Janey's Blogs - October 2007
Monday the 1st
of October 2007
11:27:12 AM
Take Part in a WORLD WIDE Experiment
During the Edinburgh Fringe
2004 I wrote in chalk on the walls of Edinburgh my name ‘Janey
Godley’.
It became a really well known piece of graffiti and now I am sending
out a call to all the people all over the world who read my Blog to
write ‘Janey Godley’ in CHALK on any wall in your own city,
home town or wherever you live -not an important civic building, I don’t
want to get in terrible trouble.
Please get a picture of it, preferably with you in the picture, make
it as quirky or original as possible and email it to me on janey@janeygodley.co.uk
tell me where you live and include your name on the email. Try
if you can to make the picture reflect where you live!
I will then put it up on my website and I am trying to get as many pictures
of as many people standing beside my name ‘Janey Godley’ in
chalk from all corners of the world. Please help me in this one? Pass
it on if possible, get as many people as you can to make this my truly
one off special photo exhibition.
Love Janey Godley.
Wednesday the 3rd
of October 2007
11:47:28 PM
The Dog and the Doughnuts
Warm baked bread
always makes me think about the old bakery in Shettleston where I grew
up.
The baker's shop
had a typical layout. It had loads of glass shelves with bread, cakes
and buns all on display and it had white coated shop assistants serving
the customers.
The black and white tiled floor had a fine dusting of flour that always
stuck to your plimsolls as you left the place. The smell was amazing;
it was the concoction of dough, sugar and hot floury loaves emanating
from its big ovens.
In the back shop you could hear the bakers shouting and going about
their business, one of them occasionally coming through to the shop
with a big wooden bread board loaded with loaves that he emptied onto
one of the top shelves.
Mr Shaw was the head baker and I knew him as his daughter was a pal
of mine. Sometimes he would let me come through the back shop where
I would watch the people at work and gawp at the wonderful arrangement
of cakes and see the mountains of dough all set out.
At times, he would let me taste some fresh bread. He would just rip
a big crusty loaf with his floury hand and give it to me to put in my
mouth, hot from the oven. To this day nothing has ever tasted so good.
On good days, he would hand me a big bag of doughnuts to take home to
my mum for our tea. I would grab it, thank him and run outside and untie
my dog Major from a lamppost and dangle the bag in front of him. He
was a black and white mixed breed - somewhere between Alsatian and mongrel.
I loved him.
He understood the sign and would jump up and down excitedly trying to
snatch the bag with his teeth. He wanted a doughnut.
The bag was soaked in oil and sugar and made patches of transparency
in the brown paper.
It was warm and
the sweet smell was so tempting that I would get halfway up the street
before I let go of the dog's leash and I would dip my wee hand into
the bag and I would pull out a big sticky roasting hot sugary doughnut.
It was fresh from the fryer and you could smell the oil. It would scorch
my fingers as it mixed with the sugar and yet I would still stick it
in my hungry mouth, burning my lips yet biting deep through the crispy
sweet crust to the doughy middle and savouring every moment of it.
My dog Major would be watching me, his bright eyes staring hard, his
black pointy ears right up high and the anticipation in his face making
sure that I never missed any of his body language…he wanted a doughnut
and he wanted it right now.
His front paws would dance about as he sat on his hind legs, tapping
out his impatience and wagging his tail on the dusty ground. I would
smile in between mouthfuls and pull out a thick sugary ring and throw
it to him.
The dog would catch it in his mouth but then let it drop; he would sniff
it and poke it with his sharp dog claws till it was cool enough to eat.
He was never as
daft as me to go ahead and burn his own mouth.
I would be nearly finished and he would slowly lick his doughnut, and
then he finally gobbled down the whole thing and then would lick all
around his mouth and we would head off home.
Major would always
run into the front gardens to make his way up the street. He liked to
skulk and slip through the fences and sniff for other dogs, occasionally
barking to let me know here he was.
If I didn’t shout: “Here, boy!” he would bark again till
he got the sign that he knew I was there with him. It was a language
we both knew without it being taught to us, dog and kid in harmony.
If anyone approached me to chat, the dog would dart through a fence
like a wolf and prepare to attack with his hair all standing up jaggy
and vicious looking.
If it was someone I knew, I would say, “It’s OK, Major,”
yet he would still stand and growl till they left. You never made many
friends with the dog around.
People just accepted Major was an angry dog and often avoided me in
case they had an encounter with him; I would notice how people would
walk across the road if I was carrying a dog lead wrapped on my wrist.
I was never scared of him; he never once bit me or even growled at me.
Most days he would jump on my bed, his sharp claws digging into my legs
to get me up as he needed to go pee.
“Major, go leave me alone,” I would whisper, but he just scraped
at the bed clothes till they were all clawed off.
