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07/10/2008 Europe/London +0100 BST |
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 Name: Janey Godley Country: United kingdom City: Glasgow/London Photo Album
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Everyone knows that China’s human rights record is disgusting. We in the West are well aware of their iron grip on the information that is fed to its own people. The Dalia Lama is demonised and vilified by the Chinese government and just watching the horrific attacks on TV on the Buddhist Monks makes me cry out loud.
Yet western leader and heads of Government will still attend the charade of the Olympic Games in August. Who would have thought the Berlin games with Hitler’s attendance could possibly be recreated? It will when China, pretends to smile to the world in unison and makes it people square dance and fly flags in their thousands – something they are well used to and possibly wont need much rehearsal.
There has been so much written about the facts of the Chinese and their politics. Facts and figures that make most human rights organisations go numb to the core, but the basic truth is, the Chinese government are liars and violent liars to boot. They have manipulated and terrified their own people, yet we in the west still trade with this economic giant. We still sit at their feet and play Geisha.
I will be disgusted if any governmental figures from UK attend the Olympics this summer.
I am appalled that we are still sending athletes. The press statements in support of the athletic organisation state that “We should not let the athletes suffer; they deserve their chance at glory”
What utter bollocks. What the fuck is a gold medal for running with a spear got over standing up for your fellow woman/man?
A few elitist swimmers will be able to show off how fast they can cut through water as Buddhist Monks are being beating to death by the same people who will be hosting your sporty party.
How sick is that?
Stop the athletes from going; explain to them that it’s all to do with honour and respect.
Think of the Scottish people who gave up their lives voluntarily to fight Fascism in Catalonia. The people who had no access to live press or radio reports back in 1938 took up the cause, caught trains, buses and boats to catch under ground passage to Paris then onto the South of France. There they crossed the Pyrenees’ on foot to fight for the freedom of other people. That’s worth a gold medal, don’t you think?
Meanwhile we are training up men and women to run fast and show off their skills in a country that prefers to jail journalists that don’t agree with them and kill ordinary people who peacefully protest. I am sickened.
It’s a fucking pity the Chinese aren’t more poverty stricken, Muslim or have a secret cache of oil, or the US would be bombing their borders as we speak. After all the American government loves to remove dictators and free people who are held under siege by their own government …don’t they?
I hate the Chinese government; stop the Athlete’s going to the Olympics NOW!
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  I will be performing at Glastonbury this year and I need to hire a 2/3 berth campervan in London from 25th June till 30th June.
I have a mate who will drive it down for Ashley and I into the Cabaret Field and I just need anyone out there who knows of a decent priced company who can help me out?
Anyone out there got a campervan for hire?
Thanks Janey Godley
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“Can you tell me why you love me?” I asked husband.
We were lying together on the sofa. He put his big hand on my forehead and pushed me away to look at me “Why?” he asked.
“I read an article about men who wrote some stuff about what makes their wives loving” I said.
“Why? Did they get caught fucking other women and had to write some shit in a magazine to prove they were sorry?” he asked through big alarmed eyes. My husband freaks out at this kind of talk, he has mild Asperger's and this sort of stuff makes him say things that take years to forget. Like once he told me he loved me because he likes freaky people. I never forgot that.
“So if you were asked to explain why you thought I was a good wife what would you say?” I pushed on.
“You are not a good wife, you can’t cook and you keep mixing up the socks and you bleach the towels and make them scratchy and you broke the washing machine, the microwave and the vacuum-cleaner”
“I don’t mean their housewife skills, I mean the husbands wrote what they loved about their wives” I explained and got annoyed because he always is so practical in his prose.
“Then they are fucking stupid, I hate that I have to suffer this shit because you are reading some crap magazine” he sneered.
“So what do you love about me?” I asked.
He rubbed his eyes, thought for a second and said “Your determination”
“Just my determination?” I smarted “Not my ability to be a good mother, or my wonderful dedication as a wife?”
“No, you were always going to be a good mother and you are not a dedicated wife, that’s so not you and you know that, why would you be?” he argued. “Who wants to be a dedicated wife?” he snorted.
“Look just say something fucking nice about me or I will bite you” I shouted now “Something that I don’t need to coach you to say” I was now annoyed.
He thought long and hard and finally said “I love that you are never scared to be truly you and your neck smells nice, I wake up to smell it and you are a bit freaky and I like freaky people”
I stared at him. He stared back. “What have I said now?”
“The freaky thing, you said that again” I grabbed his shirt “I am not freaky”
“Did I say that before and it annoyed you?” he smiled.
“Yes, you know you did”
“Well I love that you remember everything I have ever said, it’s like I have a stenographer for a wife, can you recall what I said yesterday when I asked you to pay the bills? No…you only recall what annoys you and that’s quite freaky”
I gave up.
