t always work out like this, I know, but I always liked happy endings.

And that is why I support a campaign called A Safer World for Women.

The second you say you are involved in raising awareness about the violence women suffer, you can hear some people shut their minds off from you. Bleeding hearts and sad tales isn’t something people like hearing about. The reason there is sympathy fatigue over this subject matter is that folk feel helpless to help and that can in turn be negative about the good work from the people at A Safe World for Women which is run by The Women for a Change International Foundation (WFAC) and is a not-for-profit organisation staffed by volunteers.

Basically the organisation are trying to get one million online endorsements to help raise awareness about the fear, violence, rape, abuse and mental torture suffered by women across the globe, they are also trying to highlight the horror of the female slave trafficking.

Please go to: A Safe World for Women  

And make your endorsement for a safer world for women, it’s free and it makes a difference.

Please follow on twitter @safeworld4women  

Comment (0)

31st December 2009

I am NOT looking back to see what I could have done differently, I refuse to mull over old shit and worry about it. I am old enough now to just look ahead!

I have just discovered the delights of PS3- Ashley got it for Christmas and I love watching her play, I may even try to do it myself. The last time I played a ‘video’ game was at the Weavers Inn pub in the early 90s. It was a space invader game and the sound effects made me nervous, so I am not that great at them but am willing to give it a go.

I was watching Ashley create a digital image of herself on the PS3, then she entered this digital city centre and seemed to ‘run’ around meeting strange folk who wanted to either fuck her or swap sex files with her, not much different from real life I suppose. Except that smart city scape looked very clean and didn’t have dog shit or have drunks vomiting into unattended baby buggies. There was no mini bingo, sunbeds shops or a chipvan so I reckoned it wasn’t anywhere in Scotland that they used as the template for the virtual city.

Though everyone who was online and in virtual form in her strange online city seemed to be obsessed with her vagina or they were desperate to show her online cams with their cock out. They all looked sexy and young in their virtual image as well. Well, not all were sexy, there was one man dressed as an armadillo with three swords over his back constantly chasing her shouting about his penis. I wanted to climb into the telly and kick his face hard.

I told her to ‘get out of that town quickly’ and go play space invaders instead.

I suspect the online world of meeting virtual strangers is liberating for people who like rape, fucking dogs and punching babies…I wish Ashley wouldn’t go back to that strange game she was in. I may introduce her to real life needle point, you rarely meet an armadillo dressed man who carries pictures of his erect cock in the world of cross stitching, cushion making and stretched canvasses.

Why don’t they invent a video game where you have to learn to set up direct debits, manage a budget, shop for a mortgage and understand house management? That would be more conducive to young people instead of running about chatting about your titties on live cam and could actually teach you stuff that makes sense!

Or maybe I am just really old and need to get with the times!

Happy New Year everyone and may 2010 be the best ever for you!

28th December 2009

We are about to go into 2010, how was the last decade for you? Here are the highlights of my last decade.

2000- I watched the Millennium firework display on a balcony overlooking the Thames in London on the eve of the year 2000 with my daughter Ashley, she was the youngest stand up comic in 1999 and was finishing the year by retiring from stand up- she was 13 years old.

I was running a comedy club at Mansions Café Bar in Glasgow’s West End, it was great fun but it closed suddenly due to non payment of bills or tax problems, whichever is easier to believe.

My cousin Sammy died due to infected heroin.

2001- I hopped over to NZ and did the Comedy Festival for the first time. I ran a comedy club in London at The Atlantic Bar, it closed due to 9/11 bombings in New York and lack of tourists or non payment of bills & tax problems, which ever is easier to believe.

No one died, in my family.

2002- I returned to New Zealand comedy festival and won Best Concept Show; I also went to Edinburgh Fringe and got no reviewers through the door, but sold out the ten day run. Ashley passed loads of exams which made me think she was adopted.

The Gilded Balloon venue in Edinburgh burnt down, due to non payment of bills or an accident which ever is easier to believe.

2003- My baby niece Abi was born and made us all smile.

I did my first full length show at Edinburgh Fringe and performed my first serious play which I wrote called ‘Point of Yes’ at the Underbelly.

It never closed or burnt down, which made me suspicious of them.

I had all the comedy award Perrier panel into my comedy show, but they deemed me to be ‘making all look too easy and not sticking to the same show everyday and improvising too much’ so after much debating they chose not to nominate me and instead told me to theme my shows and stick to them. I was offered a book deal with Random House and wrote what became my best selling autobiography.

Nobody died and nothing burnt down, but a man tried to jump off a building during the fringe and I talked him down, he later set fire to his house, so that was mildly interesting, he hadn’t paid his bills.

2004- Ashley turned 18 and left school to have a year out, she passed all her exams and that made me proud and further convinced she wasn’t my child. She then became a DJ, a care worker, a catering assistant, a shop floor worker and a secretary, she hated all of that and decided to go to Uni.

I took a show called Good Godley to the Edinburgh fringe and it got hordes of FIVE star reviews, everyone liked me for a short while.

It tackled subject matter about death, child abuse and gangsters and was called confessional comedy. Some comics mocked it but it did become a specific genre at the Fringe later on in the decade.

People who never spoke to me crossed roads to say hello, it was an odd experience. My book was finished and the publishers were happy with it.

I went on a TV reality show called Kings of Comedy on channel 4 and managed to grab Russell Brands face live on telly, because he was being awfully annoying and loud. But he is a nice man, he was just shouting in my ear. I learned that reality TV and sober people don’t really go hand in hand. I started writing my blog.

I did my first run at the Soho Theatre in London and appeared on 100 Greatest Christmas Moments on Channel 4 and I did Glastonbury for the first time.

A plastics factory near me exploded, many people died and I was so close to the event I took photos of it and they made the front page of The Glasgow Evening Times.

2005- My book was published and made it to number 3 in the Sunday Times best seller list. I did a show at the Edinburgh Fringe called ‘Janey Godley is Innocent’ it got great reviews but some people didn’t like it because I didn’t have anyone killed in the show, who knew?

I also took my play the Point of Yes to the Soho Theatre.

