Baby Abi and Autumn Leaves 10/11/2007 Europe/London +0100 BST

Went over to see my favourite wee great-niece Abi, her wee sister Julia and big brother Shawn, they are so cute. Shawn is ten, Abi is four and wee Julia is one year old now and is almost walking about. They are the kids of my niece Ann Margaret.

Abi is the funniest wee human being in the world and features on my videos, etc.

I walked into the hall and their nasty grumpy cat ‘Squeak’ wrapped itself around my leg and purred loudly. This is highly unusual as Squeak is an evil grouchy cat that hates everyone and everything except shitting and eating.

“Why is the cat nice?” I asked Abi, as Squeak shoved its ass right up my leg, I suppose I should have guessed.

“Well mummy says Squeak wants a man cat to kiss it so they can have kittens and when she is like this, she gets all cuddly, but only her bottom likes cuddles coz her head still bites you” Abi explained to me. It was clear to see that the evil cat was on the heat and was all horny; I was disgusted at her blatant sexual advances and tried to shake her off my leg.

I went through to the living room and wee Julia was standing holding onto a table, doing the wobbly leg dance and scaring the beejebus out of me as she almost knocked her eye on the corner of the sharp edges. I hate this baby stage when wee babies are practically suicidal and constantly crack their heads on floors and other household objects. Why can’t we just wrap them up in bubble-wrap until they are three years old?

I walked out of the room for a minute and came back in to see Julia being ass rubbed by the evil cat, I yelped out loud as Julia appeared to be sticking pretend play money up the end that the cat was shoving in her face, the cat looked pleased and Julia was amazed that the cat was letting her near without trying to scratch her big blue eyes out.

“Oh dear, I think plastic money has been shoved into the cats nana, Julia has been sitting with her on the floor and that’s what it looked like she was doing…I am sorry” I explained to the baby’s mum Ann Margaret.

“Oh Shit, get her back from Paris Hilton the cat” Ann Margaret screamed and washed the baby’s hands and prised the plastic coins out of her wee chubby tight fist.

I got Abi dressed and took her out a walk to the local park. The sun was shining so bright and we both took our coats off and put them in the buggy. I decided to bring the baby’s buggy so Abi could get a wee push in it, she had to become a big girl at three years old when Julia was born, but she loves a push in the stroller occasionally.

The trees in the park were so beautiful with their autumn leaves all fluttering down and making a gorgeous carpet of red and gold on the pathways.

“Look Aunty Janey, the leaves are so pretty, lets collect some and make an autumn picture with glue when we get home” Abi gasped as she leapt from the stroller and started picking up armfuls of crispy leaves.

She stopped every second to show me yet another leaf, “Look at this one, it’s so beautiful, feel it Aunty Janey” she held out yet another red leaf with awe and wonderment, like she had just discovered leaves for the very first time.

Her wee face was a picture; she truly loves nature and flowers. We approached the lake and she leaned round in the stroller to look up at me and shouted “Remember I fell in the lake last time it was summer?”

“Yes, I do remember, you scared the hell out of us all, why did you fall in?” I asked.

“Well, I thought I was at the side and then I looked down and just fell over and my head went in first and the water tasted like fish” her wee cute face and lispy mouth were so animated, she has amazing big brown eyes and the curliest hair, she is stunningly cute is our Abi.

“Well I am glad you were ok” I told her and we pushed onto the swing park.

Just then a squirrel ran in front of us and stopped dead in our path, its bushy fine tail twitched and it looked at Abi. “Hello wee squirrel, come here so I can see your cute wee face and give you a kiss” Abi beckoned the wee animal, but is scampered into the bushes.

“You can’t touch squirrels Abi, they have sharp claws” I explained.

“I know but their wee faces are my favourite faces on anything, they have really cute faces, not like swans they have angry faces and mice have sharp faces, ducks have silly faces and pigeons have cheeky faces, but squirrels have the nicest faces and I just want to kiss them” she told me in one big long torrent of a sentence.

You forget how toddlers explain every emotion and theory that they have very openly, its so refreshing to be with her, she tells you everything, she feels, smells sees and hears each and every moment it happens. Kids have a running commentary of their landscape and feelings!

We finally made it home and Abi took the leaves upstairs to show her mum every leaf separately and explained the exact spot where we found each leaf, poor Ann Margaret was exhausted. Abi talks more than me.

Then Shawn arrived from school, wee baby Julia’s whole face lit up when she saw her big brother come into the room, she immediately dropped everything she was trying to shove into her mouth and threw up both arms at him.

Shawn, with all the expertise of being a big brother who has already nursed two babies younger than him, scooped her up and held her tight. Julia snuggled into his neck and sucked her thumb contentedly and closed her big eyes.

She promptly fell asleep as Shawn walked around the living room picking things up with his other hand; it’s amazing to see how deft he is with her. He sat down and settled her into the crook of his wee ten year old arms and kissed her head as she sucked away at her thumb snoozing. He pushed his spectacles up on his nose and cuddled her as he watched kids TV and stroked the baby’s head. He was completely nonplussed at having a kid sleep on him as he fiddled with the remote control and continued gently stroking the baby, like he was born to nurture.

Abi clambered over Shawn, she too is his baby sister and demanded his attention, he simply opened up his other arm and let Abi snuggle in there as he watched cartoons and kissed the two wee girls heads. He looked like a wee man sitting there, it doesn’t seem that long ago I was bottle feeding him and pushing him in the pram. He has grown up so quick since the girls arrived.

It makes you feel old watching them all grow up so quickly.

I had a great day in the sunshine, but have to reminiscing about babies as it makes me broody, Ann Margaret always laughs when I say this and promises to give me all three of her kids for a week and see how that sorts my broody hormones out.

I would have them in a minute, but not the hormonal cat- that she can keep.

Late Nigh Walks 09/29/2007 Europe/London +0100 BST

There can be nothing to make you feel more ancient than young people who had out flyers for city centre night clubs avoiding you in the street.

