I am all sore with that fall yesterday, I must have pulled some muscles as I pavement slammed, the tops of my arms ache and I spent the night having goulish dreams of being buried alive. I woke with strange voices talking loudly and realised it was the cleaners next door to my room. My bruises are taking on whole new forms of fun.
They always say you should leave a part of you in Rome and take a bit home with you, well i left blood on the ancient cobbles and am taking home grit embedded in my knee...how's that for gift like knick knacks? I possibly have Caesars toe nail clipping seeping into my DNA as we speak.
I am incredibly hot and the weather is so sapping.
I watch the teenagers parade the Piazza Navonna (beautiful square with fountains), they carry these God Awful loud megaphone type toys that blast indescribable voice morphed slogans...they all seem to love them and every other fucker has one. I know there is nothing that these sperm filled acne ridden youths have to say, that I want to hear LOUDLY! It is a point to be made that I have as yet never seen a girl carry one of these bloody tannoys- they are statue annoyers..I am sure the ancient posturing stone people would love to leap off their marble traps and kick the daft Italian boys in the crotch.
The amazing stillness and the delicate yet demanding beauty of the Panthenon is broken constantly by the noise of these fuckers...I think they should be banned.
Ok rant over! I am sure the Italians hated me shouting and swearing as i clattered my ungracious body onto their sidewalk.
Today I am in an internet cafe beside Castel Sant' Angelo on my way on foot to the Vatican. My blister hurts but I do think the Pope deserves my visit.
Talk soon. Ciao Baby!
Well I am finally home. I did try to blog but the internet crashed three times over there and I almost set fire to the shop in fucking frustration!
Well here's some things I need ot tell you.
A) I got my mouth electocuted!
I went to a beauty salon for a 'cleansing facial' and quicky recalled that involved squeezing black heads...now I LOVE squeezing them, in fact I would squeeze the black heads on atramps arse if he let me...but I digress...I HATE mine (If I can possibly have any) being ripped out of my face, this is a sport I like inflicting not being the victim of so to speak.
The 'Therapist' was a small dumpy black haired Italian woman who spoke no English and I of course have limited Italian and dont know the words for "Leave my blackheads alone ya cunt" as that is never quoted in any phrasebook.
She approached me with this scary big white tube circular light and in the middle was this think giant magnified glass which she squashed her face inot, making the image of HER blackheads temptingly squeezable and she had a moustache that made all the nuns jealous.
She procceded to delve into my sunburned skin till I screamed "Holy Jesus fuck" for which she smacked me hard!
"No Jesus word" she scolded and then went into yet another squeeze position...I was in agony.
Normally beauty salons are quiet and the woman floats about the room silently creating an aura of serenity not this wee Italian mamma...I actually thought the clatter of pots and stuff as I was' relaxing' was her making pasta or at least re-arranging her kitchen.
Then she applied roughly this odd thick paste...I lay there and then heard a buzzing sound which alarmed me greatly as I hate anything electrical touching me (OK Vibrators are run on batteries NOT live fucking feed).
My fears were well found because as she went near my lips a big loud spark and a bang rang out as my lips got SHOCKED. I screamed and jumped up...she ranted at me like Mussolini at his hanging party...I was now convinced this treatment no longer belonged in the 'Realxing' category.
My lips smarted she ranted and I fled the room...I dont give a fuck what new innovative treatment this was...me being electrocuted was not going to reduce my wrinkles by any means. In fact I think I just gaines two new lines on my face.
The Italians are by nature a well dressed Nation, though I cant get sexually excited at any man dressed in Lemon Linen and sockless loafers. Who knows?
Last night I got drunk...yes I know...me and my self proclaimed soberity...but I got well pissed on gin. Me and my mate both got a bit pissed and I had been stressed but that drunken night did manage to get rid of my tension.
All thanks to Tom and his great company and his hospitality.
I will remember Rome forever.
The other thing that struck me and made me laugh was the way the Italians smack their kids around...now dont go all pretentious and moral on me here, it was like Glasgow in the 1960's where small tantrum makers were open handed slapped by anyone close enough to get to them! Great memories for me of neighbours of mine that would 'skelp' me for being cheeky...this still happens in Italy.