Freezing cold winter
mornings would bite hard and both of us would be standing shivering
in the back court as he did the world’s longest pee.
“Hurry up, Major, how can you pee that much?” I would ask
him.
His big brown eyes
would look scornfully at me as If he was annoyed that I was watching
him pee!
Then he would dog scratch with his legs into the dirt to signify his
toilet was finished and would dart across the white crispy frosted grass
and sniff for stuff that dogs sniff for, whatever that was.
“Come on, Major, it's freezing,” I would moan as my teeth
chattered; he would dart his head back to look at me, his eyes pleading
for a few more minutes of outdoor dog freedom.
He would leap up into the bins for a quick sniff around, bark at a few
pigeons, growl at anyone who happened to pass through the back courts
and then run back to join me in the run upstairs to our flat.
He always beat me in that run. "You have four legs and I only have
two!" I would often shout at him. But there he was standing at
our door panting and almost laughing at me, with his tail wagging.
I would fall to my knees and hug him, rubbing his rough hairy coat and
breathing-in his dog smell. He would turn and wriggle away.
Major wasn’t
a soppy, sentimental type of dog. He didn’t much like contact.
Occasionally in the house, when the fire was roaring, he would snuggle
up to me and then shuffle in front of the fire and lay flat.
His hair would be scorching hot and he would let me stroke it flat;
sometimes he would extend a paw to me if I stopped, letting me know
he liked being touched…just sometimes…only when it suited
him.
I miss the dog.
Thursday the 4th
of October 2007
05:51:22 PM
Britain’s
Top Forger
Tom McAnea was jailed
last this week for six years in Glasgow after being caught printing
millions of Euros and Sterling. ‘Hologram Tam’ he was dubbed
by the Glasgow police, as he was an expert in his field.
Tam was known the world over for being the best in his business; he
was a genius in his field. There was nothing that Tam couldn’t
reproduce, right down to the secure watermarks and fine paper that was
needed to organise such a venture.
Tam is a good friend of mine and every poster or flyer I ever got made
and previewed on this blog was made and printed at his now infamous
print shop Print Link.
Tam is such a great raconteur; you could never get a job done in the
shop for his funny stories.
Sometimes we would
end up in the local bar and Tam would hold court with his anecdotes.
I will miss him but I will go visit if I can and write to him.
It seems the local police have many pictures of the comings and goings
of the late night shifts at Print Link and I am sure they must have
some images of me, as I used to work in there late at night getting
the posters designed. I don’t care, as I knew nothing of the slab
boy’s activities upstairs.
Many people reading this will assume that I sympathise with criminals…but
you have to remember I lived within a criminal family most of my married
life and to me corporate crime is deemed less worrisome than violent
evil acts.
To be honest I think Tony Blair is more of a criminal than Tam; he dragged
our country into an illegal war. The authorities say that Tam would
have destabilised the economy with his forged notes.
No more than our shit government are already doing with funding a war
against the Iraq’s as far as I am concerned.
I hope Tam has an easy time in prison and I know he will, as he was
well loved within the criminal community and deserves the label genius,
I just wish he had put his artistic talents into something more legal
and was out on the streets contributing to the community.
I don’t know who is going to make my posters for the forthcoming
festivals, unless of course the prison had an art department and Tam
can still take orders.
Monday the 8th of
October 2007
01:22:40 AM
Gigs and good fun
The Glasgow Stand
was an awesome gig on Friday, the place was crowded and the audience
were very appreciative. How nice to get such a reaction! It was great
to gig in my own fair city; I am off to Leicester next weekend to work
- back on the road.
Saturday morning
I was off to the beautiful wee fishing village of South Queensferry,
the sunshine was sparkling off the water with the Forth Rail Bridge
in the distance, it was magical looking.
I was doing a wee bit to camera for a South Bank TV special on Scottish
Authors. The producer asked me to wear black, which is easy for me as
I hardly own any clothing in many other colours. The bad news is I managed
to grow a huge spot on my chin just in time for my big TV appearance.
That always happens.
Saturday night and back at the Stand in Glasgow, the crowd was fabulous
again. I so love live stand up. It’s the best feeling in the world
getting up on stage and having a great gig.
Woke up Sunday with
a stonking horrible headache. It almost debilitated me and I had to
go back to bed and cuddle up to husband. It was really annoying as the
sunshine was wonderful outside. I wanted to go out and enjoy the weather
but I couldn’t bear to even face the light. This weather is awesome
just now; I love Scotland in the sunny autumn.
This week will be busy again, so let’s chat later and if you guys
are still up to writing my name ‘Janey Godley’ in chalk on
your home town and email it to me when you can. Thanks all.