He smiled, patted my head back down on his chest and said quietly “Be still my little freaky wife”
I may bite him.
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It can be hard being creative and trying to get some writing done.
In the middle of me getting fantastic ideas shit happens like my niece will call and say “Please come and take my three kids before I fake my own death, they are making me insane and I am considering tying them to a chair, the baby has managed to squeeze the rabbit into a sock, it may die” or my best mate will call and shout “Why did that guy not call me back? Am I hideous and unworthy?” or my daughter will stomp through and scream “Who ate all the fucking cheese?”
Husband usually breaks in with a “Can you organise all the bills to be paid and tell me why the DVD’s are all scattered over the table? Can’t you put them away and why the hell does the wire come out of your bra and get stuck in the washing machine drum? Cant they stop that from happening?”
At that point my dad chooses to call and explain he has finally mastered Photoshop and verbally explains every picture he has ever taken and describes the ‘framing he has done on a picture of a squirrel that ate his washing line, he managed to get a really good shot of it, isn’t that amazing?’
As if that’s not bad enough my nutty brother Mij calls to tell me he has decided to become a musician and do I think U2 are interested? “No, I don’t think they are” I say back. He then says “But if I play guitar good they might” I simply hang up and pull out my hair, then worry about what the hell I am going to write in this blog.
Life is mental in my home, Happy Easter.
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It was an awesome night. A complete sell out show, around 1,450 people crammed into the Theatre Royal in Glasgow. I was the opening support act and I loved every minute of it. Jerry Sadowitz is my comedy hero; we have known each other for over 25 years now.
Jerry did his first comedy gig in my bar in the Calton back in 1983. This bedraggled grumpy bloke came in with my crazy brother Mij. He was all hair and pale skin but Mij adored his wicked sense of humour “He can do magic and comedy, put him on” Mij demanded.
“Well we have never had comedy…so…erm…yes ok lets do that then” husband replied. Jerry skulked around, did some amazing magic tricks and left the building.
The Weavers Inn had truly never had a comedian on, we only ever had shit singers with cheap guitars and that first night of comedy was explosive.
I remember clearly standing onstage with a cheap microphone and announcing to the small startled audience “Ladies and Gentlemen – please welcome Jerry Sadowitz”
Jerry burst onto the stage carrying a fake ‘bomb’ it was a black ball with the words ‘BOMB’ written on it, with a fuse string out of the top which was fizzing with flames. People had never seen anything like this before. But they waited to see what would happen.
The following 30 minutes are ingrained in comedy history, people from that day still say to me “Remember the night Sadowitz did his first gig?” and we smile. We saw something that was the very beginning of ‘alternative comedy’.
We saw the birth of a whole new comedy genre sprout life right there in that wee East End bar.
He was shocking, offensive, frightening, genius and hysterically funny all in one moment.
I stood there transfixed at this man, this shambolic creature, haunted yet clever, scary yet funny and his magic tricks were so insanely wonderful that they made you question your very existence. How did he get that smashed up watch into the apple?
Years went past and we all would chat about how we recalled the man, he was on TV, he was on Theatre’s and became a cult comic, but we saw him first. He was ours.
I became a stand up comic in 1995 and met Jerry on the comedy circuit and was still awestruck at his wild outrageous act. But he is clever and intense and his material was ground breaking, way before anyone else on the UK comedy circuit even thought about being politically incorrect. Jerry broke the rules and there have been many imitators to his crown. But no direct heir can truly claim his throne.
So last night after 25 years we finally shared a stage again. I had a great time, the audience laughed; I lapped up every second of the atmosphere and then left the stage.
Jerry had a great show and the Glasgow audience left happy, some offended, some converted fans, some thinking about what had just happened! That’s what he does to your senses.
It was nice to come full circle with Jerry Sadowitz.
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Glasgow Airport is where I spend most of my time these days. I am either off on a flight or coming home. Last night I arrived from London and the police had decided that people who were driving in to pick up people in their newly appointed waste land of a pick up point were to not stop longer than 5 seconds a piece!
Now I know its all about security and I understand why we have to walk through the driving rain over rough terrain, almost get killed by walking through a busy car park and have to share the few rain shelters they have deigned to give us…but what is with the “Move your car!” screaming from Glasgow’s finest?
When husband turned up to pick me up, we barely had time for me to get into the fucking car. What was the policeman expecting me to do? Jump on the back bumper and get dragged out of the airport?
I was so tired from my epic journey from London which took six hours if you consider the cab journey (two hours) to The City Airport (which was like a holding room for exhausted hostages) then the flight was delayed, there were NO seats as the room was full and I wanted to punch a screaming toddler, who was conveniently parked beside my head as I sat on the floor.
I had been through an exhausting day as I was filming a pilot for a show idea in London. Suffice to say it took a lot to get through. It was great though and I am so excited about it all.
