Posts

Oh, by the way, buy a toothbrush, I know you have hardly any cash but seriously that stuff they say about decay is right, a toothbrush is important. By the time you are 40 years old you will have paid £2,000 in veneers and bridge work at a private dentist.

Yes, you will have private health care; I know it’s hard to believe right now.

So, get the record player turned off and start staring at school books. Try harder to understand maths and don’t give up on art or English, you will be good at both in future, just try to understand me when I say you will write, paint and you really need to understand percentages when you get older.

I know it’s the 70s but please don’t wear a plaid shirt tied at the waist with your curly fringe hanging over your eyes, and if you do have to look like that please don’t get a Polaroid photo taken in Mr Woods garden, I have seen the picture and it made my eyes water. It is even on the internet, something I can’t quite explain right now, but will be really big in the future.

The 1980s are just around the corner and hair perms get really fashionable. Please DO NOT get a perm, you have really curly hair and it will result in you being housebound for three days, and a hair-do that makes Gladys Knight and the Pips jealous, no white girl should have hair bigger than Diana Ross.

If you are still not convinced of this advice, go to the local library and look up a boxing promoter called Don King and never ever forget that that’s what you will look like if you get a cheap perm in a Parkhead hair salon called ‘Hair Flair’ in 1981.

Also just to save you a lot of time, money and energy, you CANNOT skateboard, play the violin, do yoga, cook soufflé, wear strapless bras, pink eye shadow and you will never enjoy ballet performances.

Oh, by the way, that dream you had about a TV being made into a wrist watch? That actually gets invented. You were a visionary!

So Janey, don’t go into school tomorrow and declare that you are leaving, I know you have a shoe issue, but take up your mums offer to wear her slip on sandals and get through the week. Having no shoes is not good enough excuse to screw up your life.

Your dad will buy you shoes next week. Go there in your bare feet if needs be as you really need to go get an education, get into university and leave with a degree, if you do that, me getting into jobs later in life will be a hell of a lot easier, people are snobs and TV companies prefer folk with a Uni degree, even if they are shit at the job, it helps on paper.

Just on another note, your breasts will grow, I know they look like two moles poking their noses through pizza dough, but they really get big, seriously big and it is amazing how much they get big, have I emphasised that enough? Big boobs Janey will be a nickname.

Don’t throw a medicine ball at a guy called Craig Armstrong on your hockey pitches, he is a wee bit older, geeky and likes music. He really becomes the most famous person from your school and is an amazing composer. You will love his stuff and download it (don’t ask what that means suffice to say you will never use vinyl records forever, but do keep them safe anyway). Just avoid hurting him, especially his fingers, they are his life and don’t call him a tweedy fuckwit, its makes him never want to speak to you again. He has a really long memory.

Tonight when you watch Sale of the Century on the telly, don’t let your mum slag off Nicholas Parsons, when you get older he will become a nice friend and you will feel bad about your mum shouting at the TV and calling him an ‘English Toffy Nose Bastard’.

I know you are wondering what the hell happens later in life, so far I have scared you with dental work, big tits and Nicholas Parsons, but bear with me.

Sometime soon, you will get a boyfriend called George; he is really quiet, drinks too much and has deep psychological issues. What you think is a quirky attitude is actually a dark violent streak; he likes to stab men with a knitting needle.

He might be a good kisser and doesn’t push you into sex, but he really does get into needles later on in life and they aren’t for knitting with. Who knew heroin would be such a big hit in inner city Glasgow?

You will break up with him when he asks you to marry him, one suggestion -don’t laugh out loud, remember the violent streak?

He doesn’t take rejection or laughter in his face very well.

Ignore him and walk away. But worry not -you do make a lucky escape.

I do really want to warn you about the next man, but if you don’t marry him, go through the scary shit you don’t get to produce a beautiful daughter and become a funny comedian.

I suppose you need to tread that crap to be the woman you need to be, but the husband is ok. It’s amazing how annoying he can be, but here’s a clue, don’t talk too much. I think you need to know that the talking thing bothers people, keep some of that inside but if and when you meet your husband’s family and feel like being cheeky, go right ahead.

You actually develop a really good repertoire for arguments and you usually win.

Don’t worry about jobs, you actually become self employed from a young age and that continues throughout your life, and stick to your theory about not drinking, not smoking and never touching pills or drugs. You were right about that, and in later years if someone offers you something called ‘smack’ you will be right to refuse to smoke it off a foil tube, it kills most of your friends. That sounds scary but trust me it is over in a blink and you eventually write a play about it. Yes, you will write a bit, did I mention that? Just try to remember everything as you need to recall it to write it.