I can go on about the traffic, the pick pockets, the shit coffee's but I will concentrate on the great Pizza, the wonderful scenery and the amazing fashonista's who trip tropped over eight million black cobbles in sparklingly sexy spiked heels...that will stay with me forever!
I will post some of my favourite photo's soon.
London is my second home, this is true. I awoke this morning to the horrifying news that London had been attacked. My first thoughts was for my best mate Monica, she travels the length and breadth of the Capital daily due to her job as a restaurant PR. My nerves jangled as her phone-which is always ON and NEVER off-blankly refused to be answered.
After a 20 minute wait she called me back. Alive and well.
Thank goodness, I love her too much to live with knowledge of any pain she may have suffered. She is like my sister.
I am lucky, there is many many sad people tonight.
I sit here in my safe wee flat in Glasgow, last week I was worried about how to apologise to the people I unintentionally hurt by writing about them in my book- the people's lives I had invaded and paraded through the pages of what I saw and know as the truth from my eyes.
Well maybe today is the best day to say sorry, tragedy like this makes me realise we might never get the chance to say sorry or to say I love you.
This sounds very ponitficated and sentimental...but it's just how I feel.
I am in Manchester tomorrow to do comedy, I am London next week to do my Edinburgh previews and nothing will stop me. I have to live how I like and enjoy the freedom we do have in the UK. There is many mothers tonight in Iraq, scared to send their kids to the shops or to prayers...in case they die or get shot on the way. This is the world we live in.
I sat and watched the horror unfold on the news today, so I called my niece and got her to bring her two wee kids Abi and Shawn to come to me and we packed a picnic and headed for the beach. Ashley was busy working, but I had fun watching my baby niece Abi clap with delight at the shores of Loch Lomond and rip off her 'candles' as she calls them- 'sandals' as we call them and totter with chubby fat feet chasing after a duck.
The duck ran ten steps to every two of hers and the wee girl could not understand why it would not come to her beckoning. I watched her wee face crease with frustration, she threw her arms up and shouted 'duck' 'duck', yet this wee feathered creature ran off faster until finally it took flight.
Abi gave up and finally shouted 'bye duck' and turned her attention to her pack of sushi and sat with her brother.
I love the kids and wonder where the world will be when that cute baby is a mother herself. I hope it's as exciting, frightening, wonderful yet safe.
Coz that's the world I like.
Yesterday i got on the train to Manchester, the Glasgow station was full of police...and instead of making me feel safe they made me feel scared. I told my husband in the car that if I die he has to marry again and make sure he enjoys his life.... ( I am so fucking melodramatic in the mornings) he looked me in the eye and said " If I have to enjoy life when you die, why do I need to get married again?".
I smiled and headed for my train.
I found the best place to sit was the quiet zone. I had checked out first class but it was way too expensive to upgrade and I dont mind paying but Virgin are having a laugh...£80 extra to get into first class!
So the train got very busy and people spilled into the 'Quiet Zone' with no fucking intention of being 'quiet'...this included seven attention seeking/mentally disturbed/autistic teenage boys.
I sat there and desperately tried to ignore their shouts and sexual comments at every woman who walked past. Three of the boys sat quietly, very deep in their own thoughts with a pack of cards that they flicked very quickly and almost obssesively....one boy who stood about six feet tall kept running up and down the carriage demanding attention and tried over and over to get me to talk to him. He made overt sexual comments to me, he leaned over and pulled on my IPOD ear phones, he slammed his hand on my table...all the while his 'carer' ( a girl of around 20 who clearly was out of her depth and getting anxious at the mounting tension) tried to placate him.
I answered my phone ( I know it was the quiet zone but fucking hell that rule had been abandoned ages ago) and as I spoke to the man from the BBC...attention seeking boy started laughing at my Scottish accent and shouted 'HAGGIS HAGGIS' over and over again....I could hardly hear my important call.
Now I am compassionate when it comes to dealing with mental problems...I have Attention defict problems myself...but this is MY JOB he is affecting now and the fat 20 year old could not control him..so with one hand on the phone at my ear, I took my shoe off with my other and whacked him on the head.