I appeared on BBC radio 4 ‘Loose Ends’ and met the late great Ned Sherrin. Ashley started University and studied screen play writing.

Nothing burnt down but the amazing Godfather of Comedy Malcolm Hardee died in London.

2006- My daughter and I took 3 shows to the Edinburgh Fringe, a sketch show, that we both performed, my one woman play ‘Point of Yes’ and my stand up show ‘Blog Live’. We also did Glastonbury again.

Ashley and I toured New Zealand together and had great fun on the road. Reviews were good and I appeared on BBC radio 4s ‘Just a Minute’. My favourite printer Tam made all the posters, but had been printing his own cash (again) on the side, that ended badly. My wee niece Julia was born.

I was nominated Scotswoman of the Year, but lost out to a Polish woman.

No one died and nothing burnt down.

2007- My favourite printer Tam became famously known world wide as Hologram Tam (due to his expertise in making bank notes) got caught and put in prison. I was photographed by the cops going into his shop late at night during their long stake out. I needed to find a new printer, and I did.

I landed my weekly column in The Scotsman newspaper.

I performed my play and my comedy show off Broadway at the Bleeker Street Theatre and performed 2 shows at Edinburgh fringe, called Janey Godley’s Chat Show and ‘Tell it Like it is’, both got five star reviews.

No one died and nothing burnt down.

2008- I won the Fringe report award; I won Nivea Funny woman and my Edinburgh show Domestic Godley went great guns. I got my haircut, stopped smoking for three weeks and tried not to fight with everyone in three mile vicinity. I also headed back to NZ comedy festival and got nominated best international guest. No one died and nothing burnt down.

2009- At the start of the year, I appeared in the Scottish soap on TV called River City, it was great fun and scary. I headed back to NZ and got nominated again and met Wayne Brady who was presenting the Gala TV show we were on. I dressed up as Susan Boyle and asked him “Are you Kanye West?” he pretended not to know Susan Boyle and we all giggled at him behind his arrogant back. I had a great time with my comedy show Godley’s World at Edinburgh Fringe.

Life got difficult for us all as my step mum died and left a huge hole to be filled in all our lives. The good news is nothing burnt down.

So that really is a quick rundown of my decade.

24th December 2009

Luckily I was based in Glasgow for most of December, no flapping off to foreign climes for me during the season, just good old Glasgow! Usually husband & I are snugly ensconced in a serviced flat in Leeds, Nottingham or Canada around this time of year as I do my comedy thing, but this year I stayed home and did local gigs.

Mainly because my dad is spending his first December as a widower, we lost mum early this year. It has had a devastating effect on him, luckily my dad has an awesome step family who care and love him. I do my bit by turning up, chasing squirrels from his wheelie bin or convincing him that one mouse does not equate an invasion. Sometimes we talk about stuff, or I have to cancel Virgin media yet again as he managed to go on the phone and instead of ordering one football match to watch he gets charged for a whole months worth. I love him, he is hilarious at times and his tales of old make me giggle.

His penchant for leaving the house during a snow storm to go for a newspaper makes me want to send him to punchy town, but he was a hard Glasgow steel worker and doesn’t see why he can’t handle a bit of slush!

I have yet to work out why he is obsessed by his wheelie bin, but I suppose that might take a therapist and some dolls to get through that issue.

My best mate Monica was stuck in Milan airport for three days due to the thick freeze over Europe. Husband drove me through to Edinburgh to do a few gigs, and the drive home was so scary, I wrote a note and placed it in my jacket which stated “My name is Janey Godley, if you find me in a car accident please contact (my pals name and number) and tell her to contact my daughter”. I started to freak out thinking that if we both get badly injured the police would go to my home and Ashley would have to deal with it herself, I don’t want her ever to go through that. I worried what would happen to her if we both died in a car crash!

But it felt like a sure thing in that snowy road.

Our car was sliding all over the road and giant belches of dense fog smacked against the car like flour bombs as it plummeted through the dark winding part of the M8 motorway. The frozen white trees looked skeletal and eerie as the car lights flashed on them through the darkness.

I was terrified; every muscle in my body was tensed for the whole journey there and back. I was like a coiled spring when I got home.

Luckily and clearly we both survived, but we passed loads of stranded cars and a few accidents.

So last week I went up to Easterhouse to see my old pal Janie, she is awesome fun; I have known her for over 30 years.

Both of us headed up to the big shopping mall near her home, we saw a swan stuck in the ice.

I offered to go free it and she told me “Don’t they are evil and can bite the face off you, I know a woman who got her eye taken out by a swan, they can peck their way out of the ice, it’s a Scottish swan”

I watched as the swan batted giant white wings, throwing up a flurry of snow and run towards me, it hissed and tried to bite my leg. It was an evil swan indeed. Yet looked magical with the frosted snow scene all around it, it was a big Narnia angry beast. Janie was right yet again, she knows stuff!

We went food shopping and ended up back her flat after trudging through the snow and had a wee lie down. Yes, we have reached that age that we need a nap after a shopping mission. Just as we were about to fall asleep she darted out of her bed and ran downstairs to drag in her wheelie bin, I fear that fate will get me soon. It an age thing I suppose!

She then ranted about global warming, which was funny as it’s a subject she is no expert on.

“What is global warming and why do I need to recycle milk cartons?” she asked.

It took me ages to go through it all and even I got lost in the quagmire of information, she just butted in Janie style and said “So if I stop throwing milk cartons out will polar bears stop dying?” I laughed and said “yes”.

“There are kids up here dying of drug addiction, there is now Anthrax in heroin killing folk, there are people losing their homes as bankers sit snug in castles, there is devastating poverty in Glasgow that even frightens the MPs and I have to wash out milk cartons? Don’t tell me the priorities are all wrong Janey” she said.

I found it hard to disagree with her.

“I have never seen a polar bear and don’t care about them so the milk cartons will get tossed into my big wheelie bin” she spat out. I knew we would get back to those wheelie bins sooner or later.

Well the Christmas spirit is definitely out and about, the lights are twinkling all over The West End of Glasgow and the snow looks awesome when it isn’t seeped in dog poo or dead drunks have a Happy Christmas people!