These pretty long legged sexy chicks saw husband and I approaching and almost got hit by a speeding car to make sure we weren’t getting an invite to ‘Hard Rock Sexy Night at The Nice’ n’ Sleazy’.

We laughed, wrapped our warm woollen coats around us and carried on regardless. Young people were hanging out in groups in what can only be described as beachwear, on a dark September night in Glasgow. I don’t ever recall wearing a skimpy pair of knickers and a tiny bra without a coat, in the freezing cold.

As we walked further down the road we came upon a couple of big fat Romanian women selling pink glittery cowboy hats and some cheap cellophane wrapped roses. The fat Romanian woman took one look at husband and offered him the chance to buy a cheap tacky pink hat.

“Do I really look like a man who wears pink plastic cowboy hats? He asked politely as he stuck both hands into his long black cashmere overcoat.
The woman begged for money and we both walked on, I have no issue with Eastern European beggars or hat sellers but if we don’t get offered the nightclub tickets then we surely don’t qualify for the pink hats either. The Romanians need to get some marketing tips from the sexy club promoters.

It had been a good night out; we had gone to a lovely restaurant called The Rogano in Glasgow for our wedding anniversary.

We used to eat there many years ago but since our incessant travelling and busy lives we haven’t really had time to enjoy our own culinary delights in our own fair city for such a long time.

It was lovely and the meal was awesome.

We both decided to take the surprise menu.
It consists of the latest fresh produce and seemed a good idea.

I asked the waiter (who must have about 18 years old if he was day)
“Does the chef come running out the kitchen dressed as a cat, carrying a huge silver platter and as he meows loudly does he pull the lid off the platter and reveal a stuffed mouse?”

The young man, in the very posh restaurant looked at me with frightened eyes and said “No, I think it might be fresh fish” without a smile or any hint of humour.

“Well cats like fish as so that would work also” I added, still trying to be funny, as other diners craned their necks to see who the mad person was.

“She is always trying to be funny, ignore her and please add a bottle of Rose to that order please” husband sombrely spoke. The waiter liked him and hated me and my ‘whacky’ ways.

The food was fabulous. After dinner I decided to go outside to their heated seating area and have coffee and a ciggie, husband brought out his after dinner brandy to join me, it was our wedding anniversary and so we should be together he told me.

Outside there was a small drunken debacle going on with various Glaswegian punters who after too much expensive wine, were going a wee bit mad. Just shouting and staggering about, nothing violent.

The restaurant waiters, who were all dressed in their starched black and whites, were nervously trying to contain the madness.

We sat beside two women in their mid-fifties who were slightly merry and nice, if not slightly beaten down a bit. They had the air of two women who had seen their fair share of shit lives. Just as we sat down with our coffee and drinks, one big fat drunk man stumbled away from their table.

The gas heaters pressed down warmth through the frosty Glasgow air, out door tables are popular since the smoking ban and are always crowded at night.

“That drunk man would not leave our table, but we did get rid of him eventually, he wasn’t bad, just a bit crazy” the blonde weary woman said to us. I think she was concerned that we assumed she and her friend were part of the drunken rabble.

“Well I am sure he meant no harm” husband added and smiled.

Two male waiters milled around the small steel topped tables and started clearing up as the drunks moved out.

The two women explained they were sisters and then just as we were about to toast 27 years of marriage the blonde one blurted out “My son died last year, our mother died this year and my husband died when I was young and our cousin died” she pointed to her sister and added “her husband just got put in a home with a long illness and is never coming out again”

We all sat there is complete silence, the staff shuffled their feet and didn’t know where to look, I didn’t know what to say so I blurted out “My mother was murdered!”
The two women stared at me; the atmosphere was thick with awkwardness and husband burst out laughing and said “It wasn’t a competition; you don’t have to shout out deaths Janey!” He laughed more and clapped his hands with amusement at my odd statement.

The two women laughed as well and I giggled under my breath, the posh starched aproned staff stood uneasily and then they started laughing as well.

“Here is to all the dead people we both know, and to many more years of enjoying the living” I said and lifted my coffee cup, we all clinked glasses and sat smiling.

“Yes, cheers!” said the two ladies.

We all sat chatting some more about life and other stuff that strangers do when they meet, we traded backgrounds and past address’s and spoke about jobs and places we both knew and have been.

“We haven’t been out in years, this was nice chatting” the blonde woman added and smiled broadly.
“Yes, it is nice” I said and it was nice.

The Acid Trip, the Robbers and Nancy the Dog 09/26/2007 Europe/London +0100 BST

Back in 1982 we owned a bar in the East End of Glasgow.

 

 

It was the kind of place that Hollywood directors would later spend millions of pounds recreating when they made films about the birth of New York .

 

 

It was a back street hellhole; the customers wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Tarantino film which had featured vampires, dead people and heroin users.

 

 

The carpets stuck to your feet with years of urine and indecipherable waste that may have dated back to Victorian times.

 

 

The walls were a result of umpteen fires; it had loads of smoke damage and sported that aged, crackled paint which is now fashionable with gays in urban lofts.

 

 

The artwork consisted of the kind that showed dogs and cats dressed in cheap suits playing poker pasted on a tacky mirror. The customers looked like the badly dressed animals in the picture.

 

 

I fitted in: that was the scary part.

 

 

I was only 21 years old.

 

 

We had a pool table. Occasionally, if a fight broke out, the pool balls and cues were used as weapons and stabbing implements. How lazy were our thugs? They didn’t even bother to carry their own artillery.

 

 

We had to buy new pool balls and cues every three months due to the damage they received. New eyes and foreheads weren’t our responsibility.

 

 

One hot summer day, I got very bored.

 

 

It’s not a good sign if you get bored in a place where there might be a police raid every half hour.

 

 

That would be fair excitement to any other soul in a city, but not in Glasgow .

