All my life people have told me ‘Janey, you talk too much’. Like from my mum when I was child and my mum let me chat to Mr Simmons our neighbour and I told him a big story about how my dog has fleas and how my mum connects her own electricity whilst standing on a chair in the hallway and how we got evicted and I got sit on our sofa on the pavement outside our close.

 

“You talk too much” she shouted and dragged me indoors.

 

Like when my dad took me fishing at six years old and I met two men on the river bank and asked them if they were married to each other, because in my naïve childlike head that would have been possible and the two men told me they weren’t married but they lived together and loved each other, and I went and told my dad this really loudly and he said to me “You talk too much, now be quiet”

 

Like the time I used to stand behind our bar and chat to the customers and my in-laws would say “She talks too much” to my husband, who incidentally always backed me up and loved me talking.

 

All my life “Janey shut up” and now I have won an award from The Fringe Report in London as Best Performer at the Fringe…all because I talk too much.

 

People pay me to talk now! How cool is that? I am very excited and will be in London on 25^th February at the Arts Theatre to pick up my much adored award.

 

Thank you Fringe Report…I love talking too much!

I had such a great time at this year’s BAFTA film awards on Sunday in London. I was already in London gigging at comedy, so by the time Sunday came along I was exhausted. I had a lovely dress and amazing necklace I bought at Harrods the day before, but I had to do so much on the day I was knackered.

 

I forgot to go into the BAFTA offices in Piccadilly to pick up the tickets- so had to wake up early on Sunday to jump the tube into town and pick them up.

 

I looked like a ghost. You see there had been a big drama on the Saturday night.

 

Here’s what happened – I called husband at 8pm on Saturday night just before I went onstage at Battersea Jongleurs. He never answered and then I called his mobile- he never answered that either…I was slightly alarmed as he is always on call.

 

So that whole night in-between getting acts on and off stage I was calling husband and still getting no answer.

 

In my mind, he was dead. Or my dad was ill and husband was with him and unable to answer a call.

Then I called Ashley- she was at a party and I didn’t want to scare her but when the clock hit 1am and I still couldn’t get hold of husband, I asked her to go home and check on him.

 

Poor Ashley was at a party with her mates and I had interrupted her. I was convinced my man was lying dead with a heart attack, as why else would he not answer the phone?

 

Then I panicked that poor Ashley would find her dead father and that would scar her for life... my imagination was working overtime.

 

WHY oh WHY would he not answer the phone?

 

Finally Ashley called “Mum, dad is fast asleep, you panicky old cow” she shouted.

 

So by this time it was 3am…I had such a bad night.

 

So Sunday comes and John Smeaton is arriving and we have to be on the red carpet by 5pm. There was so much to do.

 

I shaved legs, armpits and moustache and set about doing my hair nice.

Everything was all laid out and ready to go, then I had a last minute dilemma with my Scotsman column which had to be amended at the final minute to deadline (like I needed more stress on that day).

 

Finally John was dressed to kill in his lovely dinner suit and I was all made up and ready to hit the red carpet.

 

The noise of the crowds was amazing, people were screaming for their favourite film star as Harvey Keitel, Cuba Gooding Junior and Keira Knightly strutted up in front of John and me.

 

We were gobsmacked by the sheer event. Then some crowds recognised John Smeaton and they were shouting “Smeato” and John and I both got snapped by the paparazzi…it was odd feeling like a celeb for three seconds!

 

The show was amazing and afterwards John was introduced to James McAvoy, the Scottish actor who was up for a BAFTA award for his starring role in Atonement.

 

We also met Viggo Mortgensen, Cuba Gooding Junior, Andy Serkis and many more stars on the night.

 

John Smeaton was such a lovely guest to have at the party and we had a great time, but my feet were killing me in those evil high heels and we both headed home after 1am.

 

I am home but have great memories and will upload some pictures when I get the chance of us both on the red carpet.

So it’s so lovely here in London. I am working hard gigging and getting ready for my big BAFTA party on Sunday night. As you all know by now John Smeaton is my guest. My dress is ready but I decided to pop into Harrods and buy a SPANKS tummy control body stocking…I heard they were good and I need a wee bit of support.

 

I bought the thing took it home and tried to pull it on. Basically it’s like a big pair of tights that go right up under your bra. The thing was SO tight I couldn’t get it over my fucking knees, it was trying to pull on a baby’s swimsuit!

 

I was stuck with it wrapped tights across my legs and then discovered I couldn’t get it OFF…I hopped up the hallway of my flat and fell on my face. I now I have a scabby elbow.

 

Finally after much struggling the damn thing finally did get over my tummy and I pulled it right up and all my fat bits were drawn in…I could hardly breathe.

 

It took ages to get back off…I am not wearing it to the BAFTAS I am going in my normal pants and will suffer a flabby tummy.

 

The only reason to wear that thing is to prevent rape, not even the strongest man in the world would get them off you in a hurry. Though there is a gap at the crotch to pee out of…don’t ask me if it accommodates a back bottom situation as I didn’t check.

 

I am off to starve myself for Sunday…

I met up with Ann Margaret my niece who is mother to the now famous baby Abi - (Abi features in my videos and my Scotsman newspaper column).

Ann Margaret came into town with me to help choose a frock for my forthcoming red carpet BAFTA awards in London on Sunday. As you may know John Smeaton the now famous Glasgow airport hero is my lovely guest at the awards.

 

John is going in his kilt and full national dress, I had nothing to wear.

 

Ann Margaret decided I should wear the lovely black dress that I already own and purchase a new lacy wrap to go over the top and some new jewellery to dress it up a bit. I agreed, as I fucking hate dress shopping, especially when you are my size!