17th December 2009

Personally I would be thoroughly gutted, that after giving birth to the most important child in all millennia, the only visitors I received were a trio of Kings bringing totally useless gifts, not one women pops in with a hot mug of tea and a couple of pain killing tinctures.

It was bad enough for Mary having to go through a painful labour (She was a virgin as well, that stuff would have hurt) amongst straw and some farmyard animals, but to have to entertain guests without as much as a shower first, must have been horrendous. How does she remain that peaceful and happy looking, I personally couldn’t sit down for a week and don’t even ask me how my boobs felt, as to describe that would involve a flip chart and an over head projector.

Now let’s look at the gifts, only men would bring such obscure objects. It seems even back in those days; men still didn’t know the protocol of presents for a new born. Today’s fathers and men friends still turn up to see a new baby bearing flowers, balloon animals and fluffy toys, all of which are useless to the point of stupidity.

What every woman needs immediately after any birth, is

1. Big knickers that hug under your boobs.

2. Giant sanitary pads with at least a 10.5 tog rating.

3. Maternity bra with supporting straps that could dock a ship.

4. Clean towels, favourite shower gel and moisturiser

5. Drugs supplied by Keith Richards.

Mary (I don’t know her surname, does anyone? Does Jesus have a surname?) anyway Jesus’ mother Mary, must have been made of steely stuff, Joseph (her man) wasn’t that bright to start with, dragging a heavily pregnant woman to what can only be described as Vegas, Bethlehem was at its busiest time.

He never booked ahead, he didn’t plan for the birth, and he shoved her onto a donkey during the early stages of her labour, gave her a pat of the rump and headed off into the desert. She calmly agreed and headed off to Bethlehem.

At that point, I would have kicked his head and turned up in Bethlehem alone, screaming and demanding a doctor, after all this was no ordinary child that was about to be born.

Mary must have literally been an actual Saint. If it were me, there would have been swearing, bitching and at least some Joseph bashing with the local chicks round the waterhole.

But not for Mary, she calmly accepted her fate; she serenely smiled through labour pains with a beatific smile.

She simply cleaned up behind her, washed her own child, combed her hair, washed her face and pulled the blue scarf around her head and got on with job as being Jesus’ mammy. Then accepted the clumsy gifts from the strange blokes, who came to visit and thus showed up all us women as bleating, screaming whingers who couldn’t handle a contraction, thanks for that Mary!

15th December 2009

How is that ‘energy saving’? I now have two lights running to make up for the ONE light I used to have. Apparently if you use the energy bulbs on the ceiling they don’t last long with heat reflecting from the ceiling and they are only going to last ten years if you only use them for 3 hours a day, and to make matters worse, if you continually switch them off and on, THAT reduces their lifespan as well!

On top of all that, the light gives me a dull thudding headache and I end up with a battery lamp beside my laptop!

So, basically I am going through these energy saving bulbs at a rate of 2 a year!

My old bulbs lasted longer and I don’t know if that’s less energy used, but when you work out the carbon footprint of supplying these bulbs at the store on a bigger demand as they last less time, they might be just as bad as the old bulbs!

How am I going to save penguins with that attitude?

How can I stop Scotland from breaking off and floating to Norway unless I can stop using so much power? I am worried about my green house-ness.

So that’s ONE rant over, second rant is- Why does the big store Marks and Spencer insist on charging me cash for a carrier bag, yet wrap every single piece of food in acres of plastic?

Try opening their pate, cheesecake or salad boxes and you will come up against plastic fantastic wrappy ville! So come on M&S make up your own bloody mind about your commitment to less plastic and start using biodegradable cardboard boxes for food- or stop making me feel like a child killing, crack smoking, herpes ridden hooker, when I want to buy a bag to carry home your plastic over-wrapped goods. 

That’s it, no more rants, its nearly Christmas.

12th December 2009

I had an awesome wrap party night at the BBC gig, just lovely and my daughter Ashley came along and made me happy.

She makes me laugh; she suggested that she buy me a small red duffel coat so that I can run around the river bridges of Glasgow in a ‘Don’t Look Now’ manner. She says I look like a child from behind but have a wee old wrinkly face at the front. What a nice child I gave birth to eh?

Last week I met up with my dad who told me to walk him to the bus stop, he then told me “That bus takes me home” and pointed to a big Glasgow bus. I waved him off then ten minutes later he called me shouting “This is the wrong bus you put me on”

“Dad, I never put you on a bus, YOU said it was YOUR bus” I laughed loudly on the phone.

“No I didn’t its like going to Belsen horror camp on this bus” he muttered.

Now before you get all umpity and suggest my dad is anti- Semitic, he isn’t, it’s a generational catchphrase, old Scottish people use the term ‘Belsen’ to describe any type of mildly uncomfortable situation.

Scots use exaggeration and shock to display humour.

If they see a skinny model on TV they say things like ‘she looks like she walked out of Belsen, she should eat’ I know that it sounds offensive and probably is to some people, but my dad and other elderly relatives do throw the word ‘Belsen’ about at an alarming rate. It’s a generational thing I suppose.

I had a neighbour who once described a Butlins holiday camp as Belsen, now that is just wrong, old Scottish people do have a rather savage sense of humour, yet we contemporary comics get our balls kicked for less!

So apparently an over crowded bus hurtling through the foggy streets was akin to a horror ride to a death camp in my fathers mind and guess who sent him there? Me…according to him.

I do love the crazy old nutter.

Today I got up early and went to see wee Abi my great niece in her nativity play. She was the lead part in The Bossy King, and she really did take the stage with gusto. All the other kids were mumbling, stumbling and shuffling with downcast eyes. Abi was belting out her lead role with a performance that Dame Judy Dench would have been proud of.

“I am the bossy King, everyone bow down to me NOW!” she yelled and startled all the babies in prams and on knees of the parents sitting in the school hall. I gasped out loud and laughed. Abi winked at me and a huge grin split her face, then she went quickly back to grumpy face of the Bossy King. I am so proud of her!