Thursday the 11th
of October 2007
12:05:03 AM
Baby Abi and Autumn Leaves
Went over to see
my favourite wee great-niece Abi, her wee sister Julia and big brother
Shawn, they are so cute. Shawn is ten, Abi is four and wee Julia is
one year old now and is almost walking about. They are the kids of my
niece Ann Margaret.
Abi is the funniest wee human being in the world and features on my
videos, etc.
I walked into the hall and their nasty grumpy cat ‘Squeak’
wrapped itself around my leg and purred loudly. This is highly unusual
as Squeak is an evil grouchy cat that hates everyone and everything
except shitting and eating.
“Why is the cat nice?” I asked Abi, as Squeak shoved its ass
right up my leg. I suppose I should have guessed.
“Well mummy says Squeak wants a man cat to kiss it so they can
have kittens and when she is like this, she gets all cuddly, but only
her bottom likes cuddles coz her head still bites you,” Abi explained
to me. It was clear to see that the evil cat was on the heat and was
all horny; I was disgusted at her blatant sexual advances and tried
to shake her off my leg.
I went through to the living room and wee Julia was standing holding
onto a table, doing the wobbly leg dance and scaring the beejebus out
of me as she almost knocked her eye on the corner of the sharp edges.
I hate this baby stage when wee babies are practically suicidal and
constantly crack their heads on floors and other household objects.
Why can’t we just wrap them up in bubble-wrap until they are three
years old?
I walked out of the room for a minute and came back in to see Julia
being ass rubbed by the evil cat. I yelped out loud as Julia appeared
to be sticking pretend play money up the end that the cat was shoving
in her face. the cat looked pleased and Julia was amazed that the cat
was letting her near without trying to scratch her big blue eyes out.
“Oh dear, I think plastic money has been shoved into the cat's
nana." I explained to the baby’s mum Ann Margaret. "Julia
has been sitting with her on the floor and that’s what it looked
like she was doing…I am sorry.”
“Oh shit! Get her back from Paris Hilton the cat,” Ann Margaret
screamed and washed the baby’s hands and prised the plastic coins
out of her wee chubby tight fist.
I got Abi dressed and took her out a walk to the local park. The sun
was shining so bright and we both took our coats off and put them in
the buggy. I decided to bring the baby’s buggy so Abi could get
a wee push in it; she had to become a big girl at three years old when
Julia was born, but she loves a push in the stroller occasionally.
The trees in the park were so beautiful with their autumn leaves all
fluttering down and making a gorgeous carpet of red and gold on the
pathways.
“Look, Aunty Janey - the leaves are so pretty, let's collect some
and make an autumn picture with glue when we get home,” Abi gasped
as she leapt from the stroller and started picking up armfuls of crispy
leaves.
She stopped every second to show me yet another leaf: “Look at
this one, it’s so beautiful. Feel it, Aunty Janey.” She held
out yet another red leaf with awe and wonderment, like she had just
discovered leaves for the very first time.
Her wee face was a picture; she truly loves nature and flowers. We approached
the lake and she leaned round in the stroller to look up at me and shouted:
“Remember I fell in the lake last time it was summer?”
“Yes, I do remember: you scared the hell out of us all. Why did
you fall in?” I asked.
“Well, I thought I was at the side and then I looked down and just
fell over and my head went in first and the water tasted like fish.”
Her wee cute face and lispy mouth were so animated; she has amazing
big brown eyes and the curliest hair, she is stunningly cute is our
Abi.
“Well I am glad you were OK,” I told her and we pushed onto
the swing park.
Just then a squirrel ran in front of us and stopped dead in our path,
its bushy fine tail twitched and it looked at Abi. “Hello wee squirrel,
come here so I can see your cute wee face and give you a kiss,”
Abi beckoned the wee animal, but is scampered into the bushes.
“You can’t touch squirrels, Abi, they have sharp claws,”
I explained.
“I know but their wee faces are my favourite faces on anything
- they have really cute faces, not like swans they have angry faces
and mice have sharp faces - ducks have silly faces and pigeons have
cheeky faces, but squirrels have the nicest faces and I just want to
kiss them,” she told me in one big long torrent of a sentence.
You forget how toddlers explain every emotion and theory that they have
very openly; it's so refreshing to be with her; she tells you everything
she feels, smells sees and hears each and every moment it happens. Kids
have a running commentary of their landscape and feelings!
We finally made it home and Abi took the leaves upstairs to show her
mum every leaf separately and explained the exact spot where we found
each leaf; poor Ann Margaret was exhausted. Abi talks more than me.
Then Shawn arrived from school. Wee baby Julia’s whole face lit
up when she saw her big brother come into the room: she immediately
dropped everything she was trying to shove into her mouth and threw
up both arms at him.
Shawn, with all the expertise of being a big brother who has already
nursed two babies younger than him, scooped her up and held her tight.
