|
After falling asleep at the unbelievably early hour of 8pm last night (jetlag rules) I awoke at 7am this morning, I now have the sleeping pattern of a toddler. Though I didn’t wake up pissing the bed or screaming for toast and jam (like most toddlers) I just stumbled about staring at the excruciating sunshine blasting through my bedroom window. I hoovered, I washed clothes, I washed dishes and it still wasn’t even 8am yet. My life is officially over, gone are the days when I could sleep till 3 o’clock like a right good comedian. I am going to be like one of those old ladies, who wake up at 6am, put on a housedress and then fall asleep on the sofa listening to The Archers. As it was extremely hot again in Glasgow, I headed out to The Botanic gardens which I like to call The Satanic Gardens...no good reason, I just like mixing my words up, as I am now old I can get away with kind of batty behaviour. The park was already full of young mums and babies who could now walk, albeit like wee drunken Scottish men. I saw one pink dressed girl with wee croissant type chubby legs, she wobbled about, got into her stride and then the slight slope of the grassy verge took her into a speed that gathered momentum, she was practically sprinting. She surprised herself at the speedy gait she was going at, her upper body was trying to balance and catch up with the bendy robotic legs that just swept her all the way. Her mum dropped a full picnic bag and belted after Zola Budd the baby. I watched wondering how it would all end and it did end, the baby tumbled full tilt into a big blue flowered bush head first and screamed! It was fine, the mum picked her up and the chubby legs speed off again in another direction. It was funny for a wee while; I got quite broody watching the baby, and then recalled how every time we went to the park Ashley always managed to run in the direction of the only moving car in the park or the only rabid dog in the park or managed to run into a bees nest in an old tree trunk. So, with that in mind I pitied the poor mum who was constantly chasing fatty leg the sprinting baby and lay back for a snooze. Then annoying students turned up with an electronic glider plane that made girls scream like referee’s whistles as it dive bombed their heads. I sat on my blanket reading happily but silently decided if that glider hits me I would ram it up the ass of the skinny boy with emotional hair, who is running about trying to control it with a small black box. The box seemed to have no control over the object whatsoever. It was pitching and dipping all over the place. A brood arrived beside me, all middle class moms with Boden clad babies, wooden ethically approved bikes, raffia mats and followed by cucumber eating kids who sported tie dyed tee shirts and fat t-bar sandals. Couscous, quiche, carrot sticks and organically grown fruit was scattered on a scabby looking blanket (it was probably very expensive and hand hewn, but to me it look smelly) and the kids all gathered round chomping into the grub. Two mums breast fed as the other women organised a sing song. Just then the black glider came out of nowhere and belted a baby on the neck. It was a joy to behold watching Middle Class Mummy goes mental and snaps the expensive looking electronic aeroplane over her gypsy-skirted knee. The student tried to protest but the breast feeding mummy was rubbing ‘Hugo’s’ neck and screamed “Are you trying to kill our children?” People stared and people giggled, I watched and hoped middle class mum would ram the broken aeroplane up his ass, but that didn’t happen. Skinny student skulked off and the mummies had a rousing sing –a- long of “Incey Wincey Spider”. But things then perked up when a bunch of really fat women in strappy yellow and pink vests, with random tattoos over their arms and chests, threw themselves on the grass and cracked open a case of cider. They shouted, swore and started singing “I see you baby shaking that ass” to the park keeper who was cleaning up the grass. The mummy’s, the kids and the babies were all dragged off to the corner of the park under a big tree and hopefully out of earshot of the fat singing tattooed ladies. The heat cranked up and before long everyone on the grass slumped down and snoozed for a while. It was like some sleeping drug had been sprayed over the crowd. Even the chubby babies who had been screaming shut up and lay back. Finally I gave in and headed off home. It got too hot for me, even in the shade I was started to melt. Hope it sunny tomorrow at the park, or maybe I should stay home and write that thing I am supposed to be doing? |
|