Baby Julia was on my knee silently waving at Abi and getting annoyed she wasn’t getting a wave back “Hi Abi” she finally yelled out in toddler frustration. I giggled and hugged wee Julia close, or almost suffocated her in my bosom…you decide!

It was lovely watching the wee school play and Abi is destined to be a top actress, I can see her Oscar acceptance as I write.

I have been at Glasgow Jongleurs all week, the Christmas nights can be really hard work, but all in all it’s been fine.
The downside was wearing a new bra I bought, honestly it felt like a torture device from the Spanish Inquisition (see my dad’s use of genocidal events to exhibit exaggerated mild discomfort has been passed onto me) and I spent the whole night in pain. How can a bra be that sore? The side bones literally cut into my ribcage, my tits looked great but my lungs were being crushed.

So it’s been a good week. Talk soon.

9th December 2009

Luckily Julia hasn’t started killing small mammals; her favourite thing at my house is to pull down the collection of miniature hedgehogs in my hall and make them all kiss each other on my wooden table. A lot of kissing happens and American type chatter, it’s funny that small Scottish kids use a Californian voice when they do ‘play’.

American TV has such an effect on children, that annoying nasal voice that inhabit all the cartoon characters eventually come flooding out of the mouths of wee Glaswegians.

She asked me to switch on kids TV which I did and I was agog at the adverts for Barbie’s who were wearing what can only be described as prostitute outfits. Crotch skimming glittery skirts, high pony tails and tops that revealed pert plastic boobies, all for wee girls to dress and undress, suddenly the kissing hedgehogs seemed positively dull.

It made me think of the dolls I got as a child. We had a Tressy doll, which was a teenage skinny doll that when you pressed her tummy button her hair grew long out of the crown of her head. Long hair/short hair…that was Tressy’s thing and I managed to get ALL her hair pulled out and cut it off at the roots, my big sister Ann nearly battered me to death over that incident.

I wasn’t good with dolls, I remember one Christmas morning waking up to a stiff Spanish doll in the corner of the room, it was about 3 foot tall, as tall as me. It had a big bee hive hair do and dirty red slashed lips, it resembled a small Amy Winehouse. I thought it was a dead toddler standing beside the electric fire and screamed myself sick till they took it away. Who gives their child a dead toddler for Christmas?

So anyway I had fun with wee Julia, she makes me smile and she has a high pitched squeal of laughter when you chase her with a spatula round the kitchen. She squashed Jaffa cakes into small paper cake cases and then proceeded to hand them out for us to eat. They were all sticky and yucky looking, but she declared “I made these myself” which I loved. 

Any girl who can learn about baking cheats so young is a friend of mine, good on you Julia, baking is for nutters, just buy a cake.

So tomorrow I have to get my hair cut and coloured, I have to buy gifts and get the house Christmas ready. That doesn’t mean anything, it just means that I buy a scented cinnamon candle and burn it.

I am working the majority of December and looking forward to having a wee holiday in January. I may got back to LA in January, who knows?

7th December 2009

Best Wishes from Janey Godley, her family and the team!

4th December 2009

Husband isn’t a big Christmas fan, he has made it clear the tree can go up, but it mustn’t get in the way of the flat screen telly and it better not flash too much, as that exacerbates his Aspergers Syndrome.

I told him that him talking about the happy Christmas tree exacerbates my hormones and makes me feel like taking him straight to punchy town, he told me such a place didn’t exist.

I said it was a metaphor – he said he didn’t like metaphors – I said “shut up or I will poke your eye with a Christmas bauble” it went on for ages, suffice to say I won and he dragged the tree from the cupboard with an annoyed face.

Every year we go through the same crap. I don’t want a gift as I don’t need anything and I can buy stuff myself. He doesn’t want anything as we can never get him what he wants (his own house with padded corners, a butler and a Lazy-ee Boy seat) so we compromise by just buying Ashley stuff.

She loves it and has made a list of what she wants. Husband who is great at searching online for cheap deals, ends up buying two things and getting loads of stuff thrown in for free, that’s Aspergers and too much time on your hands as far as I am concerned.

He doesn’t have the ‘interesting’ Aspergers Syndrome, just the annoying type.

Why can’t he just count cocktail sticks thrown on the floor? That’s a great party trick, yet his Aspergers Syndrome doesn’t accommodate such tomfoolery, he is just good at repeating verbatim all the stuff I say in anger.

He would make a great actor if he could just tell his face which emotion his words were displaying.

Anyway I must stop saying things about him; he will find out and smile but shout fiercely, which is disconcerting to say the least.

I have just realised – that’s why he doesn’t get on well with cats! They also smile and bite you at the same time, or wag their tails and purr.

Cats are Aspergic animals and don’t mix well with other Aspergic sufferers.

The past week has been busy as hell; I gigged at Edinburgh Stand and got the most awesome review…

"The queen of Scottish comedy...A bold, take-no-prisoners type of comic... Comic gold. Brilliantly painted scenarios, uproarious and touching in equal measure.... Intelligent and skilful comedy of the highest order."
(Edinburgh Evening News, 2nd December 2009)

That is a lovely thing and cheers me up no end. It nice when you get good things said about you, especially when you work hard!

I wrote a comedy article for a newspaper this week as well and did warm up at BBC which can be tiring and long, yet fulfilling.

Am off out today to get myself a pair of leather gloves, as this is what I am buying myself for Christmas.

30th November 2009

Things are happening in my life that keep making me look back, its not good news. Recently when I was in London it happened. I immediately recalled the first time I went to London to stay with my pal Finlay.

It was 1994; I was hardly doing any comedy and was running my pub at the time. Just the sheer excitement of being away from the pub, husband and my child made me giddy with happiness.

Soho looked like the most amazing place in the world; the big bright lights of Piccadilly dazzled me like the oik I was back then.

It was fantastic to be free from domesticity and just be me and just be with my pals. I recall looking in Time Out magazine and wondering how I could possibly contain my bursting exhilaration at the thought MY NAME one day might be in those listings as a comic at a club, it just made me foam at the mouth.

Years later when I wrote articles and was featured in Time Out, I giggled and had a wee heart warming feeling, recalling the Janey who thought that was THE DIZZY heights of fame, and it was a good feeling.

