I flew home from Southampton today. I spent the weekend there working at Jongleurs Comedy club and am knackered. On Saturday morning I got up early and got the train to Central London to take part in the Danny Wallace radio show, where I was chatting about my forth coming one woman comedy show at Soho Theatre next week.

 

As if getting up early and getting through busy London wasn’t enough, I managed to have my period – I wasn’t sure I was expecting it, but after all these years you would think I could guess the signs? Me? No…I will always find out in a pub toilet why I feel sticky! Yes…I know horrid…but what is wrong with me, I mean it’s EVERY month! What’s to know?

 

Anyway I ran into one of those wee tiny booth type shops in Leicester Square. You know the kind of shops; it’s basically a news-stand that looks like Aladdin’s Cave. The whole shop is the size of a phone box and the wee man is stuck behind a cash register.

 

Well of course the sanitary towels were so high up near the ceiling and neither of us could reach them. The wee man had to climb out of his space, grab his stool and teeter up high, knock the towels down. That was when he fell off the stool and loads of shit came down with him.

 

The stock came flying off shelves, newspapers clattered around us, I got hit with a jar of coffee and a pair of tights (how much stuff did that place have? It was like an emergency war bunker).

 

He glared at me for needing the out- of -reach towels. I didn’t care; I didn’t want to bleed all over Danny Wallace’s studio…

 

The show went well. I had fun and Danny Wallace is awesome and lovely. I left there at midday and caught the tube back to Waterloo and went straight back onto a train headed for Southampton. I was gigging again on Saturday night.

 

On arrival at the Southampton hotel, I loaded up on painkillers, pads and went straight back to bed and slept till 6pm – enough time to shower and head off to the gig and do it all over again. I think I sleep too much when I live in hotels. I do nothing but sleep when I am not onstage.

 

Sunday- I was up and onto another train to the airport (where I did my regular Sunday Slot on Tommy Sheridan’s radio show by phone) and then back onto another plane and back in Glasgow. I am constantly on planes.

 

Ashley had cleaned the house for me coming home which is nice. I think her and her dad have Mexican stand-offs over the dishwashing and cleaning. Both of them silently ignoring the mess until one of them breaks, admits defeat and gets the place cleaned up for the arrival of the ‘Witch Mother’ (that’s me).

 

Facing my wrath is a foreboding experience that should never be under-estimated. My silence is truly deafening.

 

Ashley will be glad this coming week, husband and I are off to London for about two weeks. I am doing my show at Soho theatre then some gigs around London and one night in Munich as well…another plane journey no doubt, lets hope Terminal 5 is back on its feet for that gig!

 

I am out of sorts again; I feel tired and have been having crashing nightmares, which always happens when I am away from home (which is every fucking week).

I do so hope they stop soon. Am a bit worried about being in New Zealand on my own for four weeks, it will be worse there, I just know it now. I wish Ashley could come with me again. She wakes me up when I scream in the night and I can’t get out of the dream. She knows the signs.

 

The nightmares scare me, they are happening at home more as well now.

I cry when I wake up and go in the toilet to weep so I don’t upset my family. Things happen in those dreams that I could never write about or explain. So I keep them inside and try not to think about them.

 

Never mind, I am strong and such a survivor, everyone says that so it must be true. The bad man in my dreams can try but he will never get me, not when I am awake anyway. I am going to stay awake forever!

Everyone knows that China’s human rights record is disgusting. We in the West are well aware of their iron grip on the information that is fed to its own people. The Dalia Lama is demonised and vilified by the Chinese government and just watching the horrific attacks on TV on the Buddhist Monks makes me cry out loud.

 

Yet western leader and heads of Government will still attend the charade of the Olympic Games in August. Who would have thought the Berlin games with Hitler’s attendance could possibly be recreated? It will when China, pretends to smile to the world in unison and makes it people square dance and fly flags in their thousands – something they are well used to and possibly wont need much rehearsal.

 

There has been so much written about the facts of the Chinese and their politics. Facts and figures that make most human rights organisations go numb to the core, but the basic truth is, the Chinese government are liars and violent liars to boot. They have manipulated and terrified their own people, yet we in the west still trade with this economic giant. We still sit at their feet and play Geisha.

 

I will be disgusted if any governmental figures from UK attend the Olympics this summer.

 

I am appalled that we are still sending athletes. The press statements in support of the athletic organisation state that “We should not let the athletes suffer; they deserve their chance at glory”

 

What utter bollocks. What the fuck is a gold medal for running with a spear got over standing up for your fellow woman/man?

A few elitist swimmers will be able to show off how fast they can cut through water as Buddhist Monks are being beating to death by the same people who will be hosting your sporty party.

 

How sick is that?

 

Stop the athletes from going; explain to them that it’s all to do with honour and respect.

