First Class Godley
Date: Feb 18th, 2013 2:19:29 pm - Subscribe
Mood: smelly
Janey Godley's Blog: comedian, comedy, life, stand-up comedy, blog, Scottish, Scotland, twitter, anti social, Comedy, first class, Glasgow, human interest, humor, humorous, Janey Godley, journeys, london, ticket man, traintales, upper class, working class,


I love the train, it gets busy at half term time, like it did when I came home from London recently. I got my ticket ready, this time it was easy to find.

The new system is you get to print out your own ticket which is an A4 sheet with a scan code on it, much better than 58 wee orange tickets we normally get, so am happy about this. Anyway, I got into the first class carriage and sat at a four to a table seat and promptly stuck my case underneath, as I have short legs and it means I can raise my legs up and nap. If the train is busy and people need to sit with me, I move it. Am not a twat.

So, a big posh man, with elbow patches and mustard cords (what the fuck is that about?) kicked my case and asked me to move it so he could join me.

"listen there are heap of seats in the next carriage, it's all unreserved, if you don't mind, we won't have to share" I explained and pointed to the next first class carriage which was indeed empty. I didn't want to sit beside someone in a near empty carriage, there were plenty seats around me and next door.

"This is actually first class, are you meant to be here" he sneered and kicked my case again. Yes, he actually asked me that.

I looked at him, smiled and said "No, I have skipped in, please don't tell anyone, but I get free food and wifi and I take all the sandwiches home"

He looked horrified, pressed the door button and walked into the next carriage.

Seconds later, before the train had even moved, the ticket guy train manager came through shouting "Tickets and passes please?" looking at me with mustard cords behind him, pointing and twitching and waiting to see me get ejected. Who does that?

"Do I really need to get my ticket out?" I pleaded...I could see mustard cords stand still behind the ticket guy staring at me, still smirking. So I pulled out my first class A4 self printed ticket and presented this to the guard, who smiled thanked me and moved on.

Of course I had a first class ticket! Mustard cords was raging angry he sputtered "You said you didn't have a first class ticket, you are a filthy liar" he hissed at me, his face was red and angry and I could see a purple vein pulse on his temple.

At that the train manager stopped.... and watched our exchange.

"I can say anything the fuck I want to you, you are a member of the public and have no right to ask me questions, so shut it Cunty Mc Wunty! I have to be honest with him (I pointed to the train manager), you are an insulting dick, I can say whatever I want to you now move on mustard cords, you are ruining my first class experience" I plugged in my IPod and let Bob Seger take me away to his Hollywood Nights.

Mustard cords stood his ground, staring at me, hands on plump hips, the ticket man had moved off and I mouthed to mustard cords "I photocopied this ticket" and giggled.

He was about to explode when the catering guy appeared , I unplugged my ears, he poured me a coffee and said "Hiya Janey, how you- fancy a bacon sandwich?" I know most of the catering crew on trains by the sheer amount of travel that I do, I smiled and said "yes".

Mustard cords tried to beat a hasty retreat, this is difficult with doors that you need to press and wait to open, he could hear me laughing as the door whooshed closed behind him.

That awful repugnant wee prick of a man got off at Preston and as the train pulled away I smiled and waved. He sneered and spat at the window...coz he thinks he is upper class and that's how that works sometimes.

Not all anti social behaviour is from working class commoners with track suits tucked into their socks, swigging beer and being obnoxious in public, sometimes it comes from people who regardless of their assumed standing in public....and they can be utter bastards.


So thanks for reading, if you want follow me on twitter @JaneyGodley for updates.







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Taxing Times
Date: Feb 12th, 2013 12:09:39 pm - Subscribe
Mood: dull


“A make-up brush costs £30? Is it made of gold?” my husband shouted and threw up both his hands when he was observing me logging my tax return.

He rolls his eyes and makes that huffing noise and shakes his head at me. I have boxes of receipts, so you can imagine how many theatrical displays he has been through.
His physical theatre and dance routine has to be seen to be believed. The Ballet Rambert would take note of his expressive routines.

The man practically does a Gangnam style exasperated jig every twenty seconds.

“£40 for a bra? Is it made of gold?” Yes he mentioned gold again.

“Salon haircut £80?” he screeched. “Did they cut your hair with gold scissors?”