But somehow I now feel a bit flat, it might be because I am getting older and am becoming tired whilst travelling, I am not sure what this feeling is, but I miss the excitement of being so amazed at doing stand up.

Does that make sense?

You need to know I LOVE doing comedy; I feel I am finally me onstage. It is the best feeling in the world and I honestly am blessed that I get paid for doing something I think is easy and wonderful; I know I shouldn’t say that. I should say how comedy is so technical, a skill that takes years to hone and blah blah about the art- but I love comedy and I it doesn’t feel like hard work to me.

Please don’t take from this that I am poo-poohing my art, or being flippant about all the years its taken me to get to a decent level, but I just get worried someone is going to walk up and say “you are just talking, why is that a job?” and I am scuppered! I have been told be many people in my life growing up to ‘shut up’ and now I get paid for talking, that makes me giggle inside, yet there is this awful foreboding feeling inside me.

Do I finally have depression and my brain can’t compute what that actually means? Can that happen?

I have never had depression before and always rail against it as I have been surrounded by depressed people my whole life and they really annoy me (sorry if that’s sounds unsympathetic, but if you live with someone with depression it basically means when they are sad and don’t want to go out- you are NOT going to the beach either and You don’t have depression) There is nothing for people who DON’T have depression but live with people who have depression –they get therapy- you get moaned at.

So I don’t know why I am feeling strange and odd lately. Maybe I am just going through an odd phase, yet the only thing that makes me happy is going onstage.

Ashley is all grown up and writing for a living and doesn’t need me so much, husband is happy and fine and I might be suffering from some empty nest thing. As everyone knows how much I love being with my daughter and I talk about her all the time. I know I do…but you have no idea how proud I am that she is just lovely and funny and such good company to be around.

I think I might be having a mid life crisis, I may end up like those women who get their hair cut like Suzie Quatro and start wearing fringey leather jackets and start visiting the Hard Rock Café’s all over the world collecting beer mats, tee shirts and getting photos taken with Jimmy Hendrix’s guitar. Can that happen to women overnight?

Why is looking back to me being all glowy about comedy and visiting new cities not making me happy?

Or maybe I shouldn’t write a blog in a damp Manchester hotel room with a really bad period pain and a colonoscopy to look forward to? It might be that then eh?

24th November 2009

This morning I had to get up and go see the specialist about my ‘bowel’ issue suffice to say I am getting a colonoscopy quite soon which I am sure is sexual to a few hard nosed politicians yet evil to me.

I have NEVER found excitement in shoving things up my back bottom, seriously -its exit only- and those folk who shove hamsters and lava lamps up theirs need executed or put in a special ward. Ok that might have sounded extreme, but I am having a strange day as a pigeon attacked me as I slept.

Here is the story; my bed is beneath my window, so my pillows are basically where your knees would be if you were hanging out of my top floor windows. I like it that way but sometimes I push the windows open full and birds come up under the eaves, spot the gaping window and do a wee peep in. They see me in bed two feet away from them then don’t understand they need to be quiet and let out a big loud squawk or make a pigeon warbly noise. We stare at each other as my eyes open, big fat bird sitting on the inside of my window ledge, me lying on the pillow hoping it doesn’t come any nearer. I throw up an arm it shits on my pillow and flies out into the back court. That what usually happens, but today was funny.

I slept after the hospital appointment and I woke up at 11am to see two pigeons pecking at my jewellery box on my window ledge. They clearly fancied a wee wander in and tapped across the shelve ten inches above my skull and then sat there warbling to each other.

The noise woke me up, I gently lifted my head, the bigger bird panicked and just fell out of the window…screeching…like it forgot how to fly, but the sassy smaller bird pecked my velvet jewellery box and eyed me side on. It was challenging me! I am sure it was a ‘she’ as ‘she’ gaily tip- tapped across my window shelf, shit on it and deftly flew into the grey Glasgow sky.

This is what I miss about Glasgow, the sheer audacity of its pigeons.

It is good to be home though despite the colonoscopy and the pigeons.

23rd November 2009

The time just flew past and I didn’t quite catch up with myself.

And I have been partying a wee bit, I do that in London – I rarely go out in Glasgow and save all the time up and end up staying out at The Groucho Club till 2am, then sleeping in like a fat old dog.

My trip here has been really interesting, firstly on arrival in London I decided to call up Gordon Smith who is the boss of the Scottish Football thingy and I applied for the job as Scotland football manager. The fact I called it ‘thingy’ should indicate I am not really suited to the job. But the press were touting Sean Connery as the next manager and because I actually live in Scotland, I thought I should be more in the running so to speak. I can order men about, I can actually play football and I am great at strategy, what’s not to like?

“Do you have a valid coaching license?” Gordon Smith asked.

“No, but I do know Hologram Tam and he is the worlds best forger and he can get me one” I laughed.

Well, they never called back, so I guess the job is not for me.

London is wonderful at this time of year as the Christmas lights are up in Oxford Street and I LOVE the lights, I am such a sentimental twat at times, but I just love the wintry feeling and the twinkling lights.

Hyde Park is just a carpet of crisp golden leaves and the sky at teatime over London is scudded with crimson smudges that reflect onto the oily surface of the Thames, it’s just amazing!

It’s as if someone had taken a whorey pink lipstick to the sky and had dragged it over the dappled clouds.

The pale blushing sky creates an inspiring backdrop to the Houses of Parliament; you have to see it to know what I mean. I love London.

I don’t love drug fucked alcoholic men with skinny hard faced blonde women who come to comedy clubs to scream at comedians. I hate those bastards more than anything and yet Camden seemed to draw them in on Friday and Saturday night.

It can be exhausting verbally fighting with coke fuelled men in front of 200 people for money, but I am an MC and that’s my job. I won, they were thrown out and the comedy went good. Ok, heres some tips for anyone who fancies coming to enjoy a comedy gig.

1. Don’t snort Peru up your nose; it doesn’t make you amiable in a crowd of quiet people listening to one person.

2. Don’t patently ignore someone with a microphone speaking to you and try not to carry on foaming at the sides of your mouth as you scream at other comedy goers asking you to shut up.