Not only did I dream about being pinned down by a strange evil man, but as I looked over his shoulder I could see he had put another woman behind the wallpaper but had left holes in the paper for her to stare out of as she slowly died. Amongst all the floral swirls there was this woman’s two eyes glaring at me. Yes, my dreams are not always happy rainbow filled mirages. Then I woke up with fucking evil ear pain. Every year my left ear (that sounds like the start of a limerick)...anyway my ear is blocked up with hard thick wax; my left ear makes more wax than a hive full of bees. Then it all coagulates into one thick plug and stops my ear from hearing properly and the pain is unbelievable. I usually have to put in ear drops until it’s all soft and then go to the docs and get it syringed out. I must admit getting that hot water scooshed into my ear hole is rather amazingly wonderful you get shivers and it could be described as sexual. Maybe my erogenous zone is inside my ear canal? Maybe I have an ear clitoris? Who knows? But the water goes clockwise in a swirl and I go woozy! So the pain is a problem but the result is quite nice. During this short heat wave that Glasgow suffered, I have been useless at getting things done. I am supposed to be writing a 2,000 word piece for BBC radio 4 but all I can do is lie in the sunshine and watch fat people slap babies in the park. Why can’t I get motivated? The good news is, the sunshine is fading and it will probably snow in a day or two. I am off to Inverness Ironworks on Saturday to do some comedy, I had to cancel the last time I was due to go there as my step mum was gravely ill and she died days after I got home. Life is moving on, my Edinburgh stuff has all been done all I need to do now is get the posters and flyers done. And I may need to organise my own flyering team as Ashley might not be able to make the Edinburgh fringe this year. Now that she is a big script writing commissioned person, she will be too busy to work for me! So- I will have my first ever fringe without Ashley since 1996. That will be weird. Ok, am off to start a fight with husband as I am bored and he is laughing in the other room and I want to know why he is laughing without me being near him, why is happy when I am not there? That’s a great start for a fight eh? |
|
I went to meet my dad in town. As soon as he saw me he said “Do you need a pee before we set off?” in front of all his old mates. “No dad, I am fully toilet trained thanks” I hissed. When we got on the bus, I sat beside him in the old people’s seats. Then an old lady got on and I moved to let her have my seat “I don’t want to sit beside her” dad shouts loud enough for everyone to hear. “Shut up” I snap at him. He lets the old woman sit beside him and after a while she finally gets off. Dad indicates that I have to rejoin him on the front seats. I glumly slope over like a big useless teenager. “Do you want anything from the Asda?” I ask him as he stares out of the window. “No!” he yells too loudly. “I have loads of food Janey” he shouts. I shut up and sit quietly. “A small loaf, brown, half a dozen eggs, a tin of spam and a Daily Mail” he then shouts at me. I take note and try not to shout into his face “You are a crazy old bastard” Instead I comment on how comfy looking his wide fitting beige shoes are. Just then a wee old man got on the bus with a lively Scottie dog; it was all white and really friendly looking. People on the bus made cooing noises and the old man was revelling in the glory of his happy wee cute dog. “Aye, he is really friendly and likes being patted” the old man says as elderly women moved over to him to pat the dog. “He is just using his dog to get all the attention” dad grumbles and then adds loudly “Dogs should only be allowed on the bus if they help the blind or mentally handicapped” I looked at dad and said “I am getting you a fucking dog, do you want attention?” “I don’t want a dog, and you stop swearing and I don’t like attention” he snapped back. “Then stop being strange and be nice to the wee dog, its offering you a paw” I whispered. My dad looked at the cutest wee dog in the world with its paw up at him and he leaned down to it and said “meow” in a real cat style. The dog went mental and started barking. “That dog needs trained” dad shouted and was happy he made the dog think he was a cat. My dad is rather cantankerous today. As the bus trundled along the Glasgow streets dad decided to have one of his favourite conversations. It always starts and ends the same. Dad-“Do you recall big Betty Smart; she used to live above the bookies and was famous for killing cats? You went to school with her daughter Katie” Me- “no I don’t remember her, was the daughter a cat killer?” Dad- “yes, you do remember her, (at this point he prods a finger at me) remember Alex Cummings who used to do the football coupons? Well, you know his brother Archie with the one leg? Me-“no I don’t remember any of that, dad who are these people?” Dad- “yes, remember