I thought to myself: If he makes one more gold reference I may have to strap a canoe onto my back and fake my own death.

Husband does not understand the costs of make up and female maintenance. This is the man who audibly squealed like a girl at the cost of a supermarket’s own-brand moisturiser:

“How can they charge £7 for a wee bottle that size? What is in it? GOLD?”

Other female shoppers looked at me with pitying glances, probably thankful their own annoying husbands didn’t bother to come with them to buy face cream.

“Look - That pot is only £1 and it’s twice the size!”

He grabbed a tub of Vaseline and tried to tempt me with its moisturising properties. A frantic man shoving Vaseline into your face in a supermarket aisle does tend to draw a crowd.

I looked warily at the tub and suggested where he could shove it and I pointed out to him that it would go up there surprisingly easy. The crowd smiled and followed us slowly, surely there would be more purchase hilarity to follow?

He is such a tight-fisted scrooge when it comes to shopping.

He buys giant packs of cheap razors that leave my legs with more cuts and rashes than a bramble picker who has just survived an air crash that nose-dived into a nettle field.

His cheap, family sized bottles of gloopy green shampoo have literally blinded me in the shower, overwhelmed me with their apple scent and can make my hair look as if it’s been back-combed badly by an angry nun.

Oh – and, by the way - according to husband, I don’t need conditioner. This is a man who considers 'conditioner' a luxury item.

Has he seen my curly, tufty hair?

Without a decent conditioner, it takes three hours to brush after the astringent shampoo has left my locks so squeaky clean. It’s like trying to brush out a wet Shetland pony with a nit comb.

Hair maintenance isn’t the biggest issue with his cheap buying tactics.

When rifling through my receipts, he was astounded that I had managed to buy three jumpers in one shopping trip. Why would I need three new tops? He was agog at my outlandish, extravagant lifestyle.

“I have had the same jumper since 1987,” he proudly announced. “It’s still a good top and I wear it all the time.”

“Yes, I know,” I sniggered. “That’s why the local kids call you Catweazle.”

He will only buy one pair of jeans, wear them, wash them constantly and throw them away when they fall apart. Then he buys a new pair for £7 in one of those giant cheap discount stores in Sauchiehall Street.

To him, men who wear designer clothes are either incredibly vain or mentally challenged. No single item of his clothing costs more than £10 maximum and he will shop around until he gets the price he wants.

That’s being clever in his head.

Husband isn’t one of those men who wears ‘Moisturiser for Men’ or other male grooming products.


I am not sure I would like the idea of my man going for a facial or having a skin regime. Somehow that makes me feel queasy.

God forbid he took to stroking some clear mascara on his eyelashes for a special night out! His spending habits are near to minimal… unless you count his Pound Shop habit.

He adores the stores that do ‘Everything for a Pound’. He is stockpiling cheap cups, doormats and giant sets of screwdrivers.

At least this leaves surplus cash for me to buy all my mascara, clothes, shoes, hair brushes …all made of gold obviously.

So thanks for reading, if you want follow me on twitter @JaneyGodley for updates.




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Travels & Trivia
Date: Feb 8th, 2013 2:32:20 am - Subscribe
Mood: unstoppable




Kuala Lumpur is where I went for one nights work. That's normal for a comedian, what's not normal is trying to explain that you are a female comic to Muslim women from Saudi Arabia on the flight over to Malaysia.

I still get a slight shock at seeing women with black gloves, socks and every inch of flesh covered in black material. I find it fascinating and try not to stare and behave like an ignorant oaf, but part of my brain has so many questions...questions that I can't ask for fear of being racist at best and disrespectful at worst. People remind me that the Koran does not require women to be covered and that it’s cultural and oppressive and other people explain that it's a woman's choice and she likes to show respect by covering her flesh outside the house. Either way I find it interesting but can't speak about it without sounding creepy and offensive.

I was talking to these women on the flight and they asked me (through translation of the husband of one of them) what I did for a living and why I was going to Kuala Lumpur. When I said "stand up comedian" the man stared at me, shook his head....had a think and then spoke in Arabic to the women.