3. When 200 people shout ‘LEAVE! LEAVE!’ accept that they don’t like you and just fucking leave. The people have spoken my friend.

4. Don’t abuse someone for being Scottish then try to cover that abuse up by declaring you are half-Scottish, that’s just mental and invites some of the best retorts from a Scottish MC.

5. Never go anywhere where you want to talk more than the people everyone else has paid to listen to. It really is that simple, stay at home and shout at yourself, is all I am saying.

Other than that life is good. Meetings went well and I now have some serious writing to do.

I got to hang out with Monica my best mate in the world and it was so good to see her, we get to talk really fast Glaswegian and not worry about pronunciation or slowing down for other people. Though she does speak amazing Italian, French, Spanish and possibly seven other languages in a fabulously funny Scottish accent, I hear her talk to some of the European chefs she represents and piss myself laughing – she is amazing.

Nothing strange, funny or weird happened for me to write home about, am sorry- I feel as though I am letting you all down if I haven’t punched a Politician or fell down a flight fo stairs in front of a Hollywood superstar, but sometimes my life is dull and is all about looking at the awesome skies over London. Am home tomorrow…speak soon.

23rd November 2009

The time just flew past and I didn’t quite catch up with myself.

And I have been partying a wee bit, I do that in London – I rarely go out in Glasgow and save all the time up and end up staying out at The Groucho Club till 2am, then sleeping in like a fat old dog.

My trip here has been really interesting, firstly on arrival in London I decided to call up Gordon Smith who is the boss of the Scottish Football thingy and I applied for the job as Scotland football manager. The fact I called it ‘thingy’ should indicate I am not really suited to the job. But the press were touting Sean Connery as the next manager and because I actually live in Scotland, I thought I should be more in the running so to speak. I can order men about, I can actually play football and I am great at strategy, what’s not to like?

“Do you have a valid coaching license?” Gordon Smith asked.

“No, but I do know Hologram Tam and he is the worlds best forger and he can get me one” I laughed.

Well, they never called back, so I guess the job is not for me.

London is wonderful at this time of year as the Christmas lights are up in Oxford Street and I LOVE the lights, I am such a sentimental twat at times, but I just love the wintry feeling and the twinkling lights.

Hyde Park is just a carpet of crisp golden leaves and the sky at teatime over London is scudded with crimson smudges that reflect onto the oily surface of the Thames, it’s just amazing!

It’s as if someone had taken a whorey pink lipstick to the sky and had dragged it over the dappled clouds.

The pale blushing sky creates an inspiring backdrop to the Houses of Parliament; you have to see it to know what I mean. I love London.

I don’t love drug fucked alcoholic men with skinny hard faced blonde women who come to comedy clubs to scream at comedians. I hate those bastards more than anything and yet Camden seemed to draw them in on Friday and Saturday night.

It can be exhausting verbally fighting with coke fuelled men in front of 200 people for money, but I am an MC and that’s my job. I won, they were thrown out and the comedy went good. Ok, heres some tips for anyone who fancies coming to enjoy a comedy gig.

1. Don’t snort Peru up your nose; it doesn’t make you amiable in a crowd of quiet people listening to one person.

2. Don’t patently ignore someone with a microphone speaking to you and try not to carry on foaming at the sides of your mouth as you scream at other comedy goers asking you to shut up.

3. When 200 people shout ‘LEAVE! LEAVE!’ accept that they don’t like you and just fucking leave. The people have spoken my friend.

4. Don’t abuse someone for being Scottish then try to cover that abuse up by declaring you are half-Scottish, that’s just mental and invites some of the best retorts from a Scottish MC.

5. Never go anywhere where you want to talk more than the people everyone else has paid to listen to. It really is that simple, stay at home and shout at yourself, is all I am saying.

Other than that life is good. Meetings went well and I now have some serious writing to do.

I got to hang out with Monica my best mate in the world and it was so good to see her, we get to talk really fast Glaswegian and not worry about pronunciation or slowing down for other people. Though she does speak amazing Italian, French, Spanish and possibly seven other languages in a fabulously funny Scottish accent, I hear her talk to some of the European chefs she represents and piss myself laughing – she is amazing.

Nothing strange, funny or weird happened for me to write home about, am sorry- I feel as though I am letting you all down if I haven’t punched a Politician or fell down a flight fo stairs in front of a Hollywood superstar, but sometimes my life is dull and is all about looking at the awesome skies over London. Am home tomorrow…speak soon.

16th November 2009

The hotel had a wee single bed which slid along the floor when you sat on it and to top it all the fire alarm screamed us all awake and made us all stand in the sideways rain in our pyjamas, I wanted to burn to death instead.

Touring is so sexy.

I was tired when I hit Aberdeen station to get the train home. There was a big fat steely haired woman in a rail workers jacket at the ticket gate. “What ticket do I put through the machine to get onto the platform? There are nine tickets printed for this journey, I don’t know which one to slide through the machine!”

She sneered and shouted “the one that says journey ticket, why don’t you check?”

The tickets have tiny writing and there are so many of them it really is hard to figure out which one is the valid ticket.

“Listen up fatty, NINE tickets here now tell me which one? They all look alike. What is your job? Staring at pigeons?” I shouted at her.

Just then two really old people came behind me with a deck of tickets (why is there so many wee orange tickets printed out for A JOURNEY?)

“What ticket do we use to get through there are so many?” the wee old stooped man asked fatty fuckwit.

“What do you think? The one that says journey…” she started to yell.

“Ok, you annoying pedantic fat pain in the butt, I will stand here and I will show people which ticket as the TRAIN is LATE I will do your job and help elderly people with the tickets” I screamed. Pigeons flew away in fear.

So I stood there at the gate and pointed out to people who were staring at a fist full of tickets and who asked fatty sarcastic arse for help.

Every time she attempted to use her nasty sneering attitude, I butted in and helped the people. It wasn’t altruistic I was just annoyed at her and bored to be honest.

She then told me to stand back from the gates and I refused.