 

 

It merely broke up the monotony of dull drugged men, Duran Duran on the jukebox and a vicious pit bull terrier called Nancy that occasionally came bursting in and bit people at random. We never knew who the evil white snub-nosed dog belonged to, but we all carried a scar.

 

 

It would butt the door open with its hard head, a scream would go up - “ Nancy !” - and people who knew the war cry would leap onto tall stools, the bar or the pool table till Nancy got her fill of anyone who didn’t know the Nancy code.

 

 

Some foolish man would assume that this feared ‘ Nancy ’ was some disgruntled wife coming in for her useless husband and stayed in his place, supping his beer.

 

 

Her jerking evil square-looking head, pink nose and foaming mouth made good use of her twenty second raid.

 

 

Then the poor unaware soul that never jumped to safety got bitten.

 

 

Nancy would run back out of the other door that could be pushed from the inside and off she would go to the next pub on her rounds of biting people, till she got bored as well I suppose.

 

 

So the day I got bored I decided to freak out the young guys who had just dropped acid. Acid was popular back then.

 

 

I knew this was a potent form of LSD as there had been talk of it knocking people mental.

 

 

My plan was this: I would get a local notorious bank robber called Billy who was a customer of mine to fake a robbery in the pub to really freak the boys.

 

 

It would be funny I said, as we plotted the scene.

 

 

There were three young guys at that pool table. ‘One-Ear’ - a ginger haired spotty man with one ear. ‘Bob the Cat’- a diehard punk who wore chains on his neck. And ‘Dodo’- an eighteen year old skinny heroin user who sang Gene Pitney songs with his eyes shut.

 

 

I gave Billy a hand gun that fired blanks. I say this like everyone had a fake gun lying beside the hand wash sink, but this was the East End of Glasgow and that was as normal as having dogs and cats play poker on your walls.

 

 

Then I had to recruit the other ‘actors’. One guy called Ike was, in fact, a real actor and was in the film ‘Gregory’s Girl’.

 

 

I directed the show.

 

 

Ike would be shot and fall to the floor, I would hand over a bag of cash and the gun would then be fired at me and I would die. We spoke in hushed tones till we got the scene right in our heads.

 

 

Billy walked outside and pulled over his face the brown nylon tights I gave him as a mask. I watched through the glass panel on the door.

 

 

He dramatically held the handgun aloft and prepared to run into the bar to play out the scene. At that moment two policemen, who were in a passing car, stopped their vehicle and leapt from it, jumped on him and held him on the pavement.

 

 

“It’s a fucking joke.” he hissed as the coppers tried to cuff him. “We are going to freak the customers out. Go ask Janey.” I am sure they had heard every story and excuse going in the East End . Amateur dramatics were not going to stand up in court they must have reckoned.

 

 

I was wondering what the fuck was keeping Billy. I mean, he didn’t have to get into character - he was a real robber!

 

 

Then I saw through the small door window the policeman started to drag him into a police car and I dashed to the door, opened it and pulled Billy free and shouted at the policemen:

 

 

“What the fuck are you doing? We are playing at me being robbed! Do you know how bored I get in there?” I pointed at the pub. “He is not going to rob me. He is pretending to rob me to scare those three fuckwits who are full of acid. It will be fun!”

 

 

The policemen looked at each other, shrugged and then let Billy free.

 

 

 

“Come and watch through the other door and see it, if you don’t believe me,” I hissed.

 

 

The policemen must have been as bored as me because they agreed and Billy once more pulled the tights over his face, watched as the two policemen ran to the other door on the other side of the building.

 

 

They opened the door quietly and peeped through, unnoticed by the three acid heads who still hadn’t hit one ball and were stoned out of their skulls.

 

 

Billy kicked the door in and screamed: “Everyone on the fucking floor!”

 

 

The three guys didn’t even move, they all stood stock still and stared at the ceiling.

 

 

I stifled a giggle and then Billy ran at Ike. He fired the gun at his head. A huge bang went off and Ike dropped to the floor in his best acting skills.

 

I screamed for effect.

 

 

Then Billy demanded that I hand over the money. I had a big bag prepared and held it over and Billy then shot me. The gun noise failed this time and Billy actually shouted “Bang” to make up for the lack of noise!

 

 

I fell behind the bar and lay there like dead.

 

 

I managed to fall in a position on the floor where I could still see the three pool-playing acid heads.

 

 

They hadn’t even moved! They were all staring at the fucking ceiling.

 

 

Billy held the gun over towards the three guys and shouted: “You saw fuck all or you die!”

 

 

None of them spoke. They all stood stiffly and stared upwards, not moving, not breathing, not looking anywhere but the same spot on the ceiling that they had been visually fixated with since the robbery began.

 

 

Billy ran out. At that moment Nancy the biting dog ran in, she took one look at the bodies on the floor, the men staring at the ceiling, she was totally confused and headed straight for the other door for a quick exit.

 

 

I had never seen that dog looked so scared in my life!

 

 

At the other door she saw the two policemen on their knees peeping through the door. She finally got her victims, leapt and bit one viciously on the head and made off into the street. Barking as she went.

 

 

The policeman screamed, fell into the pub which by now resembled an elaborate game of statues and the three acid trippers dropped to the floor when they saw the policeman in uniform.

 

 

They huddled together under the pool table and clung to each other like doomed men on the Titanic.

 

 

I leapt to my feet and clapped my hands, laughing loudly. The three men under the pool table screamed like girls.

 

 

Ike got up and hugged me and we both took a bow. The three men screamed again. This time one fainted and the other two screamed more.

 

 

The policeman ran around looking for the dog and demanded the first aid box.

 

 

Billy came running in carrying the money bag and laughed at the policeman with the bleeding head and watched the remaining two acid boys scream and scream over and over again. The noise was deafening. Ike and I were laughing our heads off and commenting on each others fantastic ‘death’ positions.

 

 

At that point, my father-in-law came into the pub and tried to make sense of the chaos.

 

 

“What the fuck is going on?” he shouted over the noise.

