Janey's Blogs - July 2009
Saturday the 4th of July 2009
So, back in Glasgow after my London sojourns, life got back to normal. I have had so much to do like getting the posters and flyers done for Edinburgh, getting the accommodation for the festival (£3,000 for a month, people!) getting bills paid, being organised for the festival and dealing with my rotten ear infection.
I went up to see my dad, who is coping admirably since step mum’s death. I do worry about him. He is addicted to the Spotify music website! He is getting right into it and talks about it all the time!
Meanwhile, on the home, front Ashley is preparing to go to London for a bit and she had to graduate as well. She had organised all the graduation stuff herself; all I had to do was turn up and be a nice smiling mummy.
Ashley and her best mate Vikki were all excited and giggly in the back of the car as husband drove us through to the seaside town of Troon. It was bathed in sunshine and the beach was the backdrop to the concert hall where the ceremony was taking place.
We all had breakfast in Troon then Ashley went to get ‘robed’. We waited patiently outside the room and then there was my big girl dressed in her black cape with red sash hood and wearing her Jay-Z rapper hat on her big mane of hair.
The hall was teaming with people waiting to see their child graduate, but I didn’t care about them and just wanted to see my girl get up there! The bloody ceremony went on for ages, almost as long as her degree course. I listened to bla bla bla and me and Vikki just sat in the humid hall with cameras poised. I was wishing that man who was dressed like a cross between a judge and a pantomime lion would shut the hell up and get this show on the road.
Finally, the graduates started crossing the stage, bowing to get doffed with a black hat, have their hoods dropped across their shoulders and pick up their diploma thingy. I ran down to where the graduates were sitting in perfect rows and whispered to Ashley to turn back and smile as we were at the side of the stage where we would only see her back and she said, “Oh, for the love of God, piss off mum!” Her fellow students laughed at her.
But, after about 4 million other students crossed the stage, her name was finally called and she bent to get her head doffed, she got the hood over her shoulders, stood up and TURNED AND SMILED AT US then walked off getting her diploma and we caught it on camera! She was the only one to do so and it made me giggle out loud. It took me back to her first concert at school when she got up and sang “We don’t need no education” by Pink Floyd at five years old. That’s MY GIRL!
She then got back on her rapper hat and did the parade round the beach and the gents toilets outside the concert hall in Troon and the moment was over. I did shed a wee tear when I saw her up there getting that diploma. I don’t know anyone in both our family histories that even finished school properly never mind left University with an honours degree! My heart leapt in my chest and I am so proud of her.
Then, on the train home whilst I was in full adoration mode, she told me she had lost her passport yet again! I tried not to bite her face and just calmly said, “It will be in your room, darling.”
She got home and under duress gutted her room out and was exhausted as the heat in Glasgow was oppressive. Finally she pulled down the old bags in her wardrobe and in a black bag was an old teddy bear called Popples. He has a pouch on his back and yes.. .inside that pouch was her passport!
She has no idea how it got there and is still stressed as to why a teddy bear could possibly steal her identity. We all have come to the conclusion that she put it there for safekeeping and forgot where she put it.
So, drama over and Ashley got the lecture about keeping her things safe and not panicking about stuff. You see, she is really creative but rather disorganised in day to day life! Yet again mammy sat down and gave her the talk about closing her handbag, watching her receipts, making sure she has put her money in her purse and paying due attention to things before she skips gaily down a street with her things flying out of her pockets.
She glared at me, I continued to lecture and she stomped out of the room, dropping her iPod out of her pocket as she went.
So, back to me.
I got up Friday morning at 7am to catch a BMI baby flight to East Midlands Airport as I am doing Jongleurs Nottingham for two nights and that was the only flight I could get. I was fucking tired and sleepy and the oppressive heat in Glasgow was killing us all. I literally peeled myself off the bed and headed with a sleepy husband driving me to Glasgow airport.
When I reached the check in the spotty youth told me it was £10 to check in.
“What?” I screeched.
