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So, back in Glasgow after my London sojourns life got back to normal. I have had so much to do like getting the posters and flyers done for Edinburgh, getting the accommodation for the festival (£3,000 for a month people!) getting bills paid, being organised for the festival and dealing with my rotten ear infection. I went up to see my dad, who is coping admirably since step mum’s death, I do worry about him. He is addicted to the Spotify music website! He is getting right into it and talks about it all the time! Meanwhile on the home front Ashley is preparing to go to London for a bit and she had to graduate as well. She had organised all the graduation stuff herself, all I had to do was turn up and be a nice smiling mummy. Ashley and her best mate Vikki were all excited and giggly in the back of the car as husband drove us through to the seaside town of Troon. It was bathed in sunshine and the beach was the backdrop to the concert hall where the ceremony was taking place. We all had breakfast in Troon then Ashley went to get ‘robed’. We waited patiently outside the room and then there was my big girl dressed in her black cape with red sash hood and wearing her Jay-Z rapper hat on her big mane of hair. The hall was teaming with people waiting to see their child graduate, but I didn’t care about them and just wanted to see my girl get up there! The bloody ceremony went on for ages, almost as long as her degree course. I listened to bla bla bla and me and Vikki just sat in the humid hall with camera’s poised. I was wishing that man who was dressed like a cross between a judge and a pantomime lion would shut the hell up and get this show on the road. Finally the graduates started crossing the stage, bowing to get doffed with a black hat, have their hoods dropped across their shoulders and pick up their diploma thingy. I ran down to where the graduates were sitting in perfect rows and whispered to Ashley to turn back and smile as we were at the side of the stage where we would only see her back, and she said “Oh for the love of God piss off mum” her fellow students laughed at her. But after about 4 million other students crossed the stage her name was finally called and she bent to get her head doffed, she got the hood over her shoulders, stood up and TURNED AND SMILED AT US then walked off getting her diploma and we caught it on camera! She was the only one to do so and it made me giggle out loud. It took me back to her first concert at school when she got up and sang “We don’t need no education” by Pink Floyd at five years old. That’s MY GIRL! She then got back on her rapper hat and did the parade round the beach and the gents toilets outside the concert hall in Troon and the moment was over. I did shed a wee tear when I saw up there getting that diploma, I don’t know anyone in both our family history’s that even finished school properly never mind left University with a honours degree! My heart leapt in my chest and I am so proud of her. Then on the train home whilst I was in full adoration mode she told me she had lost her passport yet again! I tried not to bite her face and just calmly said “it will be in your room darling” She got home and under duress gutted her room out and was exhausted as the heat in Glasgow was oppressive, finally she pulled down the old bags in her wardrobe and in a black bag was an old teddy bear called popples, he has a pouch and on his back and yes...inside that pouch was her passport! She has no idea how it got there and is still stressed as to why a teddy bear could possibly steal her identity. We all have come to the conclusion that she out it there for safekeeping and forgot where she put it. So drama over and Ashley got the lecture about keeping her things safe and not panicking about stuff, you see she is really creative but rather disorganised in day to day life! Yet again mammy sat down and gave her the talk about closing her handbag, watching her receipts, making sure she has put her money in her purse and paying due attention to things before she skips gaily down a street with her things flying out of her pockets. She glared at me, I continued to lecture and she stomped out of the room, dropping her IPod out of her pocket as she went. So, back to me, I got up Friday morning at 7am to catch a BMI baby flight to East Midlands Airport as I am doing Jongleurs Nottingham for two nights and that was the only flight I could get. I was fucking tired and sleepy and the oppressive heat in Glasgow was killing us all. I literally peeled myself off the bed and headed with a sleepy husband driving me to Glasgow airport. When I reached the check in the spotty youth told me it was £10 to check in. “What?” I screeched. Apparently the website where you book your flight does explain this in tiny obscure writing somewhere that if you don’t book online you have to pay £10 to check in at the airport. I was seething as I don’t see how some fuckwit checking your details on a computer can possibly cost £10, I was ready for cancelling the whole trip, but had to pay as I need to get to the gig. As if that wasn’t bad enough when we landed in East Midlands the rain was battering down and BMI baby doesn’t own a concealed walkway to get you from the plane to the building (they should afford it the fucking money they charge) and I had to walk through pissing rain for about five minutes and the rain stuck my linen clothes to my skin. Then I had to get on a bus to Nottingham which took 45 minutes, yes, sitting there for all that time with wet clothes made me insane. Even my bra was wet. Finally I arrived in Nottingham at 11am and it felt like I had just been through some evil punishment boot camp scenario. Luckily the hotel had a bed ready and I stripped and slept until five pm, and woke up to see Andy Murray stop being British and eventually revert to being a losing Scot, yet again. Ah...life! |
