I managed to scam my way from London to Liverpool by train, ok here is the story. When I booked the train ticket online I mistakenly booked it for Thursday the 7th of September as opposed to Friday the 8th. Now I did try to rectify seconds after the confirmation email came through and I had realised my mistake, but the nasty women on the line insisted that I have to pay £68 for a Friday ticket (how fucking expensive is that for a train? The flight to London was £40) and go through some procedure to get back the original £12 I paid for the Thursday journey.

Anyway I turned up at Euston, collected my tickets from the ticket credit card machine and boarded the train and took my chances. The ticket guy came, I nonchalantly handed my tickets, he looked at them and said “This is yesterdays tickets” I gasped in horror and explained “That cant be right, I just collected them from the ticket machine, my journey was booked for Friday, look at my booking online on my laptop” I showed him the receipt I pasted and copied onto my desk top from my email, except I had obviously altered the date and day in the same font. (I am sneaky).
He looked at my laptop, looked at me and said “Ok there must be a mistake”
I know I am going to hell, but even Jesus would understand why I refused to pay over £60 to go two hours on a train from London to Liverpool!

I finally get to the amazingly unique Parr Street Studio hotel. This is one of the oldest recording studios in Liverpool and now has some very basic but comfortable hotel rooms. They give you a key to the LIFT! It is ancient and one of those old trellis type sliding doors (again…remember I had one of those in Oban last weekend?) then you insert your key and pull the shutters over and get up to your room.
I think this place is really good for musicians and performers to come to, I think when the refurbishment is complete ordinary members of the public will love it, yet I think that will make it lose some of its eccentric charm.
The great news is it has a wonderful cool private members bar where musicians all hang out and that’s where I am sitting right now.
I did the gig at Bar Blue and it was awesome, I do love that club and the audience are excellent.

The dockside of Liverpool has all been renovated and so trendy, they have a Beatles Museum and there are thousands of tourists visiting the area, mostly they are Oriental from what I have seen, those Eastern people really love the Beatles!

The whole city is geared up to be European City Of Culture in 2008 and I am sure it will make a great host city, I remember when Glasgow was the City of Culture in 1990, it is a wonderful accolade to have and bring millions of regeneration to industrial towns in UK.

Parts of Liverpool are still run down, even just off the city centre and I do hope those beautiful old buildings get recovered as they are wonderful.

I walked home from the gig and stopped in the bus station to check a text on my phone, the bus station is brand new and all shiny and very well lit but was completely deserted.
Just as I sat on shiny chrome bench I heard footsteps coming towards me and there was a fucking smelly stumbling drunk heading for me. I sat there and sighed inwardly, always me, they always come to me every time I am a nutter magnet.
He sat right beside me, pressing his thigh against mine- that’s how close he got.

“There are hundreds of benches empty and you come to sit beside me” I snapped at him
“Do you have a fucking problem?” He mumbled with the alcohol reeking off his mouth.
Great! He was actually Scottish. “Yes I have a problem, get your manky leg off my thigh and fuck off; I don’t want to talk to you” I said back.
I stood up and walked on, he followed me, I walked faster- he walked faster.
I then turned on my heels in this empty big bright yellow and white bus station and shouted right at him “Fuck Off! I will actually kill you, I have killed before”
He stopped in his tracks.
“Get fucked, do you want me to stab you, I once set a man on fire and took photo’s as he burned, then I ate his barbequed leg and God told me to do it” I screamed into his face and jumped up and down like a mental patient.
He ran off in the opposite direction, screaming as he went, arms flailing and sloppy trousers flapping in the breeze.

I sat back down and finished my text and out of the corer of my eye I saw a bus station attendant watching me closely! Now I was the bus station nutter- I could see him tentatively talking into his radio.
Now we all know I have never killed before and I wasn’t going to stab him but it really works sometimes to OUT CRAZY the NUTTERS! They hate it if you are more mentally damaged than them, it is too much competition, I learned that trick from days in the bar when I worked in the roughest part of Glasgow, whenever some crazy fucker come up and whispers evil stuff, just agree with them and tell them you really want to fuck a dead body or can you cut him and drink his blood…..it works most times – except when you once meet that man who does like that – then run for your life!

So I am in Liverpool for one more night and then it is back home to husband and possibly normality.