Just so you know, you will produce a tall wonderful child, and she will get everything you never had. She will be clean, educated and never need to worry about fresh underwear, your vow for the future of your child to be happy, well fed and educated will come true.

Don’t worry about labour pains; they aren’t that bad as everyone tells you and you recover quickly.

Something else I want to tell you, enjoy your body, you have wee skinny legs, so go show them off. Stop worrying about thinking you are fat, your not, be confident and when those boobs grow take time to watch men stare at them, savour that moment when they are up high and firm, it will feel like a distant memory when you are older…enjoy the pert tits.

Don’t wear baggy shirts to disguise them, get a good bra, a tight tee shirt and get them out there, they look amazing (I know I saw the photo’s) but you will suffer from self consciousness over them, try to enjoy them Janey, it’s a time to relish and it passes before you know it and you will spend your middle ages kicking yourself for hiding them when they had looked their best!

My last big thing I need to tell you, get to know your mum a bit more. She is a bit scatty, but just look at her; make sure you embed every single facet of her face into your memory. Don’t give her a hard time, hug her. Climb into bed and let her read to you, I know you are 16 years old, but she is a great reader and you grow up and take that skill with you.

Breathe in the smell of her, even the strange ones. Touch her face, smile and hold her. She had a crap life and you really want to share some time with her, if possible get that Polaroid camera out and get a photo of you both together. It would be nice, but probably won’t happen.

She needs you, you don’t know that, but she isn’t good at saying stuff that scares her. Let her dance with you, get her to sing a musical with you, let her pick which song she wants and get up and dance around the room.

Hold her tight Janey and don’t ever forget how the skin on her face feels, or the thickness of her hair or the flecks of amber in her brown eyes.

Most of all Janey, don’t give yourself a hard time for wanting more than she had, so go get shoes, get ready for a bra fitting and always brush your teeth, you have a long way to go and I will be here when you get there!

Oh, by the way, buy a toothbrush, I know you have hardly any cash but seriously that stuff they say about decay is right, a toothbrush is important. By the time you are 40 years old you will have paid £2,000 in veneers and bridge work at a private dentist.

Yes, you will have private health care; I know it’s hard to believe right now.

So, get the record player turned off and start staring at school books. Try harder to understand maths and don’t give up on art or English, you will be good at both in future, just try to understand me when I say you will write, paint and you really need to understand percentages when you get older.

I know it’s the 70s but please don’t wear a plaid shirt tied at the waist with your curly fringe hanging over your eyes, and if you do have to look like that please don’t get a Polaroid photo taken in Mr Woods garden, I have seen the picture and it made my eyes water. It is even on the internet, something I can’t quite explain right now, but will be really big in the future.

The 1980s are just around the corner and hair perms get really fashionable. Please DO NOT get a perm, you have really curly hair and it will result in you being housebound for three days, and a hair-do that makes Gladys Knight and the Pips jealous, no white girl should have hair bigger than Diana Ross.

If you are still not convinced of this advice, go to the local library and look up a boxing promoter called Don King and never ever forget that that’s what you will look like if you get a cheap perm in a Parkhead hair salon called ‘Hair Flair’ in 1981.

Also just to save you a lot of time, money and energy, you CANNOT skateboard, play the violin, do yoga, cook soufflé, wear strapless bras, pink eye shadow and you will never enjoy ballet performances.

Oh, by the way, that dream you had about a TV being made into a wrist watch? That actually gets invented. You were a visionary!

So Janey, don’t go into school tomorrow and declare that you are leaving, I know you have a shoe issue, but take up your mums offer to wear her slip on sandals and get through the week. Having no shoes is not good enough excuse to screw up your life.

Your dad will buy you shoes next week. Go there in your bare feet if needs be as you really need to go get an education, get into university and leave with a degree, if you do that, me getting into jobs later in life will be a hell of a lot easier, people are snobs and TV companies prefer folk with a Uni degree, even if they are shit at the job, it helps on paper.

Just on another note, your breasts will grow, I know they look like two moles poking their noses through pizza dough, but they really get big, seriously big and it is amazing how much they get big, have I emphasised that enough? Big boobs Janey will be a nickname.

