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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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I flew to Cardiff yesterday at tea time and the wind nearly whipped me off my wee fat ankles. The flight was fine, but on arrival at the airport I exited and headed for the taxi office and the strong wind picked up my thick hair that in turn gave my face whiplash.
I checked into my lovely 5 star fancy hotel that I am staying in (it’s my birthday on Sunday and I deserved a treat) and the smarmy nice people in top hats looked at me like I was Little Nell on a begging trip.
There is no way you can look good with snot dripping out of your nose and mascara running down your cheeks from the wind that got me yet again from the short walk from taxi to swishy door entry.
I had decided to book myself in for a facial but when I went down to the wonderfully expensive beauty therapy spa, the girl who offered me my facial looked very young.
“Are you here for business?” she asked when we discussed times and prices.
“Yes, I am performing at Jongleurs comedy club” I told her.
“I don’t know where that is as I am too young to go to clubs, I am seventeen” she smiled.
“And I am not letting you near my skin” I thought to myself, how much training in beauty therapy does a 17 year old have? Especially at these prices. So I ditched the skin regime idea and silently wondered where a girl could get chocolate at this time of the night in the isolated hotel in Cardiff’s docks.
I peered out of the window and saw debris been whirled around at the bay and decided against going out. I stepped into the restaurant feeling hungry and ready for dinner, but the menu looked very expensive, now I am a regular posh nosh diner, but I only wanted a snack. I did not want to pay £50 for two pan seared prawns arranged on top of each other, sitting neatly on one single potato slice with a truffle shaving artfully placed in the centre of a huge white plate.
They did have a bar snack option and I munched down a big sandwich and that set me fine for the night.
So today I have to venture out into Cardiff city centre to get some shopping done and get ready for my Cardiff Jongleurs gig tonight. I may get blown away…it looks scary out there…talk later.
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  Every woman has a best friend. One who has seen her through dodgy perms, fake tan dilemmas and pregnancy scares? A good mate has seen you through your very worst days and been witness to your finest moments.
My mate Monica is that person. She lives in London, has a really demanding job, she owns her own PR Company. Her life is a constant whirl of TV studios, book launches and nibbling niceties in upmarket eateries.
Monica is PR to some of the most famous and celebrated chefs and restaurants here in the UK and abroad.
We met up in London for a drink recently and invited some friends to join us.
“Remember the time you peed yourself outside The Groucho club?” she laughed and everyone at our small gathering stared at me in horror. Monica has a way of picking out the highlights of any anecdote, that’s why she is good at her job, except this time, she wasn’t doing my image any favours.
“Tell the whole story properly, it makes sense if you explain it better” I shouted as the people in the room stayed silent and continued to stare at me. I will be forever known as the weak bladder woman in their eyes.
Ten years ago when she was working as a lawyer’s assistant in London and I was an open spot who crashed on her couch doing the comedy circuit, we had the best of times. Running from comedy gig to late night bars, were amongst some of the best days in our lasting friendship.
Both of us were way too old to be still ‘working out what we want to do’. I was in my mid thirties, married with a child and had decided to become a stand up comic, rather late in the day to be honest and she was in her early thirties and had been through a succession of jobs and ill fitting boyfriends.
That particular night, I had been heading to a gig in Soho; my bladder was full and grew to the size of a small scatter cushion, I thought that if I can hold in a baby I was sure I could hold in a wee.
Monica and I started walking along Dean Street, when for some bizarre reason we both spotted a tiny hobbling baby mouse running past our legs at the exact same time. We screamed and screamed much in the same way we would if the devil himself had decided to chase our skirt tails. It was a tiny wee creature, but we got hysterical. Flapping hands and squealing like banshees.
People stared, yet we screamed more.
Then we stopped the screeching and started laughing, at that point Monica was throwing her head back howling with raucous laughter and then she suddenly stopped, stared at me with huge bulging eyes and vomited up a great splash of yellow sick all over the pavement.