 

Think of the Scottish people who gave up their lives voluntarily to fight Fascism in Catalonia. The people who had no access to live press or radio reports back in 1938 took up the cause, caught trains, buses and boats to catch under ground passage to Paris then onto the South of France. There they crossed the Pyrenees’ on foot to fight for the freedom of other people. That’s worth a gold medal, don’t you think?

 

Meanwhile we are training up men and women to run fast and show off their skills in a country that prefers to jail journalists that don’t agree with them and kill ordinary people who peacefully protest. I am sickened.

 

It’s a fucking pity the Chinese aren’t more poverty stricken, Muslim or have a secret cache of oil, or the US would be bombing their borders as we speak. After all the American government loves to remove dictators and free people who are held under siege by their own government …don’t they?

 

I hate the Chinese government; stop the Athlete’s going to the Olympics NOW!

I will be performing at Glastonbury this year and I need to hire a 2/3 berth campervan in London from 25^th June till 30^th June.

 

I have a mate who will drive it down for Ashley and I into the Cabaret Field and I just need anyone out there who knows of a decent priced company who can help me out?

 

Anyone out there got a campervan for hire?

 

Thanks Janey Godley

“Can you tell me why you love me?” I asked husband.

 

We were lying together on the sofa. He put his big hand on my forehead and pushed me away to look at me “Why?” he asked.

 

“I read an article about men who wrote some stuff about what makes their wives loving” I said.

 

“Why? Did they get caught fucking other women and had to write some shit in a magazine to prove they were sorry?” he asked through big alarmed eyes. My husband freaks out at this kind of talk, he has mild Asperger's and this sort of stuff makes him say things that take years to forget. Like once he told me he loved me because he likes freaky people. I never forgot that.

 

“So if you were asked to explain why you thought I was a good wife what would you say?” I pushed on.

 

“You are not a good wife, you can’t cook and you keep mixing up the socks and you bleach the towels and make them scratchy and you broke the washing machine, the microwave and the vacuum-cleaner”  

 

“I don’t mean their housewife skills, I mean the husbands wrote what they loved about their wives” I explained and got annoyed because he always is so practical in his prose.

 

“Then they are fucking stupid, I hate that I have to suffer this shit because you are reading some crap magazine” he sneered.

 

“So what do you love about me?” I asked.

 

He rubbed his eyes, thought for a second and said “Your determination”

 

“Just my determination?” I smarted “Not my ability to be a good mother, or my wonderful dedication as a wife?”

 

“No, you were always going to be a good mother and you are not a dedicated wife, that’s so not you and you know that, why would you be?” he argued. “Who wants to be a dedicated wife?” he snorted.

 

“Look just say something fucking nice about me or I will bite you” I shouted now “Something that I don’t need to coach you to say” I was now annoyed.

 

He thought long and hard and finally said “I love that you are never scared to be truly you and your neck smells nice, I wake up to smell it and you are a bit freaky and I like freaky people”

 

I stared at him. He stared back. “What have I said now?”

 

“The freaky thing, you said that again” I grabbed his shirt “I am not freaky”

 

“Did I say that before and it annoyed you?” he smiled.

 

“Yes, you know you did”

 

“Well I love that you remember everything I have ever said, it’s like I have a stenographer for a wife, can you recall what I said yesterday when I asked you to pay the bills? No…you only recall what annoys you and that’s quite freaky”

 

I gave up.

 

He smiled, patted my head back down on his chest and said quietly “Be still my little freaky wife”

 

I may bite him.

It can be hard being creative and trying to get some writing done.

 

In the middle of me getting fantastic ideas shit happens like my niece will call and say “Please come and take my three kids before I fake my own death, they are making me insane and I am considering tying them to a chair, the baby has managed to squeeze the rabbit into a sock, it may die” or my best mate will call and shout “Why did that guy not call me back? Am I hideous and unworthy?” or my daughter will stomp through and scream “Who ate all the fucking cheese?”

 

Husband usually breaks in with a “Can you organise all the bills to be paid and tell me why the DVD’s are all scattered over the table? Can’t you put them away and why the hell does the wire come out of your bra and get stuck in the washing machine drum? Cant they stop that from happening?”

 

At that point my dad chooses to call and explain he has finally mastered Photoshop and verbally explains every picture he has ever taken and describes the ‘framing he has done on a picture of a squirrel that ate his washing line, he managed to get a really good shot of it, isn’t that amazing?’

 

As if that’s not bad enough my nutty brother Mij calls to tell me he has decided to become a musician and do I think U2 are interested? “No, I don’t think they are” I say back. He then says “But if I play guitar good they might” I simply hang up and pull out my hair, then worry about what the hell I am going to write in this blog.

 

Life is mental in my home, Happy Easter.