The weather here is awesome; I am in the most amazing apartment in the West End of London. I have a huge penthouse suite that Crown Lawn organised; they are just the best people in the world and look after me like I was their own family. I love them.
The balcony looks over the whole of this side of London and it’s just wonderful.
The place is so cool and I feel like Joan Collins sitting here in Park Avenue, all I need is a couple of naked dancing boys and my day is complete!

So husband and I have come to an amicable agreement that we stop going over past misdemeanours and concentrate on our future, for if I can only remind him of everything he did bad (and I think my autobiography already did that, people all over the world now know what he has done to me) then we need to reconsider why we are both in this relationship.
I have no idea why every time a memory comes up, for instance if he mentions Disneyland holiday in 1995, I immediately recall how he fought with me that night and I ended up sleeping outside on a beach lounger, I don’t recall the other 22 nights when he walked for two miles to get me painkillers from the outside garage, how he surprised me with breakfast in bed, how we sat on the beach all night and watched the sun come up and how he held Ashley in his arms all night because she was sick and wouldn’t sleep in case she choked and her temperature went up too high.
No I remember the one night he was an ass.
Why is that? I have a BANKFUL of holidays, days out and special occasions that are marked by one argument, one fight and one time he spat at me, he told me the reason he hardly recalls the past or chats to me much is he is scared it will trigger a bad day and he will spend the rest of his time sad, because he is being punished for something he did in 1987.
I need to stop and realise that for every ‘bad’ time there are the wonderful days.
Here is one….

In 2004 I had been on a live Big Brother TV show on UK Channel 4 television called Kings of Comedy. After the intensity of performing live on demand and being under the scrutiny of 57 cameras 24 hours a day, they let us out on the Thursday night till Sunday lunch time to do our regular circuit gigs. The studio was in Bristol; far enough from my home in Glasgow, where my poor stressed out family were watching me constantly through a TV lens.
Remember that whilst in the ‘comedy TV house’ I was under immense stress and the politics of being stuck with five other comics was mental, anyway on that first Thursday night when they drove me to London, I arrived at the Hotel and lay down to sleep at midnight. At 5am in the morning my husband and Ashley arrived out of the blue to see me, they had DROVE ALL NIGHT to get there to be with me and it was just wonderful to see them and lie with them after the week I had been through.
I remember how great that felt, just to be with them and how much I loved him for doing that for me.

So there are many good times and I need to sit and recall those and not every fucking half hour of badness wipes out months of amazing times.

I am working on it.

So finally after a stand up argument, throwing useless clothes into a suitcase – tears and snot running down my face, husband and I finally reconciled and set off in the car for the 3 hour journey to Oban on the coast of Scotland.
We seem to argue at everything we say, see and engage in the rules of war over the tiniest fucking subject. We trade in insults, we speak a double language loaded with sarcasm and pain, words that are so sharp they are never used to describe or verbalise only to hurt and shard each others souls.
We are both Olympians at this trick, both of us can throw daggers through sentences that describe ordinary events, like offering tea, asking for a phone to be handed over….all of these sentences are no longer forms of communication but opportunities to wound and slice.
I am better at it I suppose and he sits quietly – his silence stronger than my clever strung together words that look like a trail of evil fairy lights bursting out of my mouth as my brain quickly deduces his next move, my sharp cells snapping together forming yet another tirade of satirical adjectives, another paragraph of his failures, yet another situation where he let me down, even before he can say a word I have the answer to all is insecurities sitting there patiently beneath my tongue itching to jump up and stab his face as I smile at my cleverness and quick witted brain power. See me? I am great eh?

No I am sad, I never seem to learn to shut up or at least accept my words hurt, I even hate sitting here writing this, I hate admitting I may be wrong, you should have heard how I shot him down time after time, I was good…so fucking good a politician would have gave up his post after I razored his personality and pointed put his constant failure, his past demeanours, his never ending useless-ness to me…then I realised that I only ever do this and it hurts me, because if I am right then why am I here? Why do I love this man? Why stay and make it worse? I don’t know…

Then to make matters worse I clicked on the radio and James Blunt came on
“You’re beautiful, I saw you with another man, but I’ve got a plan’ what the fuck does that mean? James Blunt is planning Rohypnol and gaffer tape to a woman who happened to sit across from him on the subway? His name rhymes with CUNT too much I for my liking.

So we finally hit Oban, the lovely wee seaside port town is charming, but it is one of those Scottish small towns where any pub or hotel toilet has a light switch that has to be found on entry, as if they worship electricity liking it to Uranium.
You can never find the fucking switch, and have to sit and piss in a cold toilet in the dark, a window is always open and you can hear evil seagulls outside the wee open window screaming as you sit there in the eerie darkness.