Don’t throw a medicine ball at a guy called Craig Armstrong on your hockey pitches, he is a wee bit older, geeky and likes music. He really becomes the most famous person from your school and is an amazing composer. You will love his stuff and download it (don’t ask what that means suffice to say you will never use vinyl records forever, but do keep them safe anyway). Just avoid hurting him, especially his fingers, they are his life and don’t call him a tweedy fuckwit, its makes him never want to speak to you again. He has a really long memory.

Tonight when you watch Sale of the Century on the telly, don’t let your mum slag off Nicholas Parsons, when you get older he will become a nice friend and you will feel bad about your mum shouting at the TV and calling him an ‘English Toffy Nose Bastard’.

I know you are wondering what the hell happens later in life, so far I have scared you with dental work, big tits and Nicholas Parsons, but bear with me.

Sometime soon, you will get a boyfriend called George; he is really quiet, drinks too much and has deep psychological issues. What you think is a quirky attitude is actually a dark violent streak; he likes to stab men with a knitting needle.

He might be a good kisser and doesn’t push you into sex, but he really does get into needles later on in life and they aren’t for knitting with. Who knew heroin would be such a big hit in inner city Glasgow?

You will break up with him when he asks you to marry him, one suggestion -don’t laugh out loud, remember the violent streak?

He doesn’t take rejection or laughter in his face very well.

Ignore him and walk away. But worry not -you do make a lucky escape.

I do really want to warn you about the next man, but if you don’t marry him, go through the scary shit you don’t get to produce a beautiful daughter and become a funny comedian.

I suppose you need to tread that crap to be the woman you need to be, but the husband is ok. It’s amazing how annoying he can be, but here’s a clue, don’t talk too much. I think you need to know that the talking thing bothers people, keep some of that inside but if and when you meet your husband’s family and feel like being cheeky, go right ahead.

You actually develop a really good repertoire for arguments and you usually win.

Don’t worry about jobs, you actually become self employed from a young age and that continues throughout your life, and stick to your theory about not drinking, not smoking and never touching pills or drugs. You were right about that, and in later years if someone offers you something called ‘smack’ you will be right to refuse to smoke it off a foil tube, it kills most of your friends. That sounds scary but trust me it is over in a blink and you eventually write a play about it. Yes, you will write a bit, did I mention that? Just try to remember everything as you need to recall it to write it.

Just so you know, you will produce a tall wonderful child, and she will get everything you never had. She will be clean, educated and never need to worry about fresh underwear, your vow for the future of your child to be happy, well fed and educated will come true.

Don’t worry about labour pains; they aren’t that bad as everyone tells you and you recover quickly.

Something else I want to tell you, enjoy your body, you have wee skinny legs, so go show them off. Stop worrying about thinking you are fat, your not, be confident and when those boobs grow take time to watch men stare at them, savour that moment when they are up high and firm, it will feel like a distant memory when you are older…enjoy the pert tits.

Don’t wear baggy shirts to disguise them, get a good bra, a tight tee shirt and get them out there, they look amazing (I know I saw the photo’s) but you will suffer from self consciousness over them, try to enjoy them Janey, it’s a time to relish and it passes before you know it and you will spend your middle ages kicking yourself for hiding them when they had looked their best!

My last big thing I need to tell you, get to know your mum a bit more. She is a bit scatty, but just look at her; make sure you embed every single facet of her face into your memory. Don’t give her a hard time, hug her. Climb into bed and let her read to you, I know you are 16 years old, but she is a great reader and you grow up and take that skill with you.

Breathe in the smell of her, even the strange ones. Touch her face, smile and hold her. She had a crap life and you really want to share some time with her, if possible get that Polaroid camera out and get a photo of you both together. It would be nice, but probably won’t happen.

She needs you, you don’t know that, but she isn’t good at saying stuff that scares her. Let her dance with you, get her to sing a musical with you, let her pick which song she wants and get up and dance around the room.

Hold her tight Janey and don’t ever forget how the skin on her face feels, or the thickness of her hair or the flecks of amber in her brown eyes.

Most of all Janey, don’t give yourself a hard time for wanting more than she had, so go get shoes, get ready for a bra fitting and always brush your teeth, you have a long way to go and I will be here when you get there!

I hate being manipulated like that don’t you?

Christmas or winter to me smells like wood burning and the frosty bright mornings remind me of the seasons changing, I don’t know anyone who boils cinnamon, makes spiced oranges or who mull wine not from present day nor my past, because I wasn’t alive in Victorian times when Christmas came into its own.