Apparently the website where you book your flight does explain this in tiny obscure writing somewhere that if you don’t book online you have to pay £10 to check in at the airport. I was seething as I don’t see how some fuckwit checking your details on a computer can possibly cost £10, I was ready for cancelling the whole trip, but had to pay as I need to get to the gig.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, when we landed in East Midlands the rain was battering down and BMI baby doesn’t own a concealed walkway to get you from the plane to the building (they should afford it, the fucking money they charge) and I had to walk through pissing rain for about five minutes and the rain stuck my linen clothes to my skin. Then I had to get on a bus to Nottingham which took 45 minutes. Yes, sitting there for all that time with wet clothes made me insane. Even my bra was wet.
Finally I arrived in Nottingham at 11am and it felt like I had just been through some evil punishment boot camp scenario. Luckily the hotel had a bed ready and I stripped and slept until five pm, and woke up to see Andy Murray stop being British and eventually revert to being a losing Scot, yet again.
Thursday the 9th of July 2009
What can I say?
Dear Blog it’s been ages since my last confession, so here goes. I had a big fight with a Christian in Nottingham. To be fair, he was carrying sweets in a basket and walking nicely in tan leather shoes and offering sweets to strangers in the town square. But when he gave me a leaflet that stated: “Come pray with us we are outside Debenhams and we can cure cancer and every illness including headaches,” I snickered as it added headaches as an afterthought. The man sat and smiled beatifically and offered me a sweetie. I said: “No”
“So, if I go pray with you guys outside Debenhams I can stop my friend’s cancer right here today?” I asked smiley man.
“That’s correct” he said.
“OK, you know that’s a big pile of shit,” I replied.
We then debated God’s role in curing cancer and his ability to dish out sweets. He tried to say that how will I know my friend's cancer won't be cured unless I pray? I told him I have prayed and he still has cancer and my brother still has cancer and HIV and I don’t think if we change the location of the praying e.g. outside Debenhams that it will actually work.
God’s healing rays aren’t unusually strong near a Blue Cross sale… are they? Does God like department stores?
“You know I think God would think you are the worst PR for him in the world. You are clearly mental and he is really famous and possibly good at stuff but you aren’t really representing him in a good light, God must be raging at you,” I told him.
“God loves me,” he smiled and offered me another sweet. Surely I will end up with toothache and no amount of praying would fix that: it’s why we have dentists.
“I believe God does love you I just don’t think he wants you spreading his word as you keep making really big awfully giant PT Barnum type claims about cures and suchlike tosh,” I spoke.
Just then a woman wearing a big floppy hat, a small shabby sun dress, red fishnet tights with big flappy sling backs and pulling a tartan trolley stuffed with hand-knitted teddy bears came near and smiley God botherer stood up and hugged her close and they chatted and started singing.
Somewhere up there, God (if he is real) looked down and said: “Yep, that’s the man who represents me, Looney Bob and his buddy Sadie the Sandal Slapper.”
I think if less people spoke about God I would probably like him more.
My trip to Nottingham was fine, the shows were fine but the journey back was fucking hell on earth. I arrived at East Midlands Airport at 1pm on Sunday. My flight wasn’t until 4pm but I planned to just sit in the sun outside and read my book. On arrival I was told my flight was delayed TWO FUCKING HOURS! These are the people who charge you TEN quid to check in and then offer you THREE quid for a coffee for your inconvenience when they fuck up.
The airport was full of drunken women who had been on hen nights. Their pink glittery cowboy hats were all askew, their make up was all dragged and they stank. Yet they shoved more pink gloopy booze down their throats and sang “I Will Survive”.
In the bar were a clutch of hung over stag parties - all sticky, sad and falling about. It was a fresh hell. Just being stuck in this building with such a clump of drunken scummy folk made me feel raped of my soul.
They kept singing and falling about, the women were kissing the drunken men, the music blared and a few girls were crying into phones and the info board simply stated GLASGOW FLIGHT DELAYED - RELAX AND SHOP.
