Back in the late 70s my old Uncle John came to live with my highly dysfunctional family. In our small two bedroom flat there was my brother Jim, his girlfriend and their baby, my other brother David, his best pal Charlie, my mum and my old Uncle John.

 

Uncle John was my dad’s brother and when my dad and mum split up, Uncle John would sporadically live with us. He always seemed to never have a home of his own. I never questioned it at the time; he just lived with people, that’s what he did. And in the later half of the seventies he stayed a lot with us.

 

My mum and Uncle John hated each other. Most days were like a Mexican stand off with the pair of them.

 

“Is he drinking tea again? How many fucking tea bags can that big bastard use in a day?” My mammy would shout when she heard Uncle John clattering about in our wee scullery.

Uncle John never really shouted back at her much, he would just skulk off to his room, which he shared with David and Charlie, who were in their late teens at the time. He slept on a mattress on the floor and listened to the radio a lot.

 

Uncle John was maybe 15 years older than my mum at the time, so he was probably in his mid 50s at that point.

He was cantankerous, funny and I loved him. The feeling was mutual. Uncle John had a dodgy past, I knew he had been in prison before, I knew had never had a wife nor kids, but he rarely spoke about his past and refused to be questioned when I tried.

Still, I knew he loved me back.

 

I was just 16 at that point and I adored his quirky ways and stoical sense when the madness of our living arrangements exploded and everyone was arguing, Uncle John would take me for a walk. We walked everywhere together.

 

He was a bit of a drinker, yet I don’t recall seeing him staggering about drunk or incapable.

 

On Friday nights when I got off the bus from my work with my wage packet in hand, he would be there.

 

“Now what are the chances of bumping into my favourite niece today? Your Old Uncle needs a few bob to go for a beer, don’t forget who saves you bread for your breakfast?” he would giggle.

 

I would laugh out loud, as I knew his old tricks and I knew he was as poor as me, but with a wage packet in hand I would always give him some cash. I never missed it and he was good to me.

 

He must have been watching every single 62 bus that stopped waiting for me to get off.

 

What made me really giggle was the time he decided he wanted some of my mum’s cigarettes.

“Janey, here’s what we will do, I will get her in the hallway and argue and you sneak two fags from her packet”

 

“No, Uncle John, she will know and I will get killed” I hissed.

 

He ignored me and shouted loudly from the kitchen “Who the fuck used my last tea bag?”

 

My mammy screamed and ran through the house like a snarling wolf; she was well ready for this fight- tea bag occupation was her domain.

 

“You fucking have never bought a tea bag in years you big bastard” my mammy screamed as she grabbed at my uncle.

Uncle John winked at me and I ran into the living room and tentatively opened her cigarette box with the quiet careful dexterity of a bomb disposal expert.

 

I could hear them screaming in the back ground, I slipped two fags out of the box and froze as I heard my mammy shout from the kitchen “Are you opening my cigarette packet? I can hear you Janey”

 

I was stunned, how did she know? Did she have extra sensory hearing?

 

I quickly slipped the fags into my pocket and shouted back “No, I don’t smoke you know that Ma”

 

She came screeching into the living room, hair messy and spitting “Where are my fags?”

 

I pointed to the packet sitting beside the fireplace.

 

She grabbed the packet, opened it and I watched her face trying to work out just how many fags she had. I knew by her actions she didn’t know and Uncle John and I were home and safe.

I quickly left the room and threw the cigs at Uncle John as I passed him in the hall.

 

“See it was easy” he smirked.

 

Uncle John died in 1993; I miss his quirky mad ways.

Time Out Magazine in London has an online voting competition for the top ten best stand-up comics.

 

There is a form on the link below, if you have seen my act and you feel like voting for me please enter my name and explain why.

 

Am not asking my Bloggers to vote indiscriminately, I genuinely would like people who think I am worth the vote to go ahead and voice their opinion. It’s not obligatory and you may have been unaware of the vote if you are not London based. If you want to see my comedy - click on my website and watch some comedy clips or go to You-Tube and enter my name there and watch.

 

Here is the link to vote.   CLICK HERE

 

Thanks Janey Godley

Just a quick note to all you lovely Newcastle people who are comedy lovers, I am doing a one woman show at the address below. Do come along if you fancy a fun night out. It would be nice to see some bloggers there!

 

NEWCASTLE COMEDY FESTIVAL – March 8^th -The Northern Stage-

Barras Bridge - Newcastle-upon-Tyne.

 

Bookings 0191 2305151

The year was 1978. I was standing in the blazing sunshine on a beach in Redcar, in Yorkshire. Wearing a woolly jumper wasn’t a good thing, but I didn’t own a tee shirt or any semblance of summer wear.