It seems we modern folk can’t have our own Christmas identity; we have to hark back to the olden days to get one. Cards and TV adverts show small Victorian dressed children with rosy cheeks and furry muffs staring through bevelled shop windows as their ankle boots are deep in crisp snow. Is there anyone alive who can recall that? NO!

To me childhood Christmas memories are of musty socks hanging over our old coal fire in the front room and my brothers fighting each other with tangerines in socks as weapons. So keep your cinnamon scented wafts, it means nothing to me Mr Supermarket psychological manipulator!

We will be having a quiet Christmas as always, just me husband and Ashley. I might go see my dad on Christmas day as this will be his first as a widower and I would hate that he was lonely. We don’t do family at Christmas, to be honest I don’t really have much contact with my family and the less said about husband’s family the better!

My own brothers and sister are just busy with their own lives, they have kids and husbands/partners of their own and I rarely see them, which is fine with us all. But when I hear of people who all get together and have dinners etc, it makes me hanker for a big family of love. Which is probably nonsense as I am sure that those big families all fight like hell, and are just being nice to each other, at least my brothers and sister don’t fight amongst themselves ( as we don’t get together!).

Went to the docs today and explained about my colon pain and stuff you really don’t need to know which involves my bowels. He told me I would be referred to a specialist called Dr Dover to which I replied “is his first name Ben?” To which my doctor said “No, Why?”

“It was a joke…Ben Dover...the bum doctor…its funny when you say it all together” I quipped.

“Ah, you are a comedian, I forgot” said my doctor with a sardonic look.

So, maybe I am not a comedian after all, Dr Shaw has exposed my lack of humour right there in the surgery at 10am

So life at Godley’s World is ticking along fine, been busy -had an ear infection, went deaf had loads of work and writing hard and this Saturday I am doing my one woman show at Easterhouse Platform The Bridge at 8pm. Do come along if you want, it will be fun!

Last week, my ears decided to totally block up with bricks of wax. Yes, I produce more wax than a queen bee and my ear then cuddles it all around my ear drum and making me deaf. This was a pain the ass as I had a lot of work this week, you try doing a charity auction half deaf!

The people at the Boisdale Club in Belgravia London really helped me out, they raised hands to pledge cash, love those nice folks, but the tartan carpets were odd though. You always know you are in England when you see hundreds of tartan throughout a building.

I then flew home half deaf picking at the ear, filling it with ear drops (which are more expensive than crack per fluid ounce) I now have a healthy ear drop habit, they don’t work. You know what works? Nothing, just in case you were interested, I filled my gungy ears with that stinky expensive fluid and all that happens was that it all ran onto my neck.

I had warm up work for a sitcom called Life of Riley. I needed to hear; I ran to my doctors to get an emergency appointment and was seen by a woman I have never met before. She was either Latin American or faking a funny accent to add a frisson of excitement to my ear examination…or maybe I couldn’t hear her properly. “Are you Spanish?” I asked.

“No, am Asian, is there something funny about the way I speak?” she snapped at me. I had now insulted a woman who was about to poke a big shiny pointy thing into my ravaged tender ear hole, that will learn me.

Apparently the wax STILL hadn’t softened enough for them to syringe it. The wax in my ear is made of titanium steel and is refusing to let the expensive stinky drops soften it down. Perfect.

 “When will it be ready?” I pleaded.

“Three weeks or maybe never” she shouted at my ear.

Must remember to never get Asian people mixed up with Jennifer Lopez, my ears are doomed. So I went home and syringed them myself, fuck it.

So some wax did come out and I can now hear enough to get by.

The warm up work was awesome and tiring at the same time, asking people to laugh at the same joke on set can be weary, but that audience were amazing. Met the lovely Caroline Quentin who helped me out a few times, by coming over and chatting away to the studio audience, and that helped when they got bored of me talking.

I didn’t have to fly to Southampton this past weekend as the Jongleurs comedy club there has shut. I will miss the gig but Southampton was a pain in the arse to get to from Glasgow, so am enjoying a weekend free.

Well I am actually working tonight in Glasgow and managed to fill in the gigs, but the news I am trying to convey is this- I get to stay at home for a weekend!

I am struggling with the no smoking….well actually I started smoking again that’s how much of a struggle I was having. Now I am OFF them again…wish to fuck I could just kick the damn habit.

Some breaking news, I am now selling my autobiography ‘Handstands in the Dark’ through my website and you can click and buy it there www.janeygodley.com

As soon as I walked onto the platform at Glasgow central low level trains, I was greeted by a child’s voice shouting “fucksake” really loudly.