It was the sudden change from laughter to puke that made me fall about laughing, I could not contain myself, my ribs hurt, and I peed myself. I am not proud of it, but I did. The piss soaked my jeans and ran into my shoes.
We then headed onto my comedy gig, we had no time to stop and get cleaned up. There was me with a damp urine soaked crotch and Monica with yellow sick all tangled up in her long red curly hair.
The bits of vomit hung onto the tendrils like ugly Christmas tree ornaments. We stank badly, but still kept laughing, people were looking at us both. We must have looked a sight. That never stopped us from giggling.
I did the gig, told the story of what had just happened, showed the audience my dark stained jeans, pointed out Monica’s vomit splattered hair and left the stage to a resounding applause.
Who needs material when you can actually say in all honestly “Something happened on the way to the gig”
Friends can come through the toughest of times, especially if one of them have pissed themselves in public and the other can recall the story in front of strangers.
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Husband decided that besides doing my yearly tax shit he would completely empty the contents of every single piece of paper work that I own and dump it the middle of the living room and sort it out. Window cleaning and washing down the huge Welsh Dresser and all its contents was included in this activity.
As you can imagine I was over the moon with suicidal feelings!
I do things bit by bit and slowly- he attacks chores the same way George Bush went into Iraq. The living room resembled downtown Baghdad, after crack addicted violent soldiers had been on a rampage
There was no piece of floor untouched by the mess and no where to actually step when I woke up. The sound of that fucking shredder had been going all morning, he shreds everything. I think he has just shredded my entire life. He then shredded all his own stuff and that included paper work going back to when we owned a bar together.
My husband would have been a valuable asset to President Nixon if only he had been old enough and American enough to be involved in US politics. This man leaves no trace of his existence; I swear if he dies I will be hard pushed to prove he was born!
“Go through all of those old diaries and see if there is any valuable info you need to keep” he shouted orders.
I looked at the shredder and wondered if it could take his big fat head.
So there I was washing windows, cleaning small ornamental cups and knick knacks and trying to work out if this is actually grounds for divorce. I hate this stuff.
There is an upside, he discovered amongst the many bank statements that people owe me cash…whoopee... now that’s a by product that I love.
Sometimes paper work and countless invoices get on top of you and you can get buried amongst it all and lose track.
That’s the great thing with emails; you can just delete them and keep the ones you need. Real paper work is fucking shit and I hate it.
Ashley was clever enough to fake sleep and hide in her room, which meanwhile does look like it had been bombed, fuck knows how she finds stuff in there…it scares even me. Her filing system is akin to just throwing her paper work high in the air and wherever it lands- is where it should be.
I am sure when she gets her own place she will be found starving and dying beneath DVD’s, letters, University work and underwear.
Husband is now in full Aspergic mode and as I write this he is continually holding up tiny pieces of paper and asking me to ‘Kill or Keep’…I am off to get drunk…and trust me…I don’t even drink. I may not be here in two days time, I am going to strap a canoe onto my back and fake my own death.