Hotel receptionist was truly a full blooded cousin of Norman Bates, I shuddered as she stood there flicking fat fingers through the ‘Diary of Bookings’ that sat on her woodchip table. She had a helmet of hard silver shiny hair, dead eyes and the most horrific red lipstick on that crumpled face.
“No booking for you, would you like to just book the room now?”

After finally getting booked into a room that was supposed to be organised, we struggled into an ancient elevator, it had double sliding trellis doors that you had to manage yourself, I silently wondered if Mrs Bates was standing behind the front desk pulling on the rope to get us up, her big fat bingo wings struggling, sweating and shaking as she got us up there floor by damned heavy floor-maybe that’s why she was angry.

The gig went well; the people of Oban are fine and funny.

I am home, tired and stressed about my marriage but convinced that being victorious in every argument doesn’t actually mean and I am ‘winning anything’.

I cannot believe this lumpy looking red boil is STILL on my cheek, I have tried everything to get it to come up to a head, I have had an insurmountable set of treatments been slapped on it, I have had hot water on it to draw it up….I mean it has had more attention than Princess Diana’s sexual past. I don’t think there is a paste or cream that hasn’t been smeared onto this fucking evil lump….

Maybe I have cancer? Holy crap! What if I do? Can it be?

I am over-reacting I know, but sometimes I sit and look at it and wonder what is keeping it thriving …..If I tried to keep a spot alive that long for the
GREAT BRITISH FACIAL SPOT COMPETITION, then I would not have succeeded as much as I have now. I hate this lump.

What if it never goes away?

Ok I need to stop obsessing I know, I have done nothing but fight with husband since I got home from Festival in Edinburgh.

He tells me he would rather sleep alone than be with me, he told me he is sick of me talking, he told me he is entirely bored with my life, he doesn’t want to go where I am going, he doesn’t want to spend his life chatting to me on the phone from the various cities I end up in week after week.
So I sat and cried, I felt bereft of all emotions then I decided not to let anything hurt me and guard my heart. I don’t need his approval for my life and I know he is feeling down and is lashing out at me because he is upset about his own stuff but I cannot fix him or fix his life. He needs to do that alone and I will carry on with my life and hope he comes through whatever he is going through, I do love him but I cannot stop my life and my ambitions to sort out his emotions. I did that shit for most of my life and guess what ….it didn’t work!

Today he apologised and told me he will stop being so difficult and try more to help me. I hope he does. I have places to go and people to meet and stuff to do.
Ashley is good and is getting back into her routine so she can get back to Uni soon and I am off to London next week. I feel odd and confused tonight and worried I may just go back to being Janey who lets her self worth and emotions be dragged down a dark hole by a man who loves her, while she cries in the dark and hope one day he stops making her feel that way. Or maybe …just maybe…I will be me again.

So here I am still writing my new book, and loving it. I am still extremely chuffed that my current autobiography had reached number 10 in the UK TOP BEST SELLERS LIST for two weeks and is currently sitting still in the top 20.

I am off to London next week for some TV meetings and various interviews and I am so bloody tired today. My lumpy boil is still sitting quietly on my cheek and waiting patiently to destroy my confidence, why won’t it GO?
I have a wee plaster on my face like Nelly the black Rapper.

Went to see baby Abi yesterday and had to sit quietly and listen to her tell me a huge story that took 28 minutes, it involved purple dragons that couldn’t breath fire as it was too thirsty and guzzled water, a warthog that befriended her when she took it from a zoo and small fairies that licked her face when she slept.
She then added that she is often locked up in her room for ten days (she held up two fat fingers) wasn’t allowed to eat and no one speaks to her….(David Peltzer eat your heart out, this child is not called IT but has an amazing imagination).
Abi is loved and cherished but she likes to tell tall tales, as she told me of her horrible existence her poor heavily pregnant mum sat there in shock at these abusive revelations! God knows if Abi ever spoke to a Social Worker we would all be put in prison! She then asked me if she could come to a comedy gig and get on stage with me as she has a funny story to tell. She is three years old!

So after listening to her I laughed my ass off and promised to come back soon and take her to a comedy gig. I am sure she would actually do a gig and get a huge round of applause.

Life is strange trying to get back into a normal way of life after a festival, but I am getting there. I still have a huge washing to get done and mail to get through.
My gums have stopped bleeding, so that’s a relief.
Speak soon.