She got the station master bloke who came over, listened to her moan about me standing at the gate and then came over and told me to move.

I explained that she was ignoring people’s pleas for help and explained the whole situation and the elderly man and wife came over to back me up. Fatty was told off and made to go back to the hut where I hope the chained her to a radiator and let her piss her own fat legs. What a cow.

They put a young Polish bloke on the gate and he politely explained to people who were struggling to figure out which ticket to slide through the machine. Screw you Aberdeen station ticket woman.

The journey home was pleasant except I had a screaming kid on the seat opposite. I didn’t get angry I merely got off my seat and went into first class where the ticket checker let me sit the whole journey for no extra charge, see some people on trains are nice.

I went up to Easterhouse to do my one woman comedy show on Saturday and it was awesome. Lovely to see so many people turn up for comedy and the show went well; Ashley sold 25 of my books for me, what a lovely child!

This week I am off to London, I have some gigs, some meetings and another big audition. Scary stuff but contrary to the rumours, I am not going into the jungle…don’t believe everything you read on the internet.

13th November 2009

Oh, by the way, buy a toothbrush, I know you have hardly any cash but seriously that stuff they say about decay is right, a toothbrush is important. By the time you are 40 years old you will have paid £2,000 in veneers and bridge work at a private dentist.

Yes, you will have private health care; I know it’s hard to believe right now.

So, get the record player turned off and start staring at school books. Try harder to understand maths and don’t give up on art or English, you will be good at both in future, just try to understand me when I say you will write, paint and you really need to understand percentages when you get older.

I know it’s the 70s but please don’t wear a plaid shirt tied at the waist with your curly fringe hanging over your eyes, and if you do have to look like that please don’t get a Polaroid photo taken in Mr Woods garden, I have seen the picture and it made my eyes water. It is even on the internet, something I can’t quite explain right now, but will be really big in the future.

The 1980s are just around the corner and hair perms get really fashionable. Please DO NOT get a perm, you have really curly hair and it will result in you being housebound for three days, and a hair-do that makes Gladys Knight and the Pips jealous, no white girl should have hair bigger than Diana Ross.

If you are still not convinced of this advice, go to the local library and look up a boxing promoter called Don King and never ever forget that that’s what you will look like if you get a cheap perm in a Parkhead hair salon called ‘Hair Flair’ in 1981.

Also just to save you a lot of time, money and energy, you CANNOT skateboard, play the violin, do yoga, cook soufflé, wear strapless bras, pink eye shadow and you will never enjoy ballet performances.

Oh, by the way, that dream you had about a TV being made into a wrist watch? That actually gets invented. You were a visionary!

So Janey, don’t go into school tomorrow and declare that you are leaving, I know you have a shoe issue, but take up your mums offer to wear her slip on sandals and get through the week. Having no shoes is not good enough excuse to screw up your life.

Your dad will buy you shoes next week. Go there in your bare feet if needs be as you really need to go get an education, get into university and leave with a degree, if you do that, me getting into jobs later in life will be a hell of a lot easier, people are snobs and TV companies prefer folk with a Uni degree, even if they are shit at the job, it helps on paper.

Just on another note, your breasts will grow, I know they look like two moles poking their noses through pizza dough, but they really get big, seriously big and it is amazing how much they get big, have I emphasised that enough? Big boobs Janey will be a nickname.

Don’t throw a medicine ball at a guy called Craig Armstrong on your hockey pitches, he is a wee bit older, geeky and likes music. He really becomes the most famous person from your school and is an amazing composer. You will love his stuff and download it (don’t ask what that means suffice to say you will never use vinyl records forever, but do keep them safe anyway). Just avoid hurting him, especially his fingers, they are his life and don’t call him a tweedy fuckwit, its makes him never want to speak to you again. He has a really long memory.

Tonight when you watch Sale of the Century on the telly, don’t let your mum slag off Nicholas Parsons, when you get older he will become a nice friend and you will feel bad about your mum shouting at the TV and calling him an ‘English Toffy Nose Bastard’.

I know you are wondering what the hell happens later in life, so far I have scared you with dental work, big tits and Nicholas Parsons, but bear with me.

Sometime soon, you will get a boyfriend called George; he is really quiet, drinks too much and has deep psychological issues. What you think is a quirky attitude is actually a dark violent streak; he likes to stab men with a knitting needle.

He might be a good kisser and doesn’t push you into sex, but he really does get into needles later on in life and they aren’t for knitting with. Who knew heroin would be such a big hit in inner city Glasgow?

You will break up with him when he asks you to marry him, one suggestion -don’t laugh out loud, remember the violent streak?

He doesn’t take rejection or laughter in his face very well.

Ignore him and walk away. But worry not -you do make a lucky escape.

I do really want to warn you about the next man, but if you don’t marry him, go through the scary shit you don’t get to produce a beautiful daughter and become a funny comedian.

I suppose you need to tread that crap to be the woman you need to be, but the husband is ok. It’s amazing how annoying he can be, but here’s a clue, don’t talk too much. I think you need to know that the talking thing bothers people, keep some of that inside but if and when you meet your husband’s family and feel like being cheeky, go right ahead.

You actually develop a really good repertoire for arguments and you usually win.

Don’t worry about jobs, you actually become self employed from a young age and that continues throughout your life, and stick to your theory about not drinking, not smoking and never touching pills or drugs. You were right about that, and in later years if someone offers you something called ‘smack’ you will be right to refuse to smoke it off a foil tube, it kills most of your friends. That sounds scary but trust me it is over in a blink and you eventually write a play about it. Yes, you will write a bit, did I mention that? Just try to remember everything as you need to recall it to write it.

Just so you know, you will produce a tall wonderful child, and she will get everything you never had. She will be clean, educated and never need to worry about fresh underwear, your vow for the future of your child to be happy, well fed and educated will come true.

Don’t worry about labour pains; they aren’t that bad as everyone tells you and you recover quickly.

Something else I want to tell you, enjoy your body, you have wee skinny legs, so go show them off. Stop worrying about thinking you are fat, your not, be confident and when those boobs grow take time to watch men stare at them, savour that moment when they are up high and firm, it will feel like a distant memory when you are older…enjoy the pert tits.