we all thought he was queer and it turned out he just like model aeroplanes? Anyway they had a sister Bella who used to sell shoes down the Barras, now her man Tommy Gunn...” Me-“You knew someone called Tommy Gunn, was this during the war? Did he fire blanks?” (Dad ignored this sperm related joke) Dad- “listen his name was Tommy Gunn get over that he was the husband of Bella who sold shoes now he ran away to Dunoon with a lassie called Fran she used to wear a beret to the side of her head and we thought that made her a lesbian but she wasn’t, she just liked hats at a jaunty angle...anyway Tommy came back to Glasgow and he went blind and then he had a care worker called Sally who never washed his windows because he couldn’t see them- anyway that Sally is now working at the meat counter in Asda so if you see her don’t buy anything off her she is filthy, that was my point” Me- “you told me that big story just to get to Sally who works at the meat counter?” Dad- “well aye, I did” I stared at my dad and wondered why on earth he thought I could recall all of those bizarre connections between people who were my neighbours when I was a kid 40 years ago. I had to go buy spam and The Daily Mail and that is something I have never done in my life. I have never bought Spam and I don’t buy the Daily Mail. The upside of the day was when we went back to dad’s house. Last week he said he saw a mouse in the kitchen and demanded I call the environmental people out to kill the mice. I waited for the mouse killer man to come and just as the time drew close for the mouse killer man to arrive dad disappeared upstairs for a nap and left me to deal with the mouse killy man. The mouse man was clearly gay. I was glad dad was upstairs napping; he gets odd around openly camp men. It’s not that dad is a homophobe he is just really old and doesn’t know how to cope. “Why do the mice gather behind the display cabinet?” I asked the mouse man. “Oh, they like to groom themselves behind cupboards” he said with a lovely lisp. “So they just huddle behind my dad’s collection of ships in a bottle and wash their wee faces and comb their wee tufty hair?” I laughed. The mouse man made a face-licking motion and wiggled his hips as he pretended to comb his hair “yes, they like to be near knick knacks as they groom” he giggled. I laughed again and was glad that dad didn’t see the mouse killing man do a hip wiggle; it would frighten my dad somehow to know that the man who is setting out poison is also good at mouse mime. Finally I made it home in time to see Gordon Brown get his balls toasted at a press conference where he was trying to convince the country that there is no divisiveness in the Labour Party! |
|
There are about 15 kids who run around outside my back court who do fuck all but constantly scream like Ian Huntly is on their wee heels every single minute of the day. There is a wee boy who lives through the wall and the screamy kids yell up at his window for hours, his name is undecipherable to me but I think it Rizwall, he never answers and I think he is either dead or moved away. I wish someone would tell them - I can’t shout down at them as they are all Asian and I will look like a scary racist. But the poor wee kids take turns screeching ‘Rizwahhhll” every hour until their throats hurt and they give in or their mums come out and take them all up to their beds. They are all as cute as hell, but they never stop screaming and it echoes all the way round the car park and bounces off the circular architecture and the noise is deafening. I want a tea time nap without it sounding like kids are chained to a radiator and screaming for their God Rizwall to come rescue them. Maybe I was a screamy annoying kid when I was a young and probably I annoyed all my neighbours with my incessant yelling but payback is in my way. Husband and I finally fall asleep (despite the screaming kids); we lie beneath the wide open window at the head board of our bed and husband managed to lay his heavy arm on my face and almost suffocate me. He then wrapped his body around mine and snored into my one good ear. It was cute when he did this when he was 16 years old, when both of us used to sleep in a single bed (IT WAS AGES AGO!) and we used to tangle each other up like pretzels and sleep sound. Now we need acres of space and room to spread out and I don’t need a tree trunk on my face cutting off the air supply. I loved my gig at Ironworks venue last week in Inverness, which is really cool and the people look after you lovely. Inverness is actually a lovely town and I really enjoy being there. The train journey back was rather gruelling as it took 5 hours. I paid the £5 to get a decent seat in first class and it was cool, except there was a father who turned up with an adorable wee boy aged about 18 