I think he must have said "this woman is half mermaid and has fins for arms" as the women all had shocked eyes and stared at me for ages. Then I stupidly mimed having a microphone at my mouth and wiggling my head about, miming stand up....which must have just resembled a mermaid giving head and they all looked away. They were disgusted/confused at me. I had hoped that man explained it properly, but he didn't understand why a woman would do comedy so how could I expect him to communicate it correctly. Then one of the women who I discovered could speak English said "you speak on stage and get paid for it?" I nodded and she smiled and then she explained it to the other women, who weirdly looked more horrified and sad.

So after scaring the Muslim women with my mermaid porn career, I finally got off the plane and landed in KL, which by the way is so hot it feels like being followed about by a blow torch.

I left a snowy cold Scotland and landed in a damp humid busy city. I have to say the food in KL is amazing, I love, love, love Asian food and couldn't wait to get a big bowl of noodles and some fish down my Glasgow throat.

I was doing a gig for the Selangor St Andrew's Society Burns Night and the people there are so welcoming. They made me feel so at home and looked after me. The society members had an awesome Toast and Reply to the Lassie's and their Pipe Band brought a tear to my eye and am not even patriotic.

It must be a weird life living as an Ex Pat, staying in a country and having to be part of a community of your own people or part of a society you don't totally belong to....but they seemed to have found the balance. I couldn't do it, I think it takes a certain person to adhere to certain social rules, whether it be in amongst the ex-pat community or in amongst the people of that country...either way it feels like a limbo life. I know what a limbo life is, as am always somewhere in the world looking in and yet never being a part of.

That's what comedians do, we turn up, we go onstage, we walk through your streets, get to know your railways and airports very well and leave without feeling we belonged there in the first place.

I am a permanent Ex Pat...everywhere I go.

But to a few Saudi women, I am also a mermaid who does porn.


So thanks for reading, if you want follow me on twitter @JaneyGodley for updates.



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Shopping at USC
Date: Jan 21st, 2013 10:22:00 pm - Subscribe
Janey Godley's Blog: comedian, comedy, life, stand-up comedy, blog, Scottish, Scotland, twitter, USC, shopping , Buchanan street, jeans, Adidas , Shoes, high tops, service, anger, disco, assistant, denims,


"Mum those shoes are on sale, let's have a look" My daughter Ashley, dragged me into USC shop on Buchanan street Glasgow. Ashley is 26 and is still excited at high top trainers...could be worse, she could be taking bath salts, running naked and attacking rough sleepers with a toffee hammer.

Am not a big shopper, to be honest USC confused me, it was just heaps of clothes on racks so tightly packed I felt like I was lost in a denim jumble sale. The music blared and I felt like I was lost in a bright unfriendly disco.

I even saw jeans that were destined to fit a man with bow legs as if he just leapt off a horse and of course my non fashion brain made me giggle at them. 'Who would buy them' I shouted over the music just as a young man bought them and glared at me.

Ashley went to the sports shoe bit, tried on a few trainers and liked the Adidas high tops, she handed me the one she tried and I went off to find out how to get the other shoe. I did not know how to pay for stuff in USC; I have never been to university or took the class that shows how to do that.

There are no signs, but why would there be...it's like a really hip party and am the old woman who comes in and asks them if they have any Donny Osmond on their big music player.

I spotted an achingly hip bored guy with lovely sideways combed and gelled hair in bow legged jeans (that looked lovely on) and he made brief enough eye contact to assure me he was staff. I held out the shoe, went onto explain "my daughter likes these can we try the other one....." He looked through me like I was already dead to him. I was going to say I had heard Nirvana but I don't think he was alive when they were alive and I had no other musical reference point to bring up, he grabbed the shoe and turned on his heel.

He was off...not a word of explanation about anything, just up the escalator leaving me stranded near a couple of young French guys who liked the looked of the bandy legged jeans. The staff guy (let me call him Todd, he looks like a Todd who is into skateboarding and ironic ukulele parties) anyway Todd is now off with the shoe- upstairs as if he is in search of a one legged Cinderella who was into sportswear, she was hiding upstairs, she was making Todd work for her affections.

"Shall I wait here? Are you coming back down? Where do I go?" were many of the questions I whispered as Todd vanished.

I wandered about the store wondering how to approach the fact I gave a man a shoe and he vanished without trace. Was I a hex?

Ashley turned up "mum, where are the shoes?" I replied "A teenager in skinny jeans took it and ran up stairs" we eventually realised that the best way to find out what happened to Todd and my shoe was to head to the counter...then I spotted Todd amongst the sweaters....that dirty bastard was seeing someone else...he was showing a Taylor Swift look-alike a burgundy hoodie, he was fingering the fabric...I never got one word from him. He was chatting and smiling. I got none of that.