I spotted a young mum looking harassed and trying to deal with a wee toddler in a pram. The baby girl was about two years old and absolutely stunningly gorgeous. She had big amber eyes with thick long eyelashes, a mop of curly blonde hair and cheeky dimpled smile, she caught my eye and shouted “Fucksake” really loudly at me and giggled. I never made a move, inside I was laughing as it was really funny to see a baby say this, but I kept a neutral look on my face.

The mum bent over and tried to shoosh the baby, she then stood up and said “I am really sorry she won’t stop saying that”

“Just ignore her, don’t fuss when she says it and just keep talking to me” I replied as the baby shouted “fucksake” over the top of us talking. People on the station started to stare with disdain at the mum.

The young mum explained “my brothers taught her this and I can’t stop her, she shouted it at the woman in Marks and Spencer’s and at the ticket man upstairs, I am mortified”

“The reason she keeps saying it is because you react so violently or there are shrieks of laughter, she does it because it gets her attention, she is performing and knows her best punch line so well and it’s a solid bit of material, I know I am a comedian and that’s what we do” I said.

The mum and I kept chatting and ignoring the “fucksake” that resonated round the station, eventually the baby stopped shouting it out. She then started to point at other things that caught her eye as soon as she realised her punch line was getting no reaction. I told the mum to give her brothers a good kick in the bollocks about teaching a baby to swear and to completely ignore the “fucksake” until the baby finally gives up on it.

After my ‘parent advice class’ I got on the train to Hamilton.

At the station I spotted a poster for a beauty salon called

‘YA BEAUTY’ which made me giggle, and then there was an advert for

‘THREE BABY BEARDED DRAGONS’ which were wee lizards up for grabs. I love local adverts, they are just awesome.

My favourite was an advert for babysitting which stated in bright red ink marker

‘I LOVE KIDS AND HAVE NEVER BEEN FOUND OR CHARGED WITH TOUCHING THEM AND AM AVAILABLE FOR BABYSITTING’

I can’t think of anyone who would let that person near their kids!

To round off my week, last Friday I went up to Montrose to do a corporate gig and had a great fun night. The weather was horrific during the night, the wind whipped the trees bare and the rain battered the south east coastline of Scotland. I was worried sick, as husband and I had to get up early and head back to Glasgow for my flight to London and I hate travelling in storms.

I sat there in the dark of Montrose at about 4am and willed the weather to change, and sure as hell at 7am Montrose was sparkling in the autumnal sunshine! We managed to get to Glasgow airport in time for my flight to London.

I had a wonderful gig at the 99 club in Leicester Square, but woke up in London with my left ear totally blocked. I hate that, it is like being underneath water; it makes me partially deaf and hurts like hell.

I had an audition in London and went along half deaf, I was worried sick they would ask me questions and I wouldn’t catch what they said. It went all right and I am hoping I did get the job.

So am back in Glasgow and still have one deaf ear, husband is pissed off repeating everything, and daughter is now miming things to me and asking me questions in the form of physical theatre and dance. Hopefully my ear will unblock or the doctor will revise his ‘we don’t syringe ears’ policy and help me out OR a car will hit me on the head and my ears will pop.

Whatever site you are reading this on, please enjoy and accept my heartfelt thanks for all the support, here is my 1000^th blog…

Nut Brittle and frayed tempers…

I love Lidl as the moment, their fresh trout and their low fat frozen yoghurts are the best I have EVER eaten in my food noshing life.

“Excuse me do you have nut brittle, I got it here last week and it was in your Greek produce section, where is that been moved to?” I asked a podgy faced man in the fresh veg aisle.

He pointedly ignored me and carried on talking about some bank loan he applied for to a wee red haired bloke who was stacking up Christmas cards against chocolate flavoured Santa’s.

“So, I called the bank and they have refused my loan…” he droned. I watched the red haired bloke bend down deeply into the display as if he was trying to hide inside it. Podgy face carried on regardless, his bank conversation needed to be aired.

I walked off and decided, rather than do my usual thing and argue with spotty penniless podgy man, I went in search of the nut brittle on my own.

I got absorbed in my wee Lidl shopping experience and as I turned into another aisle I stumbled yet again on the podgy bank loan refused shelf stacker, he was still droning onto the red haired man “So, I then asked to be put through to head office and they kept me…” at that the red haired bloke leapt up and screamed “Shut the fuck up you annoying smelly bastard”

The red haired man threw a big tantrum and started to pull down all the Christmas trees and boxes of cards whilst screaming at the top of his voice “Fuck you Colin”. Fat podgy man (who I assume is Colin) stood there aghast, and then decided the best thing to do was run away from the devastated Christmas area and leave red haired man to explain himself to the manager who was fast approaching having dashed from the Polish fish display.