Though I had been at the Groucho Club the night before and had a late night, not a drunken night as I am not a big drinker at all, just a late chatty night.
So here I am in Glasgow and I am the warm up act for Jerry Sadowitz tonight at the Theatre Royal and I am very excited to get going.
Speak soon.
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I used to have a cat called Whisky. He was huge and fat and ginger and liked to sit on me the minute I sat down. The house was quite big but if I opened a newspaper and got engrossed Whisky would ignore the empty spaces and choose to sit right there on the bit of paper I was reading, and then challenge me with his slitty green eyes.
His favourite thing was to stand at the window, and then walk up and down with his big fat body knocking everything off the ledge as he made a turn to walk back along the opposite way. He would stare at the fallen objects with disdain and simply leap off the window ledge and strut out of the room. His work was done.
He was so loving and attentive, but I really didn’t need a big fat cat draped across my throat like an expensive fur wrap as I slept. But he liked doing that. He would shove his big belly onto my neck, with his head and front paws snuggled into my right shoulder and his big hairy tail and ass tucked into my left. I could feel his cat heart beat on my flesh.
He loved to sleep with Ashley as well. She was around seven when we got him. He was already an adult cat from a cat sanctuary. He didn’t take much time to make friends, on his arrival he sniffed me, looked at Ashley and went for a sleep. The next day he curled on Ashley’s lap and demanded she stroke him by head butting her hand every five minutes till he got her attention. She was addicted to him.
He immediately became one of us. He joined in with chase games up and down the hall, jumping on Ashley as she tried to escape me. He would crouch like a tiger and leap out her, claws withdrawn but paws big and strong enough to box her. She would squeal with delight and he would run behind her like a dog.
He learned how to open a cupboard, knock over his cat food box till the contents spilled out and eat at his leisure. Other times he simply sat inside the cupboard and cooled off in the heat of our Scottish summer. Occasionally dipping his fat paw into the box and pulling out some cat biscuits. I like to imagine he was lying there like enjoying the peace and having a sneaky feed. He was clever.
His favourite time was summer when big dragon flies would stupidly come in the through the windows and fly around in a dizzy manner. Whiskey would smile a special cat grin and leap into the air and snatch them, and then he chewed them indiscriminately. Sometimes keeping a few insects under his paws as he nibbled slowly through his prey.
He liked them, he would watch for them as the sun set over the tenements of Glasgow’s East End. His slanty eyes fixated on the open window…just waiting…and grinning with anticipation.
He caught wasps, flies, bluebottles, mice and once he dragged an absent minded pigeon right off the window ledge and onto my kitchen table. The poor bird was screeching and flapping all over the floor, Ashley was hysterical and I had to prise open Whiskey’s jaws and rescue the bird. It was fine, a bit stunned and managed to flap off cawing for its friends. Whisky hated me for a whole day. He skulked about my ankles, tripping me up, getting in my way and generally spitting at me for taking his prey.
He sat with Ashley as she was colouring in and drawing on her room floor.
I thought he was going to pick up a crayon and draw a picture of his missing pigeon and sketch me with an arrow through my head.
He was amazing and had such an open personality. He adored Ashley; whenever I came into her room to check on her, he would be curled around her legs, and he would sit up, wink at me as if to say “She will be safe on my watch”
I trusted him and he knew it. He would nod his big ginger head, look at my sleeping daughter and then look at me, then snuggle back down into a fat ginger coil. One eye opened watching for me to leave and let him stay on guard of my precious baby.
The day the police came to our house to search for weapons (At that point we were living in my dead father-in-law’s home and he had been a known criminal) Whiskey immediately leapt to attention. He hissed at the police men who entered Ashley’s room and stood in front of her, his ginger fur stood on end and his tail twitching.
The police asked me to move him but Whisky jumped in front of them and tried to ward them off. He was so protective. There was a female police officer and she told me she was scared of cats, so Whiskey immediately leapt on her shoulder from the top of the stairs! She screamed her head off and the cat would not let go.
I miss Whisky, we had to give him away to another family when we moved from the ‘gun house’ life got complicated but he needed stability and an elderly woman took him in. I cried but had to find a home for my family and that took priority over everything else.
I haven’t forgotten him though.
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Hey everyone, if you are in London around 3rd 4th 5th April I am doing my award winning one woman comedy show ‘Tell It Like It Is’ at the Soho Theatre in Dean Street. Do click on the link for tickets please HERE
It would be a great chance for me to catch up with bloggers down that end of the country, do let me know if you are coming along, Janey.
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Nottingham has been tiring but fine. I never slept much as four big baldy headed stag party men decided to have a homo- erotic type fight at 4am this morning in the room next to mine in the hotel. Maybe they discovered they were all gay and wanted to give the room a vigorous make over? Maybe one of the guys didn’t want to get married and decided he liked sailors and it all just kicked off…I don’t know.