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I have a mole on the top of my shoulder at the back of my neck. I insisted that I would finally get it seen to as it has been itchy lately. I made an appointment with the doc for 5pm and ran across the street in the driving freezing snow and sat in the Georgian drawing room that is my doctor’s waiting room. I was ten minutes early for the appointment. I sat quietly and flicked through the People’s Friend magazine which is aimed at pensioners and blind or mad people to read. There is always a lovely wee watercolour of some Scottish landscape on the cover and loads of adverts for furry boots and novelty hot water bottles. It always features a short story about some middle aged pretty woman who is divorced and finds a swarthy man on Scafell pikes on a walking holiday. They end up in love and live in a cottage overlooking a lake. I was quickly becoming brain dead…the clocked ticked loudly and everyone was getting taken before me into the doctors room and I was becoming impatient. I am unable genetically to cope with waiting rooms. My mum was the same and my dad is even more tetchy about queues than me…I start bouncing off the walls if made to wait. So I flicked through another Peoples Friend magazine and read about some other middle aged woman who met a dark handsome man on a painting retreat in Cornwall…for fucksake, who writes this shite? I flicked through recipes for scones and bakewell tarts and watched the clock hit 5.20pm. I took three phone calls on my mobile and the receptionist came through and told me to turn the phone off! “Look I am taking work calls and I should be out of here by now” I shouted back. People tutted and I ignored them and read a recipe for a light Victoria sponge. The clock hit 5.40pm and finally my name was called. I jumped off the seat and ran to the door; the doctor was new to me. I have never seen this female before, but I didn’t care. I needed to get out of there as soon as possible. I walked in and before she got to her desk I ripped off my scarf, pulled my jumper down and said “I have a mole, is it dangerous?” She has this annoying habit of saying “Hmm Hmm” as you speak! So I ignored her annoying tick and said “It’s been itchy” she said “Hmm Hmm” through my words. “Ok you need to stop saying ‘Hmm Hmm’ every time I talk, please look at the mole” I snapped. She looked at it and both of us was still standing as I didn’t want to sit down I had been there long enough for her to speak over me and as far as I was concerned that was fucking long enough. “It’s not a melanoma…” she spoke. I pulled on my scarf and said “Ok thanks bye” and left her room. She came running after me “Would you like it frozen off?” “It is dangerous or cancer?” I stopped in my tracks in the hallway. “No” she answered. “Then no, bye” I shouted as I walked into the frozen air as the door slammed behind me. I was so annoyed at having to wait ages to get seen and all she could do was make noises as I spoke, I didn’t want a chit chat…no wonder she takes so bloody long with her patients. I was raging with frustration at having to sit in that place for nearly an hour in that I went stir crazy. I stomped along the road and two young teenage Asian boys stopped me. “Do you have cigarettes?” the taller one asked. I was annoyed at being stopped in the cold “Yes I have loads in my bag, why?” I asked. He looked at me in astonishment “Well can I have one?” he added. I looked at him and his wee Asian friends all staring at me in anticipation. “No” I said and walked off. “You fucking whore!” he shouted. “A whore with loads of cigarettes, get it right you fuck wit” I laughed and carried on home. I may not have a cancerous mole, but this smoking may give me a cancer of a different kind. I need to lighten up and stop being grumpy.
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Husband and I spent the New Year bells watching TV and reading quietly. I had just come off stage at Glasgow Jongleurs. I was on Scottish television on their New Year show called ‘From SR to Lavvie Head’ it was all about famous advertisements. We inadvertently clicked on and I saw my big fat face staring back at me and he quickly changed channels! So we spent New Year watching Star Trek Voyager instead. Ashley went out partying as all 21 year old should do. I fell asleep and her dad waited up for her. She came home at 5am all giggly and drunk. This morning I went into her bedroom and she wasn’t there, the bedroom did look as if it had been burgled, but that’s normal for Ashley’s room. She has her own bathroom; it has no windows and is very cool and quiet, so I tried to check in there for her. The door stuck and I realised she must be on the floor behind it, I didn’t panic as she often goes in there for a sleep on the floor if she feels ill. So I knew she must have been sick or hung-over. Ashley has often slept on her bathroom floor since childhood. She seems to feel happy in there with her head jammed between the toilet pan and the bath! The door creaked open and one wee white hand reached out! It was like a scene from a hostage rescue. “Are you ok baby?” I whispered to the dark crack in the door. “Yes, I have vomited up a steak pie and bits choked me mum” she huskily answered. She sat up and pulled the door open to let me in. There was her Flintstones duvet and pillow all crumpled on the toilet floor, she looked like one of those poor illegal immigrants who hide in a box to get to freedom. Her make up was streaked all down her face and her hair was tied up for vomiting purposes in a big bunch on the top of her head. So I took a photo of her on my phone as it was too good an opportunity to miss and will be a great blackmail tool for future! Vodka and champagne may not pass her lips for yet another year!