Just at that moment the woman from Afghanistan who sells the Big Issue outside (she is called Tick Tack- I swear to God that’s what she told me) well anyway her dog which is called ‘Bad Dog’ got off its leash and ran towards the melee and bit the poor ginger haired shouty man, then tried to rape a Christmas tree by humping it hard with it wee pink tongue hanging out.

Chaos ensued, Tick Tack started running after Bad Dog and chased it back out of the store and ginger man had to be calmed down. The Lidl is just so crazy on Tuesdays – I found the nut brittle, it is so delicious you should try it.

So after my Lidl experience I headed up to Easterhouse Platform Theatre ‘The Bridge’ and got some posters prepared for their display, ticket sales are going great and you can come see the show on November 14^th, just call  0141 276 9696 or email them info@platform-online.co.uk for tickets, give them your details and they will get back to you.

Am still reeling about the closure on some Jongleurs comedy clubs after a take over of the company last week, loads of comics, staff and management have lost- jobs, cash and future work and I am just hoping they all recover at this difficult time near Christmas.

Secondly I LOVE the way Irish people say ‘wee’ all the time.

“Do you have a wee key to your room? Do you want a wee help with your case? Do you have a wee credit card so we can have a wee swipe at it?” that’s awesomely lovely. I also flew on a wee plane called Kevin Keegan (yes it really was called that) and couldn’t stop giggling that I was inside Kevin Keegan and arrived at George Best airport, football players are so big in aviation.

The Ulster Hall was just lovely and I did enjoy the Amnesty gig, all the people were so bloody good onstage.

So after all that I went for a ‘wee’ cup of tea outside Oscars champagne bar in sunny/rainy Belfast. It didn’t look like a champagne bar as it actually sells Danish pastries and breakfast buns. I just sat my arse down on a wee seat when a woman sat opposite and called me a cunt for no good reason. She then told me all about Frank in 1967 and how he was a cunt as well. She had a mullet hairdo and skin that look like crumpled tin foil that had been flattened out but refused to go smooth, I called her Scary Betty. She had the haunted eyes of a woman who could set fire to trees just with her memories. Her continual rant never stopped when my niece Ann Margaret called, in fact she could hear Scary Betty in the background.

“Aunty Janey, I can hear a nutty woman in the background are you sitting beside a Looney?” She asked,

“Yes, I am” I answered, Scary Betty leaned over and whispered “Tell her to go fuck herself”

“She can hear you Ann Mags, you’re not really helping by talking about her” I giggled.

Scary Betty stared hard at me and then a great thing happened, three Asian men sat down. Scary Betty shut up, she knew that shouting at them would be really bad, so went back to hissing filth at me, as me being white could not take offence to her abuse…apparently!

Eventually the waitress came out and told her to leave, Scary Betty stood up and told the Asian men that nobody likes their music (which was the least racist thing she could say) I meanwhile breathed audibly and went back to my newspaper. The smell of stale sugar puffs magically disappeared as she left and that was just a bonus.

Bigger news was taking afoot but I didn’t know that, though I was about to find out. Jongleurs comedy clubs had a big meltdown. If you are unfamiliar with Jongleurs they are a comedy chain that hire loads of comics every weekend and huge amounts of staff in their popular clubs.

Apparently, and I am not sure of the entire facts, but the company got bought out and it means that in the hand over five clubs have been closed for good. Nottingham, Southampton, Bristol, Oxford and Bow have been shut. I was gutted as I am booked into Nottingham this weekend, any way my personal grief gave way as I realised that almost 200 jobs have been lost, throughout the company. I will miss all those lovely people who made me welcome and who always checked my happiness levels before I went onstage. Bless all those poor folks who have lost their jobs, I wish I could do something for them. I am thinking of you all as Christmas approaches.

So therefore I have the weekend free, and will have some weekends to fill but am not that fussed as I am a comedian and will pick work up anywhere.

On another note, I am looking forward to Christmas as I am going to be home this year and near my dad. I love him and he will need me this year as he is alone, it will be nice to share it with him.

Also have a big audition coming up in London and will need all the luck I can get for that one!

Speak soon.