I headed down to the till, where a young angry/sad/unsure woman in a trendy top took ages to serve a man then eventually had to look at me. Her eyes were annoyed. "What?" she asked me. I wanted to tell her a story about the time I got a gynaecological smear and the doctor told me 'You have a surprisingly tight vagina for a woman who had a child' but I don't think that was what she was asking.

"Erm...I think we bought a shoe and we wanted the other one to try on" I was trying to say but she butted in "describe them" (as if I was lying and just wanted a chat with her happy face).

My daughter described high tops, Adidas logo, colour and size. The young woman must have had some exhaustive wasting illness as she sighed loudly and picked up the box and dropped it on the counter.

The whole experience in USC was weird, it wasn't like shopping, it was like a small but brief sexual affair that went wrong and ended in a rash with vows never to return or speak of it ever again...except for on here. Thanks USC for teaching me all about your trendy shop.

So thanks for reading, if you want follow me on twitter @JaneyGodley for updates.




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On a plane
Date: Jan 15th, 2013 3:37:38 pm - Subscribe
Janey Godley's Blog: comedian, comedy, life, stand-up comedy, blog, Scottish, Scotland, twitter, aeroplane, London, Soho, Prostitution, vodka, journey, women, vulnerable,


You know how you think back to things and with hindsight you wonder why you didn't react differently? Looking back I should have punched the man in the tweed suit.....here's what happened.

Back in 1996 I was flying to London to see my pals and do some open spot comedy gigs. I was super excited and chatty and couldn't wait to get there, it wasn't often I got such freedom and the thought of being in London filled me with a rush of excitement. I was giddy.

I sat beside a middle aged old fashioned looking man possibly in his late 50s but he was dressed the way I think men in 1960s British movies dressed. You know all tweed, brogues and rainmac over the arm, he had everything except a hat but was Scottish. We got chatting and he explained he flew to London for business, I never said what I was doing, just 'going to see friends' and we were engaged in a good old natter.

"I am down every month, my friends and I go to Soho, we visit a woman's flat, it's near an ice cream cafe which does a good coffee as well....and we see a woman, she isn't like a prostitute but a woman who likes a drink and we bring her some good vodka and she would 'see' to us fella's who like a good time" he told me with a twinkle in his eye. He added "do you like to party, my friends would like you?"

I don't wear wedding rings and don't start conversations with 'my husband and I" as I am not a member of the Royal Household nor am I living in 1953. So as this chat had progressed it dawned on me he assumed I was single and was going to London for some high jinkery or partying of some sort...am not sure. Maybe he thought there was a time portal at arrivals and this was 1960 and I had a pad and needed a 'man to help pay the rent'....I don't know!

I faced him squarely on the seat and looked right into his eyes and said "No I don't drink and don't fancy fucking strange men in wool suits in some Soho bedsit, in fact that sounds a rapey nightmare to me" I smiled and fiddled with my Sony Walkman.

"Oh no don't get me wrong, we would make sure you had fun" he touched my arms reassuringly.

Me being me, so blasé about prostitution (who should judge?) and creepy old men hitting on me on aeroplanes, I laughed and said "no, you probably won't make sure I had fun, I have a 34 year old husband at home and his skin still fits him, why would I want to screw some old dirty toffs for vodka, mate I owned a pub for 15 years, I don't even drink, I don't want to fuck you, but can you tell me where the good ice cream shop is?"

We sat in silence for the rest of the journey and I wondered about the woman in the flat above the cafe who lets middle class men fuck her for vodka...that made me feel sad.

Years now I have been visiting Soho, it's my favourite place on the planet. I have performed there, I have done live TV news from there, I did my one woman play there...I adore the place, the bricks, the cobbled streets, the paparazzi on motorbikes chasing people with flash cameras and the screaming girls when they spot a pop star. I love the Ramen cafe, the bars, the Groucho Club; the belligerent Italians who serve you bitter coffee in tiny cups....

Yet still every old cafe I see I stare above it and search the windows and look for the poor woman behind the dirty windows....and wonder if she is ok now.

So thanks for reading, if you want follow me on twitter @JaneyGodley for updates.




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