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It was 1979, I was just eighteen years old and this was my very first time. People had told me it gets easier the more you do it, but I wasn’t too sure. But how hard can it be… running a bar on your own? My boyfriend’s dad George took me down to this old pub he owned in the Calton area of Glasgow. The ancient pub was on the corner of the main London road. It had a huge crumbling brown tenement above it and the walls on the outside of the bar were pretty dire. The whole place looked rundown. The streets were so dark; there were a few jagged remains of demolished buildings on the other side of the road peering out through the last shafts of the dying sunlight. It was like being in a foreign land. George took me by the hand into the pub, he opened the door that lead behind the bar, let a blonde woman out and locked me in and said ‘Goodbye’. I tried to run after him but the wee wooden door was locked and I couldn’t fiddle with it fast enough, I saw him through the pub window. I was shouting “George don’t leave me here” but he carried on walking. He got into his car with the blonde and drove off. I slowly looked around the pub. There were two really old men standing at the long part of the L shaped bar and one big fat hairy arsed biker slumped at the bottom on the counter, fast asleep. I gulped and smiled. I didn’t know where anything was, I didn’t know the prices or how to work the till. What the fuck was going on? I was only eighteen years old, I was scared. The biker slowly raised his head and smiled a big toothless grin and slumped back down again. His enormous baldy head made a scary thump on the bar. It shook his beer glass that lay next to his head and the liquid went foamy with the vibrations. ‘Well that was one way to get a head on your beer’ I thought to myself. Just then a loud screech came out of the ceiling and a three legged cat leapt onto the bar and ran up to me, its hobbled gait was really horrifying and it was all scabby and tufty. “That’s Tripod” said one of the old men “It’s because it only had three legs” then he threw his head back and his big gumsy mouth fell wide open and let rip a big raspy laugh. It sounded like a steam train slowing down in a station as his smoky lungs forced out a noise. Then the two old men looked at each other, and then looked at me. “Say press up” the smaller elderly man hissed. The two old guys had faces like melted buckets, their chins were bent up towards their foreheads, and there were deep wrinkles all over their wizened faces. Neither of them had teeth, nor any facial bones by the looks of it. Soft squishy sock puppet faces, was all they seemed to posses. “Say PRESS UP” the taller man shouted. “Press up” I whispered. The two old men fell to the floor disappearing behind the wooden bar counter. I had to jump up onto the bar to look to the floor to see where they had gone. The three legged cat jumped with me, its tail flicked. The two old boys were on the floor doing press ups “One Two Three” they were shouting. I was aghast. They must have been 80 years old a piece, they will die doing press ups! “Stop!” I shouted. Just then one of the old guys flopped on the floor and the taller one jumped up to his feet and ran around screaming “I won” “Now I get a whisky” he yelled as he thumped his grizzly hand on the bar. The biker lifted up his fat head and whispered “He wins, you have to give him a drink” and slumped back down again. I gave the old man a whisky. The other elderly bloke was still on the floor; I was hoping he wasn’t dead. Just then at the other end of the bar the biker sprang to life; he stood up and I noticed he was wearing really tight clothes. Either he was wearing the same clothes since 1975 and grew too fat for them or he just like wearing too tight clothes. His blue tee shirt was right up past his fat belly and his jeans were literally garrotting his waist! “I am GAY!” he screamed. He threw his beer on the floor, he knocked over a chair and ran for the door, the three legged cat ran after him hissing! He kicked the main bar door open and ran into the street, the cat still in chase with its hobbled run. At that moment, another scream came from the floor in front of me. The old man on the floor sprung to his feet and wrestled his elderly mate for the whisky. They punched and struggled and ended up spilling the golden liquid over each other and fell back to the floor. Kicking and spitting at each other. I was so frightened I didn’t know what to do next….so I ran and grabbed the old pay phone. I pulled a 10 pence piece out of my pocket and quickly called my boyfriend. “Help! This place is mad!” I screamed as he answered the call. “Let me guess, did two old boys do press ups and fat biker scream that he was gay?” He asked laughing. “Yes, how did you know that?” I said. “That’s ok, that’s a Tuesday” he laughed back “I will be down there in twenty minutes to help before the old boys start drinking petrol and show you their fire eating skills” That was my first time. People are right; it gets better the more you do it.