The noise and screaming was enough to drive me insane and tearful, lying in the dark at 5am, wishing I was with my husband tucked up in bed in Glasgow.
So there I was sitting in a taxi, tired and grumpy. I had just came off my mobile as I contribute to the Tommy Sheridan Radio show every Sunday and had to sound chirpy and nice, when I was actually exhausted.
I should never have got into a conversation with the Asian Taxi driver…but I did.
The lovely interesting man told me that he was going home to arrange a party for a religious festival celebrating some major Muslim speaker and he was happy.
“It is the birthday month of Mohammed” he explained.
I congratulated him on his religious festival thingy and sat quiet.
He decided to tell me that in his opinion, the reason people misunderstand Islam, is because people don’t get told the facts.
Now I know I should have put my IPod in my ears as planned, but I gave it a shot and said “Well give me a fact about Islam please, I am interested”
His opening gambit was this “Most women are raped because they are not married and they tempt men into disrepute”
Now Dear Reader, of all the people this man could spit this nonsense to – he picked me, and I was a bit grumpy.
“Is that right?” I asked him wide eyed and crackling with seething quiet rage.
“Yes, you see if women are married and wear decent clothes, then they would be safe, because their husbands would always protect them and teach them how to dress appropriately which keeps them safe” he nodded and smiled smugly through his mirror at me.
“Ok…what happens if a married women who dresses very nice is in her home and her husband is a taxi driver and he isn’t there to stare at her and make sure her skirt is long enough and potential rapists are out of reach, lets say he is on the road driving someone and that poor respected married woman gets raped in her home by an intruder, how would that work then?”
The cab driver managed to lurch the car, it was his one clear reaction to my statement.
“Well this doesn’t happen” he merely added.
“Yes, it does, women get raped in their homes quite a lot, not all rapes are drunken women wearing short skirts staggering around the city centre and incidentally that doesn’t give anyone any excuse to the rape them, women should be safe despite what they wear and where they are” I smarted.
“What do you think men do when they see these women in tiny clothes showing off their bodies like that? It makes men feel sexy and they have problems controlling themselves” he started to shout.
“Ok, so you are saying to me that you cannot bear to take your kids swimming at a local pool, because bikini clad women make you want to rape? Or are you saying that men cannot be blamed for getting sexually erect in a city street when they see women in a short skirt and such is this uncontrollable urge they have to pull the short skirted woman up and alley and rape her? Is that what you are saying?” I shouted now.
“Women make men rape them by such behaviour” he screamed back.
“Mohammed would hate you and your stupid words and I am not even a Muslim, I know that if he is such an almighty gracious man he would know you are talking crap and he is possibly ashamed people like you represent his words” I shouted at him, grabbed my bag and got out of his cab.
“You have to pay me now” he argued.
“No, I had to listen to your pro-rapist shit for ten minutes so you can go rape yourself for the cash, call the police do what you want, but you are not getting a penny of my money” I walked away and he drove off at a screech.
I caught the bus to the airport. It was nice and I listened to my music all the way.
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I attended a special charity dinner for Epilepsy Scotland. They have an interesting event where five speakers get up and do ten minutes of funny chatting to compete for ‘WAG of The Year’ Wag meaning ‘chatty story teller’.
Now I never bothered to read any of the emails to check what the hell the event was about. Luckily husband made me pack a full length dress and high heel shoes. I argued that this wasn’t needed and he was harassing me, he insisted.
So I packed the fancy gear, bearing in mind I was flying out the next morning from Glasgow to East Midlands.
We were staying over night in the Roxburghe Hotel in Edinburgh where the event was being staged and he planned to get me up at 6am to drive me through to Glasgow to fly out.
Anyway on arrival I noticed that the hotel was all geared up for a very special event, it was black tie and evening dress event. Yes…you guessed it -that was the party I was going to.
So I got all dressed up and was still unaware what the night entailed. I thought I was going to do ten minutes of comedy and then slip off for the rest of the night.
No, that’s not what was going to happen. The other speakers included Tommy Sheridan, a lovely Scottish Actress called Joyce Falconer, an after dinner speaker and entrepreneur called Kenny Harris and the Scottish football legend Gordon Smith.
This charity dinner is famous (though I was in the dark) and the speakers have to compete against each other to win the WAG of the Year award.
The speakers were awesome and I was nervous, I hadn’t prepared anything at all, and just decided to wing my ten minutes and see where it took me. Husband nagged I should read my emails more and pay due attention, so I really did my best.
The night went onto raise over £60,000 for Epilepsy Scotland. And guess what?
I WON! I am WAG OF THE YEAR 2008.
The trophy is beautiful and I was so excited when I ran up to the hotel room and showed it off to husband. He is very proud and he took the trophy up to my dad today for me as I am now in Nottingham.
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