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Dear Blog it’s been ages since my last confession, so here goes. I had a big fight with a Christian in Nottingham. To be fair he was carrying sweets in a basket and walking nicely in tan leather shoes and offering sweets to strangers in the town square. But when he gave me a leaflet that states “Come pray with us we are outside Debenhams and we can cure cancer and every illness including headaches” I snickered as it added headaches as an after thought. The man sat and smiled beatifically the offered me a sweetie. I said “No”. “So if I go pray with you guys outside Debenhams I can stop my friend’s cancer right here today?” I asked smiley man. “That’s correct” he said. “Ok, you know that’s a big pile of shit” I replied. We then debated God’s role in curing cancer and his ability to dish out sweets. He tried to say that how will I know my friends cancer wont be cured unless I pray, I told him I have prayed and he still has cancer and my brother still has cancer and HIV and I don’t think if we change the location of the praying e.g. outside Debenhams that it will actually work. God’s healing rays aren’t unusually strong near a Blue Cross sale…are they? Does God like department stores? “You know I think God would think you are the worst PR for him in the world, you are clearly mental and he is really famous and possibly good at stuff but you aren’t really representing him in a good light, God must be raging at you” I told him. “God loves me” he smiled and offered me another sweet, surely I will end up with toothache and no amount of praying would fix that, it’s why we have dentists. “I believe God does love you I just don’t think he wants you spreading his word as you keep making really big awfully giant PT Barnum type claims about cures and suchlike tosh” I spoke. Just then a woman wearing a big floppy hat, a small shabby sundress, red fishnet tights with big flappy sling backs and pulling a tartan trolley stuffed with hand knitted teddy bears came near and smiley God botherer stood up and hugged her close and they chatted and started singing. Somewhere up there God (if he is real) looked down and said “Yep, that’s the man who represents me, Looney Bob and his buddy Sadie the sandal slapper” I think if less people spoke about God I would probably like him more. My trip to Nottingham was fine the shows were fine but the journey back was fucking hell on earth. I arrived at East Midlands Airport at 1pm on Sunday, my flight wasn’t until 4pm but I planned to just sit in the sun outside and read my book. On arrival I was told my flight was delayed TWO FUCKING HOURS! These are the people who charge you TEN quid to check in and then offer you THREE quid for a coffee for your inconvenience when they fuck up. The airport was full of drunken women who had been on hen nights. Their pink glittery cowboy hats were all askew, their make up was all dragged and they stank. Yet they shoved more pink gloopy booze down their throats and sang “I will Survive” In the bar was a clutch of hung over stag parties, all sticky, sad and falling about. It was a fresh hell, just being stuck in this building with such a clump of drunken scummy folk made me feel raped of my soul. They kept singing and falling about, the women were kissing the drunken men. The music blared and a few girls were crying into phones and the info board simply stated GLASGOW FLIGHT DELAYED-RELAX AND SHOP. I didn’t relax or shop, I silently seethed. So anyway, I am home and happy. Ashley is packed up for her Big Trip to London and I am feeling bereft. Though I am down there this weekend and we are planning a Groucho drinks party Saturday, I will meet up with my girl. The Stand gigs were awesome; the show got great review in the Scotsman. |
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Had such a fun time back in London for two nights doing comedy at Watford, which also gave me time to catch up with my daughter Ashley who is living in London for three weeks. She is working and writing and keeping busy. Ashley is living with a lovely woman called Sue; she owns an amazing house in Islington. So, I organised to meet her at Groucho club in Soho. Just as I arrived in Watford, Ashley called to say that the whole of Dean Street (where the Groucho is situated) was closed due to a big fire in Soho. Crap! So then we moved the meet up at Soho House which wasn’t closed even though it is also close to the fire! I was really looking forward to being with her even though we had only been apart one whole day! Poor Ashley is missing her daddy! The man who annoys the fuck out her, the man who constantly irritates her yes that man, she is distraught without him. Anyways I too am having strange reactions to my baby being away from home as everyone who knows me or reads my blog knows how much I adore my girl. She is such great fun for me and instead of putting loads of energy into developing her cultural life, I have spent my life giggling with her and using her as a great source of amusement as she is really funny to me. I will miss her as well. She was like a wee fun performing monkey child who always did funny things. Anyway she came over to my mate’s house on Friday and we slept in the same room. Just as we were falling asleep we both clearly heard the sound of a rodent clicking about on the wooden floor. Ashley screamed and nearly shit herself, I just ignored it and told Ashley the mouse won’t climb up and go near her. Next morning there