 

Redcar was the place I ran to when I left my home in Glasgow; I was 17 years old and constantly hungry. My mate Maggie and I were starving most of the time as all our cash went on paying our bed and breakfast. We were literally left with £5 a week each to pay for laundry, shampoo and food for each day. We lived on slices of cold meat and things that could be eaten by a plastic spoon as we were not allowed to use anything from the kitchen of the B&B.

 

Totally unprepared for hot weather and homelessness, we stuck together and did our best to keep each other’s spirits up.

 

We couldn’t get a job as the woman who owned the small family run guest house made us clean the rooms of the B&B daily. If we didn’t do her menial tasks she threatened to evict us. She knew we were vulnerable and immature. She was a clever and cunning woman.

 

We were too young and naïve to work round her bully tactics. So every morning we ate the breakfast she was legally obliged to provide and we filled up on toast to see us through the whole day. Sometimes we would sneak toast into a bag, but she would catch us and make us either eat it then or give it up. She had issues!

 

We never had the cash to eat an evening meal and the smells from her kitchen at tea time was unbearable at times. We survived on a cooked breakfast at 9am for almost a year.

 

Once we stole food from a self service café. We walked in grabbed scones and ran right out of the door, hysterical with excitement, stuffing big dry scones into our mouths as we ran like the clappers down a cobbled back lane. Hunger makes people do things.

 

But that sunny day, Maggie and I sat on the hot beach and watched families sit around having picnics. We jealously stared at big cuts of meat being draped onto thick slices of bread, flasks pouring out hot sweet tea into big plastic mugs. How we really wanted some of that food!

 

Then I found 50 pence in the hot sand. It was warm in my hand and Maggie and I giggled and I ran up the beach clutching it hard in my palm.

 

We walked up to the Bar-B-Queue grill, it was a local seaside café and the tables had little jukeboxes fitted into each table in the booths.

 

Maggie and I slid into the seat; we could afford a cup of tea between us. The woman knew us and simply smiled as we sat down and said “One big mug of tea?”

 

We both nodded in unison. We got 10 pence change. I could have bought a biscuit to share, but I knew what I really wanted. I wanted a song.

 

I dropped the coin into the metal box and flicked through the screens on the top with my index finger, I found the song I wanted and sat back with my eyes closed, anticipation simmering through me.

 

The box clicked and the speakers above the door hummed as the record spun.

 

‘Take the long way home’ by Supertramp came blasting through. I loved the song and Maggie and I sat in peaceful harmony, ignoring all the other noises around us.

 

Sipping hot tea and sharing our love for music was wonderful.

 

Food is unimportant when good music is on offer.

 

Redcar is a long way off in my memory now, but I recall the music of 1978 more than anything.

I don’t know which is worse, my husband doing nothing OR my husband being so efficient that he has thrown out almost all of the contents of my home. For the last three weeks husband has been in superman mode and cleaned out every cupboard, drawer and wardrobe. It is making Ashley and me insane.

 

“Do you want this? Or can it go in the bin?” he shouts holding up Ashley’s old school memorabilia. “Can this go to charity shop?” he yells holding up my favourite handbag.

 

Ashley has loads of old VHS tapes of her doing stand up on TV at various clubs at age 11 years old and he declares them all worthless as no-one uses VHS, though they are very valuable to me and Ashley. I convince him we can get them converted soon. “How soon?” he asked impatiently.

 

They may end up in the bin.

 

“Lets get up at 9am and wash all the windows, clean out the hall cupboard and start doing next years tax return by clipping and bagging all your recent receipts, then we can wash down all the skirting boards in the house and hoover out the corners” he smiles, all anticipatory.

 

I balk and decide to hide in bed. I am faking a serious illness at the moment, it has no name and the symptoms change daily.

 

He was more fun when he was lazy. The house was messy but I knew where everything was, I could lay my hands on everything I wanted. Now even my make up boxes have been cleaned and I can’t find a fucking thing.

He has arranged the hair brushes in a drawer according to size and thickness and my hair clips are all wrapped tightly in elastic bands, then put in a small see through box with a label. It says ‘Hair clips’ in case I get confused.

 

He cleaned the oven and it now looks like it belongs in a show room, there are no traces of that thing every having cooked a meal.

 

The metal trays shine like a silver bumper on a new car. It has a new light and fan and in my food cupboards everything is in boxes with printed labels. It’s like living in a flat share house. There is a box that says ‘Mustard sachets’ on it. That scares me.

 

My clothes are all coordinated by colour in my closet…think bloke from 9 ½ weeks but without the food sex. My scarves are all hung in a row and my shoes are all laid out perfectly in boxes at the bottom of my wardrobe. I liked it when I had to scuffle through them; I loved finding a shoe I forgot I had. Not now.

 

Tomorrow we are going to organise all the stuff beside the computer and take yet more boxes to the charity shop. I am going insane. When will it stop? Is this grounds for divorce?