I didn’t relax or shop, I silently seethed.
So, anyway, I am home and happy. Ashley is packed up for her Big Trip to London and I am feeling bereft. though I am down there this weekend and we are planning a Groucho drinks party Saturday. I will meet up with my girl.
The Stand gigs were awesome; the show got great review in the Scotsman.
Monday the 13th of July 2009
London was burning
Had such a fun time back in London for two nights doing comedy at Watford, which also gave me time to catch up with my daughter Ashley who is living in London for three weeks. She is working and writing and keeping busy.
Ashley is living with a lovely woman called Sue; she owns an amazing house in Islington. So, I organised to meet Ashley at the Groucho Club in Soho. Just as I arrived in Watford, she called to say that the whole of Dean Street (where the Groucho is situated) was closed due to a big fire in Soho. Crap! So then we moved the meet up at Soho House which wasn’t closed even though it was also close to the fire!
I was really looking forward to being with her even though we had only been apart one whole day! Poor Ashley is missing her daddy! The man who annoys the fuck out her, the man who constantly irritates her - yes, that man; she is distraught without him.
Anyways I too am having strange reactions to my baby being away from home as everyone who knows me or reads my blog knows how much I adore my girl. She is such great fun for me and instead of putting loads of energy into developing her cultural life, I have spent my life giggling with her and using her as a great source of amusement as she is really funny to me. I will miss her as well. She was like a wee fun performing monkey child who always did funny things.
Anyway, she came over to my mate’s house on Friday and we slept in the same room. Just as we were falling asleep we both clearly heard the sound of a rodent clicking about on the wooden floor. Ashley screamed and nearly shit herself, I just ignored it and told Ashley the mouse won’t climb up and go near her. Next morning there was tiny mouse shit on my pillow as it REALLY did climb up and go near me, the wee mouse cunt obviously decided I was a good sleeping partner. It probably pissed on my hair! What the fuck?
I flew home today and BA decided to move my pre-booked seat as they needed a WOMAN to sit beside two unaccompanied kids. I find that really sexist, I mean I could be Karen Matthews, Rose West or Myra Hindley or Ian Huntley’s creepy bird… why do people assume women are better than men when placed near strange and vulnerable kids?
I was once charged with possessing guns and explosives and, if psychologists are to be believed, am also a potential child abuser as I was abused as a kid…. why sit me close to kids and not a man?
Anyway, I never said any of that aloud. I sat down and pointedly ignored the kids, because the only time I had was for MY CHILD and she wasn’t with me. She is in London being a big adult with a grown up proper life, managing well… without me!
My gig at Edinburgh comedy club The Stand got a review in The Scotsman newspaper; the other female comics were awesome; I loved the show. The critic twittered me and said “genuinely one of the best sets I've seen you do. You'd have got 4, nudging 5 stars but I've given the gig overall 3”.
So that means my Edinburgh Show is looking promising all round. Am happy, people, but I miss my girl.
Wednesday the 15th of July 2009
Bay City Rollers and Bones
“Ma, can I get a Bay City Roller Jumper - they are selling them at the Co-op for £1.99?” I shouted through the toilet door to my mammy. My dog Major was at my feet begging to be taken out for a pee, his toe nails were scratching and clicking on the cold lino. Maybe he heard my Ma peeing and this set him off.
“Where will I get two quid from?” Ma shouted back over the noise of the loo flushing.
Major lifted a black claw and scratched my leg, his brown eyes pleading with me.
“I am taking the dog out,” I whined back and grabbed the thick metal dog leash off the door handle in the lobby and clipped Major’s collar, only to be dragged off at speed down all the stairs outside. I needed to think of a plan to get two pounds to buy a tartan Bay City Rollers' jumper; everyone at school had one except me.
Major stood out the back yard and peed for about ten minutes, whilst scanning the back court for pigeons or cats to attack the minute he was done pissing. He was always on the look out for a victim was Major. He was an angry dog.