 

 

“George, it looks bad but here’s what happened. Billy, Ike and I decided to pretend to be robbed to freak out the junkies, the police watched on for a laugh, but one of them got attacked by Nancy the biter and Ike and I pretended to be dead, then Billy ran back in and the guys under the pool table are really scared...funny eh?”

 

 

“Why?” he merely asked, his arms outstretched.

 

 

I looked around at the frenzied scene and said quietly: “I was bored”.

 

 

The three acid trippers lay under that pool table for nearly an hour and could not be coaxed out till the drug finally left their system. The policemen drove off to the local emergency hospital to get a tetanus jag for the injured cop and Ike, Billy and I decided that acting was a great job and one day I should write a play about the pub.

 

 

“Maybe when I get bored enough” I smiled.

 

 

And one day I did!

 

 

Flybe Are Shit 09/21/2007 Europe/London +0100 BST

Flybe airline in the UK have driven me to near screaming. I was booked to fly out of Glasgow on the 9am flight to Southampton to do comedy from the Thursday till Sunday. So I got up at 7am and made my way to the airport all sleepy headed and irritable. (I don’t do mornings).

As I stood in the queue a man with ginger tufty hair, a mustard corduroy suit and paisley patterned dickie bow just jumped the queue and went in front of me. Normally I would have shouted, but I was too tired and all the other business men who looked like a Gordon Brown look-a-like contest all stood meekly watching. I sighed and stood annoyed but said nothing.

Then the check in desk clerk announced the flight to Southampton was cancelled. We all had to troop over to the service desk for info. Of course corduroy man was there first. He babbled and chatted in his upper class annoying accent for ages as I stood behind him waiting for the information. He then left his place, carrying his entire luggage; he banged into me and knocked my laptop to the floor. He just carried on regardless and marched through the queue.

“Excuse me, you could at least say excuse me or sorry” I finally screamed in frustration.

“I am sorry” He sneered with his head half over his shoulder, like saying sorry to the lies of me was something he never really bothered with.

“Really? Well you don’t sound sorry, just watch where you are going” I answered and I could feel the businessmen shuffle, they probably didn’t like confrontation.

The mustard suited man leaned over and bellowed “Well thank you for being so understanding” in his own sarcastic way.

That was enough for me “Listen up you middle class queue jumper, don’t look down at me and stop acting like you know how to communicate with people, the last time I saw someone dressed like you we were throwing coconuts at their head in a village fair, now piss off and learn some manners”

The men behind me giggled.

The woman at the desk giggled and informed me I had to come back at 2pm for the next flight. I was so angry and tired.

So I duly arrived back at the airport in time to catch the 2pm flight and guess who was seated in the tiny seat on the tiny wee aeroplane beside me? Oh yes mustard dickie bow man!

It was one of those aeroplanes that looks it flew in World War 11. I was horrified and annoyed, the plane was full and mustard man made such a fuss getting into the minuscule seat, banging against me, elbowing me and tried to open a broad sheet newspaper that almost covered my face as he stretched out his yellow corduroy arms.

I hissed “Excuse me, spatially unaware man, this (I indicated my seat area with my open arms) is my dance space and that (I pointed to his wee seat area) is your dance space, do not cross the line, touch me again and I will stab you with a pencil in the eye”.

He looked at me and spoke loudly “You are incredibly rude”

I answered “Yes I am, now shut up and if you speak to me again, I swear I will scream and get that air steward down here quicker than a poof running to a Kylie concert, you understand?”

He shut up.

Finally the plane landed and I watched everyone or almost everyone pick up their luggage. There was about twenty people left standing and we all realised our luggage wasn’t coming. Fucking Mustard man got his luggage though…
My luggage somehow never made it on the Glasgow plane, which I don’t understand, the plane is the size of a skateboard, and how can they fuck that up?

So there I was in Southampton with no luggage, I had to go to the town centre and buy toothpaste, toothbrush and clean knickers.

I checked into the hotel and now I have woken up and it’s Friday, I have a show tonight and no clothes STILL! I need to go into town but its cold and my thick jacket is in that case.

I called John Smeaton back in Glasgow. He is the accidental hero of the terror attacks on Glasgow airport and he is a baggage handler there and a good friend of mine, he is on the case to find my case.

So everyone feel sorry for me today, I am cold, dirty and look like a pikey.

Imagination 09/12/2007 Europe/London +0100 BST

I think I make a good friend to my close pals.

Though according to very reliable sources I exhaust people, I talk too much and I don’t really listen.
This last bit could be true as I know that sometimes when people tell me their problems I am mentally redecorating their flat or imagining what I would do with such a cute alcove. Or I am off on an Arabian adventure.

It’s a problem I call attention deficit disorder. It hasn’t actually been officially diagnosed by a real doctor but it’s my excuse for being annoying when it suits me.
I can fake interest and go away to a place inside my head and run barefoot on a sandy beach.
I have been known to speak and drift away at the same time.

No one really notices this gift except my daughter Ashley.

“Mum, are you listening to me? I just told you I broke my ankle” she said one day in the middle of a conversation about all the things that happened that day at university.

“You haven’t broken your ankle, you are fine” I muttered as George Clooney kissed me on the mouth as I lay in a swinging hammock on a beach in the Bahamas’.
“Yes but I am trying to get your attention” she moans.

I can pay attention and pay lip service in the same moment.

But she says she can see it in my eyes, I have a ‘distant’ look when I am supposed to be focussed.

When I was a child I could very easily take myself out of horrible situations and completely immerse myself in another world. Handy when you are being sexually abused or watching a screaming fight between your parents, good for distraction all round.

I call this gift ‘Drifting’ and I love it. The sheer amount of times I have been in a drudgery of hell and transported myself to another place.
Like when Ashley was a baby and was taking at least four hours to feed on one bottle and by the time that bottle was finished it was the time to start her next feed again!