was tiny mouse shit on my pillow as it REALLY did climb up and go near me, the wee mouse cunt obviously decided I was a good sleeping partner. It probably pissed on my hair! What the fuck? I flew home today and BA decided to move my pre-booked seat as they needed a WOMAN to sit beside two unaccompanied kids. I find that really sexist, I mean I could be Karen Mathews, Rose West or Myra Hindley or Ian Huntley’s creepy bird…why do people assume women are better than men when placed near strange and vulnerable kids? I was once charged with possessing guns and explosives, and if psychologists are to be believed am also a potential child abuser as I was abused as a kid….why sit me close to kids and not a man? Anyway I never said any of that aloud, I sat down and pointedly ignored the kids, because the only time I had was for MY CHILD and she wasn’t with me. She is in London being a big adult with a grown up proper life, managing well…without me! My gig at Edinburgh comedy club The Stand got a review in The Scotsman newspaper, the other female comics were awesome, I loved the show. The critic twittered me and said “@JaneyGodley genuinely one of the best sets I've seen you do. You'd have got 4, nudging 5 stars but I've given the gig overall 3”. So that means my Edinburgh Show is looking promising all round, am happy people but I miss my girl. |
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My husband noticed that BT Vision weren’t sending bills as he went through the accounts and decided to call them. He didn’t mind he had to pay them when they found out we weren’t being charged as he reckoned two things – 1) They would soon notice and we would get hit by a huge bill and - 2) He really likes receipts. My man loves receipts more than anything else in the fucking world, as they represent cash spent and therefore represent less tax to pay when doing the accounts. Now I don’t like that he called BT Vision, I preferred it when we were bent…hang on I have just noticed something, ‘bent and straight’ doesn’t always refer to the nasty euphemism of being gay – it also means being crooked and being law abiding! Anyway I recall the old days when we were rather ‘bent’ and rarely did anything legal, now this new found ‘straightness’ annoys me. I know the old days are over, but fucksake I still find it hard to pay full price for anything. When we owned the bar in the Calton we had a rather ‘dubious’ lifestyle, but all that’s gone now, we are upstanding straight law abiding nice folk who might eventually get invited to bake cakes for the local Church. Ok that won’t happen; I have gone straight –not mental. Husband is one of those men who when he is asked “Do you like my new top?” he immediately says “Did you get the receipt for that? Where is it?” He then goes through all the receipts and shouts out every three seconds “Why did you buy another jumper, six quid for lipstick? Who pays 17 pounds for a hairbrush?” This goes on for days during the sexy tax season, and by fuck it makes me want to drink bleach and die. To add to my ‘I want to kill husband feeling’ this morning he came to bed at 5am (he was going through receipts) he disturbed me no end with his constant turning about, burrowing around and fucking really annoying fidgeting. He stuck his freezing cold hands down the back of my pyjama bottoms and wrapped an icy foot round my calves. “Ohhh you are warm” he said loudly, because clearly the fidgeting and frostbite wasn’t enough to wake me up. But then I take everything back, coz I was supposed to go see my dad this morning but I was exhausted and husband got up at 9am, wrapped an eye mask around my head and went to see dad himself and he only got three hours sleep. So he is forgiven and I am technically a moany old bastard. By the way I regularly post on Twitter if you want to follow my Twitter my user name is: http://twitter.com/JaneyGodley |
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Been a busy time, getting everything ready for Fringe, got flyers and posters organised and in the process of paying 3 grand for flat for a month! May have to sell Ashley on the web to pay for it! Last week went to John Smeaton’s wedding to lovely Christy from New York; she really was a beautiful bride. The setting was amazing in an ancient castle near St. Andrews in Fife, which is called the Kingdom of Fife…though they didn’t have a King in residence. Just squillions of American golfers, wandering about in the pissing relentless rain, but it was lovely. I was unsure what to wear to the wedding; I thought about setting fire to my hair and crashing my car into the front of the hotel…but decided against it. For those of you who didn’t get that reference, John Smeaton was the Glasgow Airport Hero during the terror attack on Glasgow airport in 07. Anyway, Ashley is still in London and I am still missing her heaps, but she is good and happy. She is hanging out with Monica my best mate and unofficially Ashley’s auntie. Husband and I love the new found freedom of the house. We eat cups of sugar puffs in our pants and have spontaneous snogging in random parts of the house (though not Ashley’s room as that’s a bit Michael Jackson, fucking in the kid’s room is just plain wrong). Went through to Edinburgh and did a speech for the Domestic Abuse Conference, no, I didn’t tell them the best place to punch a woman it was all AGAINST domestic abuse for those with a comedy brain who read a joke into that sentence. Am at Glasgow Jongleurs this weekend and looking forward to having fun in my own city. Life is quiet before the storm of The Fringe, by the way you buy tickets here http://tinyurl.com/lumeda and the first few days of cheap tickets still has some spaces. Speak soon. |