“Hurry up, Major, I need to figure out how to get two quid!” I hissed at him.
Even my dog looked at me pitifully. He knew there was no chance of me getting that Bay City Roller jumper before the shops shut at 5pm. He finished his pee, scratched the ground with his back legs, flicking up pee-soaked soil over my jeans and tried to pull off the leash to chase imaginary cats. I couldn’t let him free; he would bite the first living thing he spotted and I couldn’t bear to get into a dog dispute today.
Our back yards were a square set of twenty blocks of flats with open closes which led through to the front streets; all the individual closes had penned-off back yards which were segregated by green painted railings. Major loved getting into other people’s yards.
I ran around the back letting him sniff bins, scratch at the ground and snuffle through the long grass near the railings. He looked up at me pleading to be let free. He wanted to run about but, every time I let him go, he slipped his bony body through the metal railings and shot off on a bite fest and, although I was wiry and fast, I couldn’t climb over those spiky fences and catch up with him. He was an expert escapist. Before I knew it he would be on the main road attacking pensioners and babies. He was mental and very scary looking.
“No, Major, you will run off and bite people!” I answered as he stared at me.
He sat on the cold ground and lifted a paw at me and gave me his best cute look. So I let the leash snap off his neck. He started walking slowly around our confined fenced yard and then he suddenly shot off and leaped over the first fence in a flash. “Oh God!” I shouted and started after him. I climbed over three sets of metal railings as he slipped through or jumped over them and made off through the opened close of flats across the backyard. I saw his tail disappear through the close into the front street.
I panicked and kept climbing over the four foot high railings till I reached the close he had run through. I could hear screams from the front street. My heart was pounding. I was exhausted and sweating. Why did I let him go?
On entering Vesalius Street, I saw one old woman pinned up against a front garden fence with Major barking at her feet. The dog spotted me and ran off in the direction of the big main road that ran through our wee scheme.
He slid past big lorries that trundled down the busy road; he sped through the traffic and made it to the opposite side of the road. It took me ages to let the traffic past before I could run across and chase after him. He barked and snarled at passers by. “Get that dog on a leash!” a man shouted. The leash was wrapped around my hand as I panted and gasped my way up the road. His pointy tail was visible and the barking kept me on his track.
Finally, he came to a stop. He watched me over his shoulder; he sat on the pavement quietly as I approached him stealthily. I fully expected him to bolt off again as I got closer, but he didn’t move. “Major, you bad dog!” I shouted as I clipped the leash on him. He just stared at me and padded off quietly.
My clothes were sticking to me with the sweat of running and jumping so fast. He merely hung his tongue out and happily jaunted off as if he was the happiest dog in Shettleston. We got stuck at the main road, the traffic was heavy, buses were speeding past and I was nervous crossing that road, as I had been knocked down by a car two years previously near the spot where we stood. It had taken me almost a year to walk again and, at twelve, I still had a slight limp.
I heard a familiar voice shout “Janey!” from one of the buses as it drove past. The bus stopped near me and loads of people spilled out of the back opening. There was my old favourite uncle John. “What are you doing out with that mad dog on the main road?” he asked.
“He ran away from me,” I explained.
Uncle John was my pal. He was a lot older than most of my uncles and had neither kids, nor a wife and was often ‘away’ though we were never told where. He never had a home of his own and usually stayed with family members and I loved him. He was quirky and had funny ways of explaining stuff. I once asked him why he never fought in the Second World War and he told me: “Well, you see, with all the men away, the women of Shettleston needed someone to replace their light bulbs in their lobbies and I didn’t have a fight with the Germans; they never personally upset me, so I don’t see why I should be a paid killer of someone else’s son.”
Turns out my old Uncle John was a bit of a ‘Lad’ and traded guns with crooks and never fought with anyone unless he had a personal gripe with them. He was occasionally in prison and never really settled with anyone anywhere.