I would sit there and have conversations in my head with Charles Dickens, Voltaire or have myself walking through some Amazonian rain forest looking at all the different plant life, smelling the deep earthy wet undergrowth or be simply swimming up and down a huge open air pool. The water lapping at the sides of my arms relaxing and refreshing me with every stroke, never once leaving the room or disregarding my baby’s welfare, drifting is a gift.
Sometimes I have had to sit through the worst of comedy nights as new acts or even established acts who have bored me to the utter depths of insanity and off I go…to the Great Wall of China, to tea at the Ritz, to lying on a quiet grassy headland looking out to sea, the gulls above me calling out, the water crashing off the rocks…all easily accessible in the darkest and nosiest of comedy clubs.

Even sexual imagery is a wonderful escape; I can be with any man in any place at any time. The amount of times I have made Brad Pitt exhausted on a train to Edinburgh is obscene. Daniel Craig, the new James Bond has kept me well entertained on tube rides through London, and 50 Cent my favourite rapper doesn’t mind I am 46 years old as he drags his big leather belt off his jeans and strips, dances and lays me down on his bed whilst I have been sitting through a mortgage meeting with my bank manager.

I call it a vivid imagination; my mates call it ignoring them, but who can tell?

Would you rather listen to an hour of ‘What shoes should I buy?’ or go fuck Justin Timberlake in the back of his limo as he begs you for more?

As Einstein once said “Imagination is more important than knowledge”.

Old Dogs & Comedy 09/10/2007 Europe/London +0100 BST

On Saturday husband and I drove through Anstruther; it’s a small fishing village in Fife.
Home to the UK’s best fish and chip shop and near enough to St Andrews’ for us to seek accommodation for the night when I was playing the Byre Theatre.

We decided to stop when I saw sign saying ‘Hotel’.
It was a bar that had self catering apartments attached.
I walked into the pub and there was a wee skinny young woman called Kelly, who told me she was in charge. “Do you have flats for one night?” I asked.
“Aye, we do” she answered.
“Can you show me the room?” I asked her.
She had thin greasy blonde hair, looked tired and pulled out some keys and told me to follow her.

She opened a door which revealed a disabled bathroom in front of us and two rooms either side. In the wee hallway, stood a wee greying dog, it had white eyebrows, a white tufty beard and a milky eye.
It whined constantly and limped about.

“What’s the dog called?” I asked, secretly wondering if we had to stay with an aged crippled dog, did it come with the room.

“Erm…I am not sure I call it Skippy” Kelly said.

I looked at the dog and thought to myself ‘That dog hasn’t skipped since 1978’.

“There is one problem, the disabled toilet here belongs to the bar, and so if someone comes in on a wheelchair, we have to bring them through here to use the loo” Kelly told me. The dog whined and limped more behind us.

“So at anytime you may be in here, in the flat where I am staying with some poor disabled person who needs the toilet?” I asked incredulously.

“Don’t worry, you will have plenty warning” Kelly assured me.

“People in wheelchairs don’t often have much warning when they need to pee” I added.

The dog stared at me and whined again.

“What is wrong with that dog?” I asked as I had a quick look in the 1970s styled living area. All cream plastic sofas, nylon carpets and cheap wood fire surrounds.

“Its owner died last week” said Kelly as she carried on showing me how to work a microwave oven, which I suspect was new technology to her and the locals in Anstruther.

“Look I am sorry but I don’t want to stay here, but thanks” I smiled and went to leave, husband had just arrived as he had been parking the car.

He took one look around and shook his head at the room.
Then the dog huddled at my feet and tried to sleep on my flip flopped feet.
Husband looked at the old grizzled dog and raised an eyebrow in question at the whole scene.

“Ok, then” Kelly said and started to walk out the door.
I tired to follow but the dog started walking with me laboriously and I felt compelled to walk slowly to let it keep up.

Husband and I got outside and I opened the car door to get in and the wee greying dog hobbled at my side and tried to climb into the car.
I looked at its one clear eye, its wee bearded face and wiry coat and felt sorry for it; I leaned down to stroke it and heard Kelly say “Excuse me; do you want to keep the dog?”

Husband made a huffing sneering noise and I looked at the dog then at Kelly and said “Tempting but actually…no…I don’t think it has long to live” I tried to shut the car door and heard her shout.

“It really likes you and its owner died and it’s really sad, you should take it Mrs” She pleaded.

Husband leaned over, gently pushed the wee dog out of the car entry and slammed the door; he revved the engine and drove off. The wee dog stood on the pavement as I watched it disappear in the car mirror.

“We are not collecting old nearly dead dogs Janey” he shouted as I pleaded for him to go back and keep the old dog.

We spotted another B&B place “You go check I will go park the car” Husband muttered.

I stood at the glass door and knocked lightly, I really did want to stay over so I could get a shower and go do my show in St Andrews that night.

I heard loud violent barking, a shape through the mottled glass door looked like it was coming down a flight of stairs, it sounded like a mental dog…again.

An elderly woman with the bluest eye shadow I have ever seen opened the door at a peep as a big black dog popped its head round to bark and growl at me.

“That’s Shelia, he is really a pet of a dog, he was beaten so badly as a pup” she said as I tried to get the dog away from my leg, it was snapping at me.

‘Shelia’ I thought…an unusual name for a male animal, and as far as being beaten? It almost bit my thigh; it may need another punch to the head I thought to myself.

“Do you have a room for the night?” I asked, convinced I could now play the part of Joseph in any contemporary Nativity Play to the full effect.

“Yes, but the dog doesn’t like you so I am not sure if it will work out” she said without any sarcasm. Her blue pasted eyelids scared me and her incredibly black eyebrows were drawn way up higher than her natural ones should be, giving her the look of a very surprised transsexual.

“The dog up the at the hotel near the shop liked me so much the owner almost gave her to me, I am good with dogs” I tried to convince scary eye woman to let me stay.

“She likes anyone that dog, her owner died and she is looking for a new home, she would stay with a dog killer” she sneered at me.