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I have decided to stop smoking and get fit. Yes…I know …it’s that time of the year when we realise that we are going to be fat and old for another year. This time I know I need to do something about it as I am about to turn 47 years old in January. This is a really important birthday for me as it was the age my mother died at. She was murdered in 1982 at age 47. Her boyfriend back then was called Peter and he took her a walk along the River Clyde and she never came home, but her body was found floating four days later. He never got charged for her killing but often boasted about doing it to anyone who would listen for many years later. I thought back then that my mammy was an old woman at 47, I was so young and never realised that one day I would reach that age and now I am about to hit that date- I don’t feel old. So I need to feel better about myself. My mammy was called Annie, she never got to do or see much in her lifetime. It bugs me and lately I had been feeling very strange about my mammy’s untimely death. Have I done enough? Would she be proud of me? Would she have loved my book? Would she hate me spilling out the family secrets? Would she read my column in the Scotsman newspaper? I know she would hate me spilling the big dark secret about her brother David Percy sexually abusing me. I don’t regret speaking out about the abuse, so she would just have to deal with that one! I wish she had done more in her life; she never got to fly in a plane. She never got further than Yorkshire on her travels. She never got to stay in a five star hotel or eat in a decent restaurant. She never went into to town and got to buy herself wonderful clothes or decent shoes. She never had much. Yet she never complained much either. She accepted her poverty and pain the way people like her too often do. Her life was her lot and she took that on without much comment. We lived in a dirty flat; we were penniless and lived hand to mouth from week to week. Everyone was in much of the same mess. I always wanted more; I never wanted to live like that. I challenged how we existed and dreamed of a better life. I never once accepted that living in poverty was an acceptable situation. I hated everything my mammy represented- yet I didn’t hate her. I got annoyed that she never wanted more or fought against the shit she lived in. Maybe she was beaten a long time ago? I never wanted to raise a child in poverty, or live on benefits. I know that’s its not easy for people to get out of that trap and it can be so bloody difficult to try to, especially when the government make it harder. My way out was easier, I suppose. I married a man whose father owned bars, so I automatically walked into a career. In actual fact I got paid less than the staff who weren’t family! Work that out! But I stuck that out for 15 years. I never wanted to be a barmaid. I hated everything about it, but I knew if I worked there I could save up and get my child into a private school. So I shut up and carried on. I saved and saved for years. I never got new furniture or fancy clothes, I never owned jewellery, and I never drove a fancy car. I saved every penny I could. I realised whilst writing this that I have achieved something’s I promised myself from way back then. When I was young and living with my mammy, I swore an oath to myself that my child would never worry about the electricity getting cut off, being evicted, being dirty or being poor. I have achieved all of those things. I am proud of that and I know that my mammy would be proud of that too. Ashley has never been poor or hungry or dirty. She has always been secure and safe in the knowledge that she would be given shelter, love, confidence and a belief in her. I did that. I just wish my mammy was here so I could that for her as well. I am going to be 47 years old soon and I will be ok.