“Look, here’s some money for you. Now don’t tell your Ma that I have cash. Say you found it," he said and pulled a TEN POUND note from his pocket. Ten pounds was a fortune to me at twelve. I stared at the note; I don’t think I had seen a ten pound note close up in my own hand. Major sat quietly and wagged his tail at Uncle John; he was about the only visitor to our house that Major didn’t bite.
“That’s a lot of money, thanks Uncle John but I can’t say I found it. Are you sure you can give me this? I will need to say something,” I stuttered at Uncle John.
“Well, learn to lie and hide it, Janey,” he laughed and walked off.
I stared at the money in my hand. It felt so… wonderful and rich; the texture of the paper had me stroking it constantly - the swirly writing and just the overwhelming fact that I had ten pounds to myself made me feel giddy.
I immediately set off to the Co-op and dragged Major with me; I now had the dilemma of how to get into the shop with my dog. Major could not be tied up outside, he would bite folk.
The big glass door to the Co-op jangled as I entered. Major growled low in his throat. He hated new places. My dog was rather autistic and anal for a domesticated animal. Things set him off, like a door bell, a floor brush and he despised goldfish and fish tanks - he attacked them viciously - he tried to bite the glass fish bowl in my bedroom. He was mad.
“That dog can’t come in here!” the woman with a pinched face behind the counter shouted.
“I have ten pounds!” I shouted back and showed her my cash. “I just want a white Bay City Roller tartan jumper for my size,” I added and stood at the door.
She relented and I tied Major to the big pillar at the side of the counter. I begged him not to bite anyone or bark. The woman held out the acrylic top for me to see, I nodded and guessed it would fit me. She wrapped it up in brown paper, sellotaped the edges and held it to me. I tucked it under my arm and carefully wrapped the change into a small bundle and bent down to tuck it into my sock. Major licked my face as I bent down. “Stop that, Major, your breath stinks,” I giggled.
I ran for home with my parcel, Major trotting beside me and all the while thinking up a good lie to tell my Ma about the jumper. She could smell a lie and money in seconds and possessed the ability to get the truth out of anyone; I was surprised that she wasn’t an interrogator for the government.
I spotted the butcher's shop on the way and decided to treat Major to some scraps, as he really did get me the jumper I reckoned. Major was barred from the local butcher's as he would run in and try to drag a side of beef off the butcher’s hooks and was known for his daring raids, so I tied him to the lamppost outside. He wouldn’t bite anyone as he could smell the meat and that occupied him.
“Can I have a soup bone and a wee bit of liver please?” I asked. The butcher checked the door for Major. “He is tied up, Mr Cross” I explained. “He is sorry about the dead cow he pulled down.”
The butcher smiled and wrapped up some liver and a big bloodied bone in greaseproof paper. “It’s OK, Janey, no charge for the scraps and keep that crazy dog back from my shop.”
Major wolfed down the wee bits of liver and chomped down on the bone and we both marched home, happily. I realised that, if Major had a bone in his mouth, he would never bite anyone, so maybe we had to keep him supplied with bones forever?
Ma was never told about the jumper or the cash, she never saw what I wore to school and it eventually turned up in the washing bag. I had duped her!
The change from the ten pounds was stuffed up the disused chimney shaft in my bedroom and I managed to eke it out for months, buying myself sweets and a chicken supper at the local chippy - all, of course, eaten outside in the back court with Major at my side.
Tuesday the 21st of July 2009
My Husband has gone straight!
My husband noticed that BT Vision weren’t sending bills as he went through the accounts and decided to call them. He didn’t mind he had to pay them when they found out we weren’t being charged as he reckoned two things – 1) They would soon notice and we would get hit by a huge bill and - 2) He really likes receipts.
My man loves receipts more than anything else in the fucking world as they represent cash spent and therefore represent less tax to pay when doing the accounts.
Now, I don’t like that he called BT Vision, I preferred it when we were bent… hang on I have just noticed something: ‘bent and straight’ doesn’t always refer to the nasty euphemism of being gay – it also means being crooked and being law abiding!