“Ok, can we stop talking about dogs and tell me if you have a room for the night?” I butted in.

“No” said the crazy woman and she slammed the door, the dog barked through the glass and I heard the mad lady say “Don’t worry Shelia, I didn’t like her either”

Husband laughed at the story and convinced me to sit on the harbour and he would go get us fish and chips from the famous chip shop. The queue was fifty deep at the front, as people from all over come to buy their fish and chips there. The place has won all sorts of awards for its tasty deep fried goods.

I sat on the warm stones, took in the late summer sun and wondered where we were going to stay.

I came to the conclusion that we wouldn’t get a place to stay, we may get a dog but no room, so I would head to the Byre Theatre in St Andrew’s have a shower, do the show and head for home.

Husband waited an hour to get the fish and chips and YES it was worth waiting for, so yummy and delicious, so crispy with thick fluffy fresh fish and chunky fat chips.
We sat happily at the waterfront, boats bobbing in the sparkling water, the ancient stones on the harbour wall holding their heat for our fat chip eating bums to rest on.

We arrived at the Byre Theatre in plenty time, the place is so wonderful. I had a great shower in my dressing room, fresh towels and fully stocked green room to have a good cup of tea and a sit down before the show started.

The theatre was almost full when I stepped out at 8pm. I love comedy, I love being onstage…I did 1 hour 25 minutes and that was good value for money for an hour show!

The audience gave me a really good cheer at the end and I walked out front and thanked them for coming along, I love meeting the people after the show.

Some people brought along my autobiography for me to sign, luckily no one brought along a dog for me to keep.

I wonder what happened to wee old Skippy, and who knows how that crazy eye shadow lady gets guests based on her dog’s dysfunctional personality, but what a great day!

The Lake District 09/07/2007 Europe/London +0100 BST

Husband and I took a short break down to the beautiful Lake District. The weather was awesome and so amazing. The place is so startlingly lovely.
The rolling hills that line the stunning lake make a great backdrop to Bowness in the Lake District.

The down side is that Beatrix Potter lived there and after the success of the movie Miss Potter- the place is awash with the biggest amount of Japanese tourists you have ever seen in the UK in one small town. Japanese people LOVE Beatrix Potter more than you can imagine.
Now before you jump on the content of that statement and declare it racist hear me out.

I am not averse to Japanese people or any tourists whatever their nationality but squillions and squillions of them in swarms trying to walk in groups through the tiny wee winding crooked lanes of this teensy wee town is really hard to cope with, especially with the sheer amount of traffic that trundles through the place.

I was almost knocked down twice trying to walk around groups of Japanese people who didn’t think to walk in single lines along skinny pavements that lined the major road through Bowness in the Lake District. It was scary.

Portraits of Jemima Puddle duck and her friends in a shop window made huddles of tourists scream in the street and stop to take umpteen photos of them. How bizarre is that?

After the dodgy walk through the town we decided to stay over for the night and we found a lovely hotel with big views across the water. We both sat there and took in the amazing panoramic sight in front of us. We eventually went down to the hotel swimming pool and had a wee swim around.
After I went down under the warm water, my ear popped and I came up to the surface DEAF in my left ear!
My left ear had managed to compact all the wax it makes and jam itself into the ear drum. I could hear nothing but an echo inside my head and it was infuriating.

So today I got a docs appointment and got my ear syringed, its where they squirt warm water deep into your ear canal at a fast rate, then the wax comes gushing out with the water.
The whole experience isn’t uncomfortable at all...in fact it’s quite…erotic in a way. I am sure there is a G Spot inside my ear and as the water gushes around it, it was quite sexy and nice in an odd way! I may get addicted to it.

Now my health complaints have increased - I have discovered that I have a lump the size of a small pea on my wrist. It’s called a Ganglion or something like that.
Ashley called it a Porpoise as she forgot the word Ganglion and told my dad I have a porpoise on my hand- and the doc told me I have to have it cut out.

So now I have to arrange surgery. Whoopee…I am falling apart slowly.

The Poof the fluffy dog and Ella 09/04/2007 Europe/London +0100 BST

Many years ago I used to hang out in a wee Italian Café in Shettleston where I was born.
It’s a small place Shettleston; it’s the kinda place where if the full moon gets reflected in the local pond, people threw in dead cats to see if they will be resurrected in its magical waters. I am exaggerating, it’s not that mental. But the locals were ‘special’ in some ways.

This café I want to tell you about was a small affair and was owned by an Italian family called the Matteo’s.
There were two middle aged sisters, one called Anna and the other called Ella.
Anna wore a tall white pompadour curly wig which sat tall on her head like one of those profiterole towers often fashionable at cheap weddings.
Ella wore a tall dark one in much the same unusual style. Both were pencil thin and wore heavy black eye make up and big dark beauty spot stabbed on their top lip. Both in skin tight leopard skin clothing. She also owned a wee ginger lap dog called Tootsie.

I knew Ella more than Anna; as she ran the café with her side kick Terry the Poof and the wee dog.
In Glasgow you are usually named after your character, for instance there was also a man called ‘Bobby the Kiddie Fiddler’ because he was a paedophile.

Strangely no one called her -‘Ella the Black Wiggy woman’, but I suppose being gay ear-marked Terry out for his unique name.

Terry was also middle aged and lived in a caravan out at the back of the café where a collection of unseen dogs that barked often were tied to a fence post.

He had a face that sagged around the eyes as he had been beaten too often and the black eyes that had just faded eventually sat like deflated poached eggs on his weather beaten cheeks.
He drank too much booze as well, he would often drag a half bottle of whisky out of his back pocket and take a slug at it between serving up soggy chips and black edged crispy looking fried eggs.

He wore skin tight black jeans, a baggy bright shirt on his scrawny frame and always had a bright pink chiffon scarf tied around his neck in a big fancy bow.
It was the kind of fashion statement that made drunk and angry men hit him often, and I admired his tenacity and the sheer force of will that made him continue to wear it in the face of fear and aggression.