Don’t wear baggy shirts to disguise them, get a good bra, a tight tee shirt and get them out there, they look amazing (I know I saw the photo’s) but you will suffer from self consciousness over them, try to enjoy them Janey, it’s a time to relish and it passes before you know it and you will spend your middle ages kicking yourself for hiding them when they had looked their best!

My last big thing I need to tell you, get to know your mum a bit more. She is a bit scatty, but just look at her; make sure you embed every single facet of her face into your memory. Don’t give her a hard time, hug her. Climb into bed and let her read to you, I know you are 16 years old, but she is a great reader and you grow up and take that skill with you.

Breathe in the smell of her, even the strange ones. Touch her face, smile and hold her. She had a crap life and you really want to share some time with her, if possible get that Polaroid camera out and get a photo of you both together. It would be nice, but probably won’t happen.

She needs you, you don’t know that, but she isn’t good at saying stuff that scares her. Let her dance with you, get her to sing a musical with you, let her pick which song she wants and get up and dance around the room.

Hold her tight Janey and don’t ever forget how the skin on her face feels, or the thickness of her hair or the flecks of amber in her brown eyes.

Most of all Janey, don’t give yourself a hard time for wanting more than she had, so go get shoes, get ready for a bra fitting and always brush your teeth, you have a long way to go and I will be here when you get there!

10th November 2009

I hate being manipulated like that don’t you?

Christmas or winter to me smells like wood burning and the frosty bright mornings remind me of the seasons changing, I don’t know anyone who boils cinnamon, makes spiced oranges or who mull wine not from present day nor my past, because I wasn’t alive in Victorian times when Christmas came into its own.

It seems we modern folk can’t have our own Christmas identity; we have to hark back to the olden days to get one. Cards and TV adverts show small Victorian dressed children with rosy cheeks and furry muffs staring through bevelled shop windows as their ankle boots are deep in crisp snow. Is there anyone alive who can recall that? NO!

To me childhood Christmas memories are of musty socks hanging over our old coal fire in the front room and my brothers fighting each other with tangerines in socks as weapons. So keep your cinnamon scented wafts, it means nothing to me Mr Supermarket psychological manipulator!

We will be having a quiet Christmas as always, just me husband and Ashley. I might go see my dad on Christmas day as this will be his first as a widower and I would hate that he was lonely. We don’t do family at Christmas, to be honest I don’t really have much contact with my family and the less said about husband’s family the better!

My own brothers and sister are just busy with their own lives, they have kids and husbands/partners of their own and I rarely see them, which is fine with us all. But when I hear of people who all get together and have dinners etc, it makes me hanker for a big family of love. Which is probably nonsense as I am sure that those big families all fight like hell, and are just being nice to each other, at least my brothers and sister don’t fight amongst themselves ( as we don’t get together!).

Went to the docs today and explained about my colon pain and stuff you really don’t need to know which involves my bowels. He told me I would be referred to a specialist called Dr Dover to which I replied “is his first name Ben?” To which my doctor said “No, Why?”

“It was a joke…Ben Dover...the bum doctor…its funny when you say it all together” I quipped.

“Ah, you are a comedian, I forgot” said my doctor with a sardonic look.

So, maybe I am not a comedian after all, Dr Shaw has exposed my lack of humour right there in the surgery at 10am

So life at Godley’s World is ticking along fine, been busy -had an ear infection, went deaf had loads of work and writing hard and this Saturday I am doing my one woman show at Easterhouse Platform The Bridge at 8pm. Do come along if you want, it will be fun!

7th November 2009

Last week, my ears decided to totally block up with bricks of wax. Yes, I produce more wax than a queen bee and my ear then cuddles it all around my ear drum and making me deaf. This was a pain the ass as I had a lot of work this week, you try doing a charity auction half deaf!

The people at the Boisdale Club in Belgravia London really helped me out, they raised hands to pledge cash, love those nice folks, but the tartan carpets were odd though. You always know you are in England when you see hundreds of tartan throughout a building.

I then flew home half deaf picking at the ear, filling it with ear drops (which are more expensive than crack per fluid ounce) I now have a healthy ear drop habit, they don’t work. You know what works? Nothing, just in case you were interested, I filled my gungy ears with that stinky expensive fluid and all that happens was that it all ran onto my neck.

I had warm up work for a sitcom called Life of Riley. I needed to hear; I ran to my doctors to get an emergency appointment and was seen by a woman I have never met before. She was either Latin American or faking a funny accent to add a frisson of excitement to my ear examination…or maybe I couldn’t hear her properly. “Are you Spanish?” I asked.

“No, am Asian, is there something funny about the way I speak?” she snapped at me. I had now insulted a woman who was about to poke a big shiny pointy thing into my ravaged tender ear hole, that will learn me.

Apparently the wax STILL hadn’t softened enough for them to syringe it. The wax in my ear is made of titanium steel and is refusing to let the expensive stinky drops soften it down. Perfect.

 “When will it be ready?” I pleaded.

“Three weeks or maybe never” she shouted at my ear.

Must remember to never get Asian people mixed up with Jennifer Lopez, my ears are doomed. So I went home and syringed them myself, fuck it.

So some wax did come out and I can now hear enough to get by.

The warm up work was awesome and tiring at the same time, asking people to laugh at the same joke on set can be weary, but that audience were amazing. Met the lovely Caroline Quentin who helped me out a few times, by coming over and chatting away to the studio audience, and that helped when they got bored of me talking.

I didn’t have to fly to Southampton this past weekend as the Jongleurs comedy club there has shut. I will miss the gig but Southampton was a pain in the arse to get to from Glasgow, so am enjoying a weekend free.

Well I am actually working tonight in Glasgow and managed to fill in the gigs, but the news I am trying to convey is this- I get to stay at home for a weekend!

I am struggling with the no smoking….well actually I started smoking again that’s how much of a struggle I was having. Now I am OFF them again…wish to fuck I could just kick the damn habit.

Some breaking news, I am now selling my autobiography ‘Handstands in the Dark’ through my website and you can click and buy it there www.janeygodley.com