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Well it was a tiring day for us. I was awoken by at least five calls and ten text messages beeping on my phone. I am not annoyed, I have friends! I got up and staggered through to the living room half asleep and realised it was 1pm. It was the middle of the bloody day, what is everyone doing still asleep? Ashley was tucked up tight and husband was snoring. I recalled the days when Ashley was up at 7am to rip open gifts, but now at 21 years old, she no longer needs stuff that much. She knows Santa is the Scottish name for the Visa card. Ashley finally got up and started preparing dinner, we were eating at 7pm as opposed to lunch, and we don’t eat that early. Husband stayed fast asleep. Ashley gave me my gifts which included an extensive selection of body scrubbing materials; I may have flaky skin and smell too much if these gifts are any way representative of why gifts are given in the first place. Husband got his usual favourite DVD’s that Ashley buys him every year. Husband and I never got each other gifts as we agreed not to in advance. It was a nice day, husband got out of bed, Ashley’s friends arrived and we all had a big giant feast of a dinner. I am stuffed and I am sure my knickers are about to burst under the strain. So there we have it another Christmas come and gone.
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Standing in the bank, I got pissed off at the size of the queue. The bank was crowded. In front of me was a really wee old lady, she was wearing a wee pink woolly hat and leaning on a stick. We had about nine people to go in front and I decided to tell the wee old woman to sit down. “You go sit in a seat and I will hold your place for you” I assured her, she thanked me and hobbled off to the seating area. The queue started to gather up behind me. Then finally it was my turn, which technically is the old lady’s turn so I turned round and shouted “Hey there! come on it’s your turn” The old woman got up smiling and headed towards me when a fat woman in a big furry hat and woolly scarf poked me in the back and barked “Actually that’s queue jumping” “No, I held her place because I was being nice, I let her sit down and I held her position” I snapped back “Oh and by the way never poke me in the back again” “Well technically she isn’t actually in the queue” the fat middle class posh accent argued back. The old lady staggered off to the teller looking quite distressed at the situation. “Ok, technically you don’t have a conscience, what are you the queue Nazi? The woman is old and infirm, I let her sit down… what part of this are you not getting fatty? I shouted. “I am of Jewish decent and I find that comment offensive” she smugly quipped. “Well technically we are all of Jewish descent, Jesus was a Jew and we are all his children so unless you are claiming to be actually Jewish then deal with it, and as far as I know Jewish people are either Jews or not, there is never really a half way declaration on that situation. And I still think you are a queue Nazi, so shut up fatty you are annoying people because I helped an old lady” I shouted. The bank tellers were watching the situation develop, the other people in the queue were tutting and making exasperated noises, either at me or at the fat furry woman, I didn’t know or care. Then it was my turn and I was being served and at that point the wee old lady with a stick came over to me and thanked me for my help, she then turned to the Queue Nazi and said with the most polite voice I have ever heard “You my dear are an affront to human nature, this lady is a good Samaritan, you are a bad spiteful unhappy woman and your hat looks like a cat” and off she went with her stick! I laughed out loud. The Queue Nazi stood there embarrassed and everyone smiled as the old lady walked slowly to the automatic doors. She went through them, turned and waved at me through the plate glass windows. I waved back and stuck my tongue out at the Queue Nazi and left the bank as well. A good day all round as far as I am concerned.
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I finally got my Christmas tree up. Husband did drag it out of the cupboard and huffily dumped it on the carpet. I clapped my hands, I love my tree…he hates it. Husband has an aversion to all things Christmassy and it annoys me to death. I felt like getting a bobble from the tree and shoving it down his throat. I am not really prepared for the ‘big day’ as Ashley is in charge of the food and I am in charge of the presents. Ashley is getting a new computer and she has decided not to buy it till January as she will get more for her cash. Husband and I have declared a no present zone, he won’t buy me and I won’t buy him …anything. I don’t need anything and don’t want it either. It’s a waste of cash. So only my mum and dad are getting a gift this year. I can’t believe it’s another year already. It seems like last month Ashley was singing in the school choir. Standing in her lovely green uniform and singing carols, me with a wee tear in my eye... Where did the time go? Life goes too fast for me…I will 47 soon. The age my mother died at.
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