Shettleston was not ready for a man who wore a pink pussy-cat bow tied scarf and flaunted his love of music by camping around dancing and often stood with his hand on one hip.
On his head he wore a tight black beret at a jaunty angle.

He usually had a black eye that was in several shades of fading, the colours ranged from a deep scuddy purple to a pale yellowish green. It somehow suited him.

I was seventeen. I shared his love of music and the café had a great juke box, it was at the height of the ‘Grease’ and ‘Saturday Night Fever’ era and the songs of both top box office films would blare out of that old 10 pence a song silver coloured juke box.
Terry and I would dance. The dogs out back would bark and Ella would scream for more chips.

The café seating area was based around a corner shape with a few boxed-in Formica bench seats that you slid into with fixed Formica yellow tables with aluminium trim.

In the window there was a big ‘Terry’s All Gold Chocolate’ advertisement display made of cardboard that pulled out into a two dimensional image that looked like a big balcony overlooking some Mediterranean lake.
It was dreamy and exotic to me, the cardboard image was of a young beautiful couple dressed in elegant evening wear. They stood at the white stucco balcony and looked out at the still blue water and I often stared at it and wondered if I would ever find such a well dressed man in a dickie bow who would give me chocolates beside a moonlit lake.

Terry would watch me stare at it; he would scoot in beside me, cross his skinny legs and ask “Isn’t that scene gorgeous? I want to go there too, where do you think it is?”

I would shake my head and imagine myself in a big blue dress looking over the calm waters with a sexy man at my side. “How deep is your love” the Bee Gees played in the background and I was whisked away in my imagination again.

I would often joke with Terry and ask him if he was the chocolate man in the advert of the same name and he would laugh back at me “Yes, I am the chocolate man, I melt when you hold me tight” and then he would twirl around as he held aloft a plate of greasy chips, and then bend elegantly and kiss the cardboard man in the dickie bow and evening suit. I would giggle and clap my hands.

Ella would scream at the top of her voice and tell me to stop encouraging him.

The heart of the café lay with Ella’s wee dog Tootsie.

It was a tiny pom-pom orange dog, I don’t know the breed, but it was strange looking.
It had a reddish coat like a fluffy squirrel’s with a wee pointy blackish face and tiny wee skinny sleek ginger legs that peeked out of the fluffy body.
It yapped constantly and bit everyone it came within six inches of.
It was small enough to be the size of a handbag.
The wondrous and bizarre thing about the evil ginger fluff ball was…it often had a heart attack.

Now I don’t know if it was actually a heart attack, but it would yap furiously and then fall on its back, like the biggest drama queen alive, then it would gasp and Ella would scream.

She would physically throw the hot chips and runny eggs at the wall, run around hysterically, Terry would flap his hands and scream like a banshee as his scarf got entangled in his face and Ella would demand anyone that was present to press on the chest of the wee upturned dog till it came back to life.

That role often fell to me, I would jump up…as if I had been trained in dog CPR, and then grab the orange smelly beast, clear the Formica table with my hand like you see professional doctors do in preparation for an emergency operation.
The dog would be put on the table, I would press onto its wee tufty orange haired chest a few times and then it would leap onto its scrawny legs and bite me, every time.

Terry and Ella would be running into the street screaming around each other as passers by would gawp at them, realise the dog was having an ‘attack’ and carry on as normal.
Customers would sit and wait till the drama passed and Ella would not come back in till the dog was standing at the door yapping again, she would scoop it up and kiss its horrible wee mouth as Terry stroked it and whispered soft soothing words.

Then the café would get back to normal.

One time when I was being Janey the Dog Doctor, a young tall boy who worked in the bar across the road from the café came in and watched me perform on the beast and quietly said to me “That dog pretends to die every day, you do know that don’t you?”
“Yes, I know but it scares Ella”
I could feel him smiling at me as I kept my eyes down on the dog, which was now back on its feet.
Its attack was not as life threatening that day; I think the young guy’s honesty shamed the wee animal.

He laughed and said “Her and Terry are a couple of fucking drama queens, they love the attention”

I stared at him angrily, his deep brown eyes held my stare.

I snapped back “Some people need a wee drama to get through the day”.

He shrugged and walked away.

He left slamming the door behind him and it shook the fancy cardboard display that fell from its position and landed flat on the floor.
The Mediterranean was upside down and the happy couple landed in some cola that was spilt on the floor. I gasped at the sight of it – it was all collapsed and distorted looking.
Terry rushed to pick it up; he looked at me and wiped it down with a wee cloth and then he carefully put it back up at the window.

“All good Janey, nothing damaged” he spoke softly “The happy couple are fine”
Terry looked at me and patted the cardboard man on the head and came over to see how Tootsie was recovering.

“That boy fancies you” Terry said as the dog jumped back up and viscously bit my arm.
“I don’t like him, he is a dick” I snapped as I sucked at the bruise on my wrist.

Terry smiled and winked at me.

I wonder what happened to Terry, Ella and Tootsie; I hope they lived happily ever after.
And that tall boy who came into the cafe?
Well Terry was right, he did fancy me and we married three years after that meeting. To think we met over a dog that pretended to be dead in a café where a gay man with a bruised eye and jaunty cap worked with a woman in huge black wig.

Age got me 09/01/2007 Europe/London +0100 BST

I never thought I would be old enough to buy a face cream for wrinkles…and today I did just that.
It sort of crept up on me without me knowing, did age.
It sneaked in during the night one dark winter and slipped into my left knee and sustained it creaky. One sunny day as I squinted at the sun, it sat slippery on my eyelids and left them saggy.
On an ordinary Wednesday it visited me quietly in between a cup of tea and cake and wrapped its evil self around my tummy and made it bloated. It walked up to me one day and pulled my face down wards and walked off without even a word of hello.
Age is disdainful friend; it never comes when you want it.