As I was walking through sunny scary hotbed of terror that is Leeds, I sat by the little river and took in the view. A man approached wearing inappropriately short shorts, you know what I mean, over 40s mens shorts should be below knee, under 20s men shorts can be showing some clam if they want, they are young and their skin still fits them. This man was in his 50s and was grossly over weight, the shorts were disgustingly tight, and I couldn’t stop staring at his crotch which is disturbing to say the least.

Of course saggy ball man sat right beside me on the lonely tow path, what else do you people expect?

“Lovely day isn’t it? Do you like robin red breasts?” he shouted into my face, I realised he look a bit detached and possibly slightly special needs.

“Erm…yes they are nice” I stuttered.

He then pulled out a Christmas card with a robin on the front and shoved it in my face. “Nice” I said and prepared to leave. He grabbed my arm to sit back down; I looked anxiously around for some help as tight short baggy ball man might throw me into the river.

“My name is Barry and my mum is dead” he whispered.

Now, in my head all I could think was ‘has he just killed her?’ or is he disturbed because she died years ago?…I was getting scared by the minute…I always imagined how I would die, but I never thought I would end up in the river at Leeds by a fat man wearing shorts wielding a robin red breast Christmas card.

“My mam died years ago and she gave me this card” he said as I sat back down and his arm was gently now resting on mine.

I suddenly didn’t feel scared, I felt sad for him. We chatted for a while and he told me things about his mam and how she used to sing to him and after she died he lived in a big home and made pottery.

His speech was rather stilted and childlike and I didn’t feel threatened. Then we just sat in the quietness and he had a wee sleep! Yes, he napped as he clutched a Christmas card in his hand. After about half an hour I heard a woman shouting at us along the pathway. She hurried up to us as he jolted awake.

“Barry, what have you been told about wandering off?” she shouted at him. She wasn’t being angry more concerned and I explained he had been sitting with me chatting. Barry was all confused and stuttering out sentences trying to explain himself.

“Barry was having lunch with us at the river side pub along there and just disappeared, didn’t you Barry?” she calmed down, but still looked harassed.

He got up and staggered a wee bit, I think he was tired. The woman just took his arm and walked him off. They got about 30 feet away when he turned and shouted “Bye Katherine” at me. Nice to know he paid attention when I told him my name! I hope Barry had a nice day.

I walked slowly back to the flat and noticed that Leeds has its Christmas decorations up in the town centre.

IT ISNT EVEN HALLOWEEN PEOPLE!

Either that town is obsessed with Christmas or they want to shove Christianity down everyone’s throats and wipe out their reputation as a town that breeds bombers of the Muslim fundamentalist nature.

Now don’t everyone comment and write hateful things about me slagging off Leeds, just don’t shoot the messenger, by the way as an addendum to that four counter-terrorism detectives have been arrested for allegedly abusing corporate credit cards to claim up to £120,000 in fraudulent expenses while gathering intelligence after the 7/7 bombings.

Is everyone corrupt?

Either way I had a great weekend in Leeds, and I had fun.

Luton is the kind of place where you land and run away from as fast as you can, but I couldn’t get a flight into Heathrow Terminal 5 which I adore and love, it has a tube station that takes me practically to my door when I stay in Central London.

My mate John came and picked me up and drove me out of the orange Easyjet painted hell hole.

I saw newly arriving Eastern Europeans take one look at the place and pour petrol over themselves and go up in flames with despair in the outside smoking area “this is what we gave up our shanty but happy homes for?” they said in a language I couldn’t understand but could tell from their actions, that’s what they meant.

Guantanamo bay has a better vista and more interesting facilities than Luton, the mere fact that everyone who asked me where I flew into does a Lorraine Chase face and shouts ‘Luton Airport’ in a Cockney Accent cements my opinion of the place.

Anyway I made it into London and had a great weekend. I was performing at The Groucho Gang Show which was just amazing. I sat on an expensive carpet and watched The Feeling, The Alphabeats and The Waterboys (technically it was A Waterboy as the band wasn’t there -just him) sing live! They were great and I love the Gang Show.

Later on I met David Thewlis who is a very interesting and lovely bloke who adores comedy! Then my mate Monica turned up with Heston Blumenthal (she owns her own PR Company) and I got papped outside hugging the lovely chef as we made our way in (I was outside waiting for them to arrive). We had a good old giggle as the gang show wound down; Hamish and the Groucho House band are just brilliant musicians and they had the place jumping.