Anyway, I recall the old days when we were rather ‘bent’ and rarely did anything legal. Now this new found ‘straightness’ annoys me.
I know the old days are over but, fucksake, I still find it hard to pay full price for anything.
When we owned the bar in the Calton we had a rather ‘dubious’ lifestyle, but all that’s gone now; we are upstanding straight law abiding nice folk who might eventually get invited to bake cakes for the local Church. OK, that won’t happen; I have gone straight – not mental.
Husband is one of those men who, when he is asked “Do you like my new top?” immediately says: “Did you get the receipt for that? Where is it?”
He then goes through all the receipts and shouts out every three seconds: “Why did you buy another jumper? Six quid for lipstick? Who pays £17 for a hairbrush?”
This goes on for days during the sexy tax season and, by fuck, it makes me want to drink bleach and die.
To add to my ‘I want to kill husband feeling’ this morning he came to bed at 5am (he was going through receipts). He disturbed me no end with his constant turning about, burrowing around and fucking really annoying fidgeting. He stuck his freezing cold hands down the back of my pyjama bottoms and wrapped an icy foot round my calves.
“Ohhh you are warm” he said loudly, because clearly the fidgeting and frostbite wasn’t enough to wake me up.
But then I take everything back, coz I was supposed to go see my dad this morning but I was exhausted and husband got up at 9am, wrapped an eye mask around my head and went to see dad himself and he only got three hours sleep. So he is forgiven and I am technically a moany old bastard.
Wednesday the 22nd of July 2009
Blog here we go
Been a busy time, getting everything ready for Fringe, got flyers and posters organised and in the process of paying 3 grand for flat for a month! May have to sell Ashley on the web to pay for it!
Last week went to John Smeaton’s wedding to lovely Christy from New York; she really was a beautiful bride. The setting was amazing in an ancient castle near St. Andrews in Fife, which is called the Kingdom of Fife… though they didn’t have a King in residence. Just squillions of American golfers, wandering about in the pissing relentless rain, but it was lovely.
I was unsure what to wear to the wedding; I thought about setting fire to my hair and crashing my car into the front of the hotel… but decided against it. For those of you who didn’t get that reference, John Smeaton was the Glasgow Airport Hero during the terror attack on Glasgow airport in 07.
Anyway, Ashley is still in London and I am still missing her heaps, but she is good and happy. She is hanging out with Monica my best mate and unofficially Ashley’s auntie.
Husband and I love the new found freedom of the house. We eat cups of sugar puffs in our pants and have spontaneous snogging in random parts of the house (though not Ashley’s room as that’s a bit Michael Jackson, fucking in the kid’s room is just plain wrong).
Went through to Edinburgh and did a speech for the Domestic Abuse Conference. No, I didn’t tell them the best place to punch a woman: it was all AGAINST domestic abuse for those with a comedy brain who read a joke into that sentence.
Saturday the 25th of July 2009
There is always one cunt in the room and last night Mr Cunt was from a large group of workers from HML in Glasgow. He displayed all the characteristics of an angry rapist shouting stuff out like “Shut up you’re just a woman!” and ended up being disowned by his own company and thrown out where he started a fight in the street and ended up being arrested. I wonder if he still has a job on Monday? I can’t imagine his boss sitting there watching that kind of behaviour and letting him near women in public after that display.
He shouted and did that amazing thing with both hands cupped round his useless gob and hurled abuse when I spoke. The room stared at him. I gave him my usual 3 strikes and your out rule, then eventually pointed the magic finger and got him removed. What is it about a man who hears the words “Stop shouting or you will get thrown out,” ignores the warning and carries on yelling shit? The audience HATED him and were shouting to me “Point the finger!” after I explained that if he didn’t behave, I just need to point my finger and he’s gone!
After the show, heaps of people from his table kept apologising to me, though it didn’t spoil the night.