 

My big boobs inhibit any nice frock from looking good.

 

I found the perfect lacy bolero wrap and am now convinced I will look OK-ish on the big day. Why the hell I don’t lose weight months in advance for this event I will never know. Everything looked odd on me in the shops.

 

Though I did try on a new fancy jacket from some gay designer, but you had to wrap around you and then tie bits of it up in black satin and it was like wearing origami- I had no idea who to tie this thing onto my body and my left boob hung out like I was a breast feeding militant lesbian- only a gay man would assume women like walking around with a tit hanging out of a jacket.

 

I came out of the dressing room in the wrap around expensive piece of shit and Ann Margaret howled with laughter and the young man assistant was horrified. It was worth it just to see the look on his face. I paraded around as if I was unaware one big boob was flapping about- thank god I was wearing a bra!

 

We finally exhausted ourselves looking at fancy sequined dresses and headed off to a bar that had outside seating so we could grab a fag and a coffee.

 

Husband is still in productive mode and has successfully emptied every single cupboard, wardrobe and clutter filled dresser and gave millions of stuff to the charity shops in our street. I mistakenly gave away Ashley’s old teddy bears and she managed to salvage them from the charity shop bag. Why she needs old bears I will never know…but you would think I had thrown out a couple of foetus’s the way she was carrying on.

 

So I am finally exhausted and getting ready to fly to London yet again this week…I swear to God I think I will meet my own arse coming round a corner!

And every time I come home there is an uneasy sense of every trace of me being slowly wiped out of my home. Husband has thrown so much stuff away I get the feeling I will only own what I carry in that suitcase and then slowly even I will be eradicated from the history of my own life.

 

He has arranged my wardrobe into tops-skirts-dress’s- trousers- and they are all colour co-ordinated now! His Asperger’s syndrome is in full swing! It’s pretty cool in a sense. He sat me down and made me organise my diary.

 

I even managed to organise my smear test at the doctors for Valentine’s Day- so, no matter what happens my cervix will be getting some action come hell or high water!

Leicester 7.30am I am out of bed and off to the railway station to catch a train back to London, there I will get on the tube to Heathrow and catch a flight home. I need to be home, I am tried and feeling very low. How bad can the day go? You ask yourself…well fucking really bad, let me tell you.

 

Firstly the ice cold wind whipped me near to death as I strolled through the deserted frozen streets of Leicester towards the rail station.

 

I almost missed the train due to a mix up in my head about times, but finally got on the train and sat down desperate for a cup of tea. Of course the tea bar was shut and wasn’t going to open as there was a problem with the hot water.

 

So I had three hours of no breakfast and or even a fucking hot drink.

 

I finally arrived in London, parched yet I had strange grumbling noises coming from my lower stomach. Suddenly I was gripped in pain and I needed to get to toilet immediately. I had a patina of cold sweat draped over my whole body and I could hardly contain the pain. Then I had the worst shits EVER in my life, I thought I was going to die in a freezing cold railway toilet. It felt awful.

 

I sat there on the loo, wondering how I was going to walk to the tube station to get onto the very long journey of the Piccadilly line to Heathrow in this state.

 

I gathered up my suitcase, laptop and handbag and hobbled out of the toilet and towards the under ground. My Oyster card was refused as it didn’t have enough cash in “Fuck” I shouted and hobbled towards the huge queue to top my card up that allows me to travel within the London underground trains.

 

I was in mid- credit card pin number situation when a big guy from behind dipped down beside my leg and started to shove his hand up inside the ticket machine.

 

“What the fuck are you doing?” I shouted.

 

“Shut up” he shouted back.

 

Then I realised I needn’t worry as no tickets are coming out of there, he cant steal my ticket as I am only topping up my Oyster card and you don’t get a ticket, maybe a receipt but not an actual travel ticket.

 

“Fuck off” I shouted again as he jammed his hand so far up the machine.

 

People were all standing in queues either side of me and no one helped or even made eye contact. I simply lifted my foot and stood on his hand and jammed him into the machine till he was stuck, then I calmly finished my transaction, then I saw his right hand go up and attempt to pull out my credit card from the machine!

 

I swiftly got the card and screamed “You bastard, you are trying to steal my credit card”

He could do nothing as he was jammed on his knees with his hand stuck in a machine with me having my foot rammed at his wrist, locking him in.

 

“Let me go” he hissed.

 

“Is no one going to fucking help me? I have a guy here trying to steal my ticket and now my credit card” I yelled. No one blinked. “No wonder you fuckers get attacked all the time, in Scotland we attack the nutters, here you all fucking stand round watching it happen”

 

I shoved my foot harder into his wrist and he was screaming in pain.

 

My bowels hurt, I was sweating and this fucker picked the wrong old woman to fuck around. Finally I left him go and my receipt dropped out of the machine, the stupid guy picked it up quickly and realising it was a ‘not for travel’ ticket shoved it into his mouth and chewed it, then spat it at me!

 

“I needed that for my tax returns you fucker” I spat back.

 

“Well you hurt my hand and I am poor” he replied.

 

“So, because you are poor I have to let you steal off me?” I screamed back.

 

He ran away.

 

I looked around at all the people who watched me jam a nutter into a ticket machine and who didn’t help and I said “Thanks everyone for watching me struggle with a thief, I hope you are all very British and proud of yourselves”

 

I went to the toilet and had even more diarrhoea!

 

The journey from St. Pancreas to Heathrow is about an hour and I sat on that journey clutching my tummy and begging to get to another toilet, which I did at Heathrow.

 

My legs were shaking and I think I may have lost a kidney and half of my stomach.

 

So finally I am home, I have taken some medication and have had a shower …life sucks.