I got home on Monday night (after suffering the horror of getting back to Luton fucking Airport 2 trains and 2 buses to be precise) and promptly fell asleep at 8pm and didn’t wake up until Tuesday at 10am. I am like a baby who ‘is going through the night without waking up for a feed’ its awful -who sleeps that long? Coma victims that’s who!

Husband watched me trying to get dressed today for a meeting and said quietly “Do you know there is a big clip in your hair sideways at the back?”

“Yes, I do, its fashionable” I retorted.

“It’s sideways and makes you look like Susan Boyle who can’t see the back of her head and clips random hair accessories without checking” he answered.

“Well you fuck a woman who looks like Susan Boyle so the jokes on you fella” I said as I struggled to get the clip out of my tufty mane, it got caught and eventually husband had to use nail scissors to free it out of my head. I now have a bald patch, that’s how fashionable I am.

I brushed my hair up and tried to put it in an up-do and managed to look like Chaka khan on crack, am sure the woman at the BBC meeting didn’t mind me looking mental. I am whacky and funny, that’s what I do!

I know I am not fashionable as I did comedy for an event last week where women who were really rich, successful or married to footballers bought handbags for £400 a piece. I nearly gagged on my champagne when I saw the cash flow for HANDBAGS…but it was all for charity so that’s ok, but seriously I couldn’t cope with the pressure of a fancy bag, I throw handbags on the grass and sometimes sit on them. I have been known to keep a Greggs pasty in a handbag for emergency steak bake moments.

Ashley got a £2,000 Bottega Venetta handbag as a graduation gift from a lovely rich friend and I get scared just looking at it.

It knows am from Shettleston and shouldn’t be near it, the bag shudders visibly when I pick it up. It literally vomits when I open it to look in.

“Get your grubby council house hands of my exclusive Italian leather you spam sucking caravan dweller” it whispers when I finger its clasp.

I am ok with an Asda long life plastic bag, don’t give me expensive leather or designer couture – I get nervous and burn it accidentally or spill red wine onto it.

Anyway the hand bag event was at Loch Lomond Golf Club and honestly the place is awesome, you should see the spa there…I was gobsmacked and one day I am going to save up and buy a bar of soap from that place.

I am joking, but go to www.lochlomond.com  and check this divine place out for yourself, its just spectacular.

Click on Spa and tell me that doesn’t look heavenly?

I think we should have a ladies blogger day there what do you think?

I thought it was nice that a young teen boy would let his mum cuddle him like that in public; Ashley would punch me if I stroked her head in front of people at that age.

Anyway the mum had her arms around him from behind and was rubbing her head into his, then they kissed fully on the mouth and I stopped thinking it was nice. Then I realised it was two lesbian lovers, who were happy as hell and I was a freaky onlooker who mistook the small lesbian for a 13 year old boy. I was annoyed at myself for judging them as a mother and son, but truly that’s what they looked like, am sorry if this offends anyone writing about this. It was heart warming that they could love and kiss in public and we in Glasgow are not homophobic and open minded, but I mistook the blonde girl for a small boy, so what does that make me? A creepy fuckwit I assume!

I have also discovered something about people today. I am stunned by the written language and the way younger kids use the internet. Let me explain, there is the tragic story of two young girls who killed themselves by jumping off a bridge near Glasgow. Now the minute they died, their mates all went to their Bebo networking site and started to leave messages on the deceased girls’ pages.

The thing that struck me was the text language used by teens as they left messages for the girls who died. I read this on one of the girls Bebo page “Hunni, ets pure rbish that yer deed, a dinny know yay were hinnking aboot dain that”

Which is translated as “Honey, its pure rubbish that you are dead, I didn’t know you were thinking about doing that”

There are loads of messages in this text speak and it was quite compelling to read them, it is like a code that you start to understand slowly. Hunni= honey, gr8=great, Geeiz= give us.

Writing messages to the deceased is a relatively new phenomenon; it’s a bit like when people wrote on the memorial books for Princess Diana when she died, except its people writing on a website to dead people as if they can still read the messages.

I recall my mate waiting hours to sign the condolence book for Princess Diana and she wrote on it “It’s a shame you died just when you got your hair looking nice” which is fine, because the dead don’t really read the messages do they?

I believe that leaving messages like this does help the grieving process, and people feel they got to say something after a death that they couldn’t express elsewhere, I am just aghast at the spelling and language used on today’s networking sites by teens who have invented their own lingo.

Does that make me insensitive? I don’t mean to be, I hope the kids involved in those two deaths find peace as do the families surrounding the tragic girls.