Where was it when I was desperate to get into a bar in 1978 when I was 17 years old?
Also I needed age to come by when a drug addict challenged me to fight when I owned a bar in 1984, I could have done with a few years on me as the junkie tried to throw a knife at my head, age could have helped along with its twin sister ‘wisdom’.
Had I been older I wouldn’t have jumped the bar and tried to get the knife off him.
I wouldn’t have a wee scar on my arm, if age and wisdom stopped by for a chat that day.
I don’t need age or wisdom now that I am old.

I am still 20 years old inside and age knows this - yet fights me everyday for the struggle over control of my skin and bones.
I really still expect the young guy who sits outside the local bar to check my ass out as I walk past. How dare age take this small pleasure away from me?
I loved wearing a short skirt and showing off my shapely legs in my 20’s now I know age mocks me and highlights the bumpy bits on my shin, that’s age making sure I know its there. It hates being ignored.

Now young men look at me and wonder if I have a hot daughter, they silently check their mobile phone and decide to call their mothers as I have reminded them that mum’s should never be forgotten.

“Do I look sexy to you?” I asked my husband.
“Always Janey” he smiled with crinkled eyes.

His short brown hair that is flecked with grey reminded me that he too had got bitten by age.
Where was the 16 year old skinny boy that used to stay awake and plan out our escape from the families that held us down? The small town life that made me ache to travel and see places I had read about in my school atlas. We were going to see the world.

We would sit up naked in that filthy single bed that was covered in nylon sheets.

Those hideous sheets made us sweat more than ever, and we would just devour each other till the sun finally peeked through the cheap thin curtains on the dirty windows of the East End flat we shared.
Grimy marks on the scummy windows made obscure reflections on the wall opposite from the light outside and we would lie there, stuck to each other and point out what the shapes meant to us.
I once saw an outline that resembled the face of Lee Marvin, husband thought it looked like President Kennedy, I told him he thought that because he was a Catholic.
We laughed for ages, he jumped up naked and rubbed the stain on the glass and it then looked like a cinnamon bun.
We swore we would never kiss or look at other human being till we died.

We had age at bay in those days, age never dared to show its jealous face back then, it was away making paper out of the skin of the elderly neighbours. It was too busy to bother with us.

I would look at my mother and her friends back then, women in their early 40’s, with bare mottled legs, wearing their husband cheap chequered socks on their feet that were stuffed into slippers as they stood hanging out a washing on the line.

The smell of hot fat that sizzled away at the cheap meat cuts in a frying pan wafting out of their small kitchenette windows made me feel sick, and I knew I would never be them.
I smirked at their lack of ambition, made snide remarks about their dull drab lives and swore I would be well dressed with shiny hair till I died. I will never be one of them.

Age caught me being nasty and got me right between the eyes, it watched me from afar and waited for me, it sniggered at my naivety and jumped me like a rapist in the night, it got me hard when I least expected it.
My dark hair started growing in white; my skin lost its bounce and my eyes grew dull.

Age roared upon me like a funeral sheet that is slowly dragged up a corpse, first the feet, then the knees, then the torso and finally it covered my face. It got me. It wrapped itself around me like a hug from a dirty man who has the audacity to touch you and just when you think he will let go, he holds fast.

I am old. I am 46 years old.

I won’t wear my husband’s socks, I will never fry cheap cuts, but I have the wrinkles and the marks of a woman who has lived long enough to know that age is never a friend- it’s neither an enemy. It’s just there to remind me I lived. I had a life.

Thoughts of Me 08/30/2007 Europe/London +0100 BST


I have realised that after 27 years of marriage I may have brainwashed my husband or at the very least wiped out his past memories. He told me that the inner voice that everyone has, you know the voice that reminds you to shut the door or zip up your fly, has been replaced from his voice to MINE!
I now occupy a space inside his head that tells him to ‘Go pee’ ‘Go make tea’ and ‘Don’t talk, she is busy’ that’s a result as far as I am concerned.
How exciting. I hope I don’t tell him to strangle me in my sleep.

Ashley is back to normal and her room looks like Hiroshima post bomb and I believe my entire coffee mug set lives in there with various states of penicillin type fungus growing slowly. I don’t actually want to think about it but I know I must go on a cup hunt and rescue them before they manage to develop a cure for some unknown strain of Asian flu or Foot and Mouth disease. I opened her door yesterday and I am sure I saw a clumpy sad Buffalo stomp around the knickers and bra’s that are strewn all over the floor, it must be eating the left over pizza that is dehydrating on the window ledge beside her DVD collection.

I have no idea what goes on in that room, it’s like Narnia in there.

“Don’t go in there” my husband warned me.

“Was that my voice in your head that told you to tell me that?” I asked him.

“Shut up Janey, stop being horrible” he snapped at me “She is entitled to her privacy” he added.

“Yes she is” I agreed “But she is not allowed to start a bio dome project or city zoo in my flat”

“There are no animals or bio hazards in there, you are being over imaginative” he explained as he led me away from her Door of Doom.

“When she gets a boyfriend she will clean it up” husband said.

“She doesn’t want a boyfriend and never has had a boyfriend and if she did have one he would get lost in there; do you think she hates men?” I spoke quietly.

“I can hear both of you” Ashley screamed “I will never get a boyfriend because of you mum, you scare men way and when they see you do comedy they think I am psycho because of the things you say about me on stage, now go away or I swear to God I will adopt a clutch of scabby disease ridden cats and give you all fleas”

I may to have to rethink my mothering skills, I hope I haven’t stopped her from getting a boyfriend; I was married at her age. She is a beautiful talented young woman and is fed up people assuming she is a lesbian because she hasn’t dated yet.

She did tell me she saw the most gorgeous man in the world in Amsterdam, she watched him walk away and now every man she ever meets will have to be up the mysterious man in Amsterdam’s standard. How hard will that be?
There is nothing worse than having fallen for a man who has never actually spoken to you. Is he gay? Is he a misogynist? Is he married?
She has so much to learn and I think the last person she needs to learn from is me!