He was stunned and sat quietly till my call ended.
"You cannot keep shouting" I spoke quietly to him " I have mental problems and if you upset me I am going to throw you off the train..when it's still moving, my social workers will accept that I had to do it and the voices in my head are saying "Kill the boy" now if you run about anymore, you and I are going to have a situation, are we clear on this?" Then I screamed into the air like a wolf...I howled and banged the table and then went straight back to reading my book in complete silence.
The other passengers who had been traumatised by the boy now looked at me in amazement...the boy sat with his hands in his lap scared.
I had OUT-LOONEY-ED him...an old trick I learned years ago in the pub I used to run. Nutters hate anyone being NUTTIER than them...it scares them.
He gently smiled across at me and said very quietly "I am sorry". I smiled right back at him and whispered "Thank you".
The journey carried on in peace.
Manchester is a great city...the sun is shining and the gig went well...I was worried about how people would feel after the BIG LONDON 7/7 thing...I even thought up jokes about how the French took London getting the Olympic bid very badly...but then thought better of it and carried on my gig without reference to terrorism, I am not advertising the fuckers and letting them rule my life. I am a Glaswiegan, we are defiant in the face of death. I have had more friends die from heroin which is more than people who have had friends who died from terrorism. I will survive.
Life does go on and I am sitting here on a beautiful Saturday morning in Manchester.
Have a good day all and talk tomorrow.
I am home..at last!
Awoke this morning in Manchester with period pains from hell ( I wish the government would legalise CRACK once a month for women)..the journey loomed ahead, so I upgraded to first class and encountered a well dressed oppressive old man who demanded my newspaper (wot is it with me and fucking loonies on trains?).
this is how it went...
I sit in an empty first class carriage, happy to be alone...to quietly bleed and moan. I spread out my newspapers and set about distracting myself from my womb that feels like a fucking evil Doberman is trying to eat it's way out.
An elderly couple come on and sit three seats in front of me. She is stooped and very old but a pretty looking old Dame, he is tall well dressed in check trews and sparkling white shirt.
He looks over at me then stumbles up to the seat across the aisle from mine and stared at my newspaper, then flashed a glance at me...basically communicating to me that he wants to read my Sunday Newspapers, but wants me to 'offer' them to him. I am no mood to placate old grumpy old men, he can ask me if he wants to read my papers.
He sits there and I can see out of the side of my vision that he intently staring at the newspaper...still...he then gets some courage and reaches over with his liver spotted gnarled hand and simply grasps them off my table in front of me.
My reflex action is there before he can escape to his seat..I grab at his wrist, pull out my IPOD earplug and say "That is my newspaper sir"
His reumy old eyes flinch and he diverts his stare and gazes through me and mutters " I thought they belonged to the train company"
me-"Well even if that was true would it not be at least polite to ask me instead of grabbing at them? If I did that to you, you would insist that MY GENERATION had no respect"
He simply stood there watching me whilst holding my freshly bought newspapers, his wife watched with frightened eyes that told me he normally got his own way. Well, not with fucking me he ain't.
"You could ask me if you can read my papers" I spoke to fill the dead air.
"Can I read your newspaper?" he barked in defiance at me.
"No..no way, not until you learn some manners Old man, now put them down and get back from my table" I hissed.
He threw my Sunday Times on the floor in the centre of the train aisle and threw himself onto his seat.
I simply leaned over and picked it up and sat there in front of him and slowly but very deliberately tore it into long equal strips..one after the other until I had managed to decimate the whole newspaper including magazines and sports sections...the noise ripped the air as I sat there smiling tearing away slowly but happily. There was a huge pile of confetti'ed Sunday news sat there right on my table. I missed nothing, in fact it was theraputic, all that destruction and slashing noise filling the air cured me of my angst and period pains.
The old man sat there, his face going purple, his anger seeped into the carriage, yet I smiled.
Fuck Him...he may be able to bully his poor wee wife, but I am not going to let any man ever bully me or make me feel that I should do anything to keep them happy.
I would have been that wee old woman had I not stood my ground years ago...in fact I think I was her for a short while.
I am the SCOTTISH RIPPER! (of newspapers)