Today I woke up and ate biscuits for breakfast coz am rock and roll. Husband and I are missing Ashley like hell and this morning at 4am she texted me and I called her and wee chatted till the sun came up over London and Glasgow simultaneously, she told me funny stories about meeting extremely posh English people and how all the girls said stuff like, “I am just doing PR for daddy's company till I get married”! Ashley said she was the only female amongst the party who had a career plan and possessed hips. The rest were incredibly skinny girls with bad skin and all their names ended with ‘A’ like Arabella, Emma, and Sophia etc. She said they all wore pseudo socialist tee shirts and were saying things like “Can’t wait for Uncle David to become Prime Minister.”
The boys were all called Ollie, Henry and Theo who had large bodies, big bushy heads of hair and giant genetically mutated round faces! She said they all had big chins like the cartoon American Dad! She said she had to run out of the party because her eyeball hurt from too much posh-ness in the room; the smell of cousins marrying each other was pungent!
She went from meeting gangsters one day to horse riding top hatted toffs the next! I miss my wee chicken
Wednesday the 29th of July 2009
The Fringe is almost upon me
I have paid the cash, booked the flat, got the posters made, seen my mug in the brochure and have a cracking show ready to blurt out onstage. What more do I need? Oh, yes, to move to Edinburgh for a month. Husband is not going; he is staying in the flat in Glasgow as he is eternally bored of Edinburgh and hates me saying "Darling" too many times in one day.
He also cannot abide the flood of drama students who 'black up, dress as vampires/slaves/scary ghouls and walk about with an empty box, two fake trees and a mannequin that has stab wounds and be accosted by a crowd of overtly posh kids that scream the song Alfie in some pseudo retrospective about the state of sexuality in the 21st century'.
In fact he actively pushes them out of the way and hisses under his breath and says things loudly like "Art? My balls!" Personally I enjoy seeing the drama students and their high jinkery, they don't bother me at all; but husband can't be arsed being shouted at and harassed as he tries to buy a steak pie in the local Edinburgh butchers. He isn't 'arty' at all.
My daughter Ashley usually ends up barking at the over-excited drama kids if they dare to interrupt her when she is flyering a prospective crowd of comedy goers. Woe betides any fuckwit drama student who gets in her face as she chats to her people!
My girl has been working and flyering at the Fringe since she was 8 years old and she knows her stuff and she has claimed her patch a long time ago! She's a bit like a grumpy hooker: "This corner is mine, now take your paper mache puppet and piss off!"
I am not condoning this kind of behaviour but comics invest huge amounts of their own cash. We aren't subsidised by a local art or drama fund, we need the audiences and what we don't need is a bedraggled Oxbridge boy dressed as one of the Pre-Raphaelites shouting Shakespeare through a toilet roll tube into our ear. It just annoys us is all am saying.
My husband has bought a new telly and he ain't leaving it in Glasgow to sit in a fancy overpriced flat in Edinburgh and listening to me hark on about reviews and ticket sales. He might love me but he isn't insane.
I am looking forward to this show I have planned more than I have about other shows in ages. I just like how it goes. I am not doing stuff about my past or my family, really: it's all about my travels and I have some cracking funny stories to tell... well I think they are funny and the previews went well. Even a well-respected reviewer loved it and that makes me breathe out a wee bit!
But as always most of the stuff will be made up on the night as that's what I always do for Edinburgh. I have never written stuff down and stuck to it and audiences seem to enjoy that about my shows. It's become my 'thing'. Some people come and see the show twice and I love that they do, as it does change a bit as the show progresses. Comedy award people don't really like that; it was one of the criticisms I got a few years ago when the famous Perrier award was on the go. The panel loved the show but they soon realised I wasn't doing the exact same show night after night and that kinda went against me. I do what the audience like and not the comedy judges. Still I did manage to win some awards in Edinburgh like the Fringe Report and Funny Women Award last year and pick up a Glasgow Herald Five Star review.
So, everything is almost in place, am waiting on Ashley getting back from her travels and looking forward to her coming to Edinburgh with me. She makes the festival happy for me and looks after me with a steely eye, heaps of affection and a big dose of daughterly love.