months. The baby was great but the dad gave us a constant running commentary of everything the baby did. “ Oh Thomas, look at your face, look at the mess, look at your hands, now Thomas, don’t touch that, Thomas give that back to me, Thomas, why are you touching that? Thomas now pull your jumper down, Thomas; give me that back, why are you touching that Thomas?” Thomas never made a bloody sound the whole time, ‘daddy talks out loud’ never fucking shut up! He was a nice man but for goodness sake a full constant running commentary of every single thing that happens is annoying. I thought about doing it as well. Imagine I sat there talking to myself? “Janey, what the hell are you doing tangling your IPod up like that? Now come on Janey, really? Do you really need another chocolate biscuit? That’s a good girl, now turn your phone off and put it in your bag, get your tickets ready for the inspector, well done!” Folk would think I was mental. The dad did this talking out loud thing for nearly four hours until the baby finally got grizzly and tired. Probably bored to death of hearing his dad talking constantly, I managed to plug in my IPod and could just about hear him in the distance as Steely Dan banged out in my sore ears. I then decided to help the dad get the baby to sleep. Just as we got near Glasgow, I made a wee bed on the seat, tucked down my pillow and wrapped baby Thomas into my jacket and he fell asleep happily. The journey went quiet after that and I saw Glasgow come into view. Home at last. My next journey is to Dunoon this coming Saturday; I think I know people in Dunoon. Though I can’t quite recall who it is I know in Dunoon, maybe it’s an old aunt or something? Who knows? This week my fight with PRS continues. PRS are a great agency that makes sure artistes get their dues if people use their music etc...Now I don’t have music in my past Edinburgh Fringe Show’s, so therefore I don’t owe them any money. Yet in 2007 and 2008 they took 3% of my over all takings without my permission. Finally after many emails, phone calls and mail offs they have managed to reimburse 08 cash. Of course they didn’t send the cash to me, it went to the fringe office and who still didn’t send it to me, the fringe office sent it to Pleasance office, who still didn’t send it to me, they have yet to let me know they have received it! I HATE paper chases...I fucking hate it and now I have to go back to PRS and now chase them for the cash from 07 show and hope they eventually find it for me and refund me soon as possible. Ok, here’s something that just made me laugh, I just saw the Ladbrokes gambling advert and it depicts a big grey monkey chasing people through city streets crashing cars and destroying lives as it goes. Don’t Ladbrokes know the symbolism of a ‘monkey on your back’ when it relates to having an addiction problem? That was funny and awful at the same time. Ok, am off to watch The Unit, I am in love with all of those sexy hard men in that series. By the way if you want to boost my followers on Twitter my user name is: http://twitter.com/JaneyGodley |
|
So things have happened. Ashley got her exam results, she got an ‘A’ and 3 ‘B’s for her Honours and we are well chuffed, am so very proud of her. She on the other hand has begged me to stop bragging about her, I almost vomited onto her new dress with shock! Brag? Me? Of course I will brag about my child, what else can I do? No one in my entire family history finished fucking school never mind went through a full private education till they were 18 years old and then onto University and stayed on right through till they got their Honours, with a commissioned writing job at BBC..Brag? Oh fucking yes I will! Most females in my family line get pregnant or married before they were 10 years old! So am very proud and happy, I walked out of school on my 16th birthday, have no qualifications and no educations to speak of unless you count the street level of East End Glasgow-ness I got after running a bar in the Calton. My education was based on 16 old men, two old hookers and a street fighter who all collectively taught me how to A) Fight with a stool B) Get Semtex off a wall without it exploding C) Check 20 pound notes for authenticity D) Spot a plain clothes police officer at 50 feet E) To scam money from posh people F) The best way to avoid paying electricity bills G) To siphon petrol from other peoples cars H) A great way to win at dominoes I) The use of hot coffee in oral sex (the old hooker told me this) J) The way to shop lift using tin foil in your bag So my education though not formal, has been interesting. My week has been cool; I attended a party at Film City in Glasgow with John Smeaton and Ashley. We met heaps of TV and film industry people who were all nice and a few really irritating young actors who actually used the words “nice speaking to you but I need to go network” who uses the word ‘network’ in everyday conversation? I wanted to punch their wee annoying faces. The only time I use the word ‘network’ is when my laptop fails to connect to the internet and I have to choose which network to piggy back and steal (see that east End education worked, am now stealing invisible electric waves). On Saturday I went over to Dunoon to do a gig. I haven’t been there before. Dunoon used to be a big draw for Glasgow women in the 70s and 80s when the American navy had a base there. They all used to get on the ferry and head over to the peninsula (most people mistake it for an island but it is connected to the land, it’s just quicker by ferry) and the women would go ‘date’ the American boys. A good few of my school friends met married and consequently divorced an American guy they had met in Dunoon. Though I know there still are thousands of Scottish women all in their 40s and 50s who live in the US after meeting their love in Dunoon. Frankly the draw of handsome Yankee boys would never get me to go to Dunoon because the sheer amount of tiny midges that bite you to death at sun down is horrific. I don’t care how sexy, different, lovely and rich those guys were those midges would take the edge off any illicit sexual encounter as far s I am concerned. So back in the day I didn’t head off to Dunoon for a Yankee boy, I stayed at home and married the local publican’s son, the courtship was insect free and that’s all that matters to me! Anyway I went to Dunoon. The gig was in a rugby club, which doesn’t bode well. The place was fine, there were some very drunk boys and they look like trouble, but what really worried me was- there was a woman in her 50s who looked like she regularly won the ‘drink like fuck, and scowl a lot’ Trophy. She was with her husband who looked uncomfortable. Big Graeme Mackie was onstage and the crowd were laughing their heads off but angry scowl woman and stony faced husband sat with their arms folded. The woman finally burst out “You are shit and not funny” but she couldn’t really be heard as everyone was laughing loudly at Graeme. She really needed to get attention so she waited until he was in the middle of a joke and she screamed “stop laughing”. Her husband was duty bound to back her up so he nodded with her. Everyone stared at them, everyone knows them coz Dunoon is a tiny place. The crowd stop staring and laughed at Graeme’s punch line. Graeme coped admirably and told her to stop yapping. The crowd carried on laughing until the break. The grumpy husband took that opportunity to grab me ( I hadn’t been onstage yet) and say “if you get up there and say the words motherfucker, I will be really offended, that’s an American saying and I really hate it” I stared at his fat bulbous face and answered “You just said ‘Motherfucker’ to me and I find that offensive!” This made him stare at me in confusion. I don’t have a problem with any words but I just wanted to throw it back at him. Then I added “Why don’t you like American sayings? Did something happen with an American sailor years ago?” At this his grumpy wife jumped up and shouted at me “the comedy isn’t funny” I suspect there are many underlying tensions between these strange wee middle aged people but I didn’t see why I had to get involved. Then the crowd around them started telling them to leave as they were all having a great time and they were spoiling it for everyone. The look on their faces when they realised that their own neighbours and friends wanted them out and wanted us on made them so fucking angry. They just wanted EVERYONE in the room to agree that the comedy show was rubbish. Only one act had been on and he was awesome, the crowd loved him, the angry couple didn’t want to like it and wanted everyone to leave with them. Finally scowling woman and strange husband got up and walked out as the crowd clapped. I felt sorry for them a bit as they seemed to be so unhappy and felt ostracised by their own people, that scowling woman looked like she normally got her own way, and this wasn’t going how she wanted it to. By the time I got on at the end the crowd was fucking amazing. They loved the show and they just sucked up comedy like proper comedy junkies. It was a shame that the start was odd, but that does happen occasionally in small places where comedy comes to town. There will always be one person who decides that they don’t like therefore everyone else has to hate it and not laugh out loud for fear of upsetting their plan to destroy the evening. The only down side to Dunoon is the fucking tiny midges who swarm into your hair and face and bite like fuckity till you cry. I think I will never go back because of that, angry women I can cope with, biting insects...NEVER! |