Julia snuggled into his neck and sucked her thumb contentedly and closed
her big eyes.
She promptly fell asleep as Shawn walked around the living room picking
things up with his other hand; it’s amazing to see how deft he
is with her. He sat down and settled her into the crook of his wee ten
year old arms and kissed her head as she sucked away at her thumb snoozing.
He pushed his spectacles up on his nose and cuddled her as he watched
kids TV and stroked the baby’s head. He was completely nonplussed
at having a kid sleep on him as he fiddled with the remote control and
continued gently stroking the baby, like he was born to nurture.
Abi clambered over Shawn; she too is his baby sister and demanded his
attention; he simply opened up his other arm and let Abi snuggle in
there as he watched cartoons and kissed the two wee girls' heads. He
looked like a wee man sitting there. It doesn’t seem that long
ago I was bottle feeding him and pushing him in the pram. He has grown
up so quick since the girls arrived.
It makes you feel old watching them all grow up so quickly.
I had a great day in the sunshine, but have to stop reminiscing about
babies as it makes me broody. Ann Margaret always laughs when I say
this and promises to give me all three of her kids for a week and see
how that sorts my broody hormones out.
I would have them in a minute, but not the hormonal cat - that she can
keep.
Tuesday the 16th
of October 2007
02:13:09 PM
Asians in Scotland and Racism
I was gigging with
a lovely Asian comic, Inder Manocha. He is an amazing comic and wonderful
man and when we spoke backstage about Asians and Scottish people’s
attitude towards them it made me recall when I was young.
I lived in Shettleston
in Glasgow’s East End and, in the 1960s, we had many small Asian
shops but no Asians actually lived there, they only worked in the area.
There was a small shop at the end of the street and they were a lovely
family. Aslam was the father and he had a wee boy called Khalid and
he was my friend. Back then people in Glasgow were racist by nature;
they would often look down on Asians and be openly racist.
My mammy was friends
with many of the Asian shopkeepers as she ran so much credit and debt
through her own poverty and relied on the shopkeepers good nature, yet
she would still call them ‘Pakis’ to me, I hated that she
did this.
Anyway Khalid and I used to play outside at football and if we ever
kicked the ball and it hit some man Khalid was always incredibly polite
and would shout: “Sorry Sir,” and apologise profusely and
that would annoy me. He was being so subservient to these men who would
shout: “Fucking watch it, Paki,” and I would hate them for
their rudeness.
One time I felt so sorry for Khalid as he seemed lonely and not many
people played with him. I invited him up to my house to play and he
quickly said, “No”.
“Why won’t you come? Are you not allowed?” I asked, I
was worried he thought he might not be treated properly or was mistrustful.
“You have nits and lice - that’s what my dad told me - and
I am not really allowed to play with you,” he replied. I was taken
aback as I always thought he was slightly disadvantaged and wouldn’t
mind and, because I was white, everything about my poverty would be
overlooked because he was Asian and needed all the friends he could
get! I was aghast! I was being typically racist, as I was taught to
be by my peers, and never thought to look past it all; but I was only
nine years old.
Weeks later, we met up and he was carrying a bag with photos in to take
to his grandmother.
He showed me a photo
of him in his school uniform. It was a posh-looking uniform and he was
standing beside a mansion.
“It that your school?” I asked.
“No, that’s my house” he simply replied.
You see, most of
the Asians in Glasgow were really hard working and quite rich. They
worked in the poor areas but they lived in amazing houses on the other
side of the city and drove fancy cars, yet Glaswegians would always
look down on them as if they were better because their skin was white!
Glasgow has changed, though racism still exists; people seem to be less
accepting of other cultures since 9/11 and the rise of radical Muslims.
I hope it changes. I wonder how my old mate Khalid is now.
Wednesday the 17th
of October 2007
03:20:39 PM
Ashley got drunk
The other night
Ashley came home late from University, she was roaring drunk.
She had been out
with some guys from class and drank Tequila.
I was sitting happily watching TV and the giant stumbling daughter from hell arrived. She banged every door in the house and started speaking very posh, which is a sure sign of being drunk.
“Mama, I am
in the hall and I am absolutely tip top,” she shouted in some mock
middle class accent.
Not only was she drunk but she was speaking like Hugh Grant.
“Great!” I said sarcastically to husband who smiled and gestured
his acceptance of the situation by spreading open his arms and saying,
“Well she is 21 years old”.
Ashley threw herself onto the sofa, reeking of smelly alcohol and proceeded
to eat the baked potato leftovers that were lying on my plate. She dropped
potato all down her legs and I demanded she get to bed.
She laughed like a maniac and headed off to her room, making enough
noise to wake up the entire block of flats. She knocked over the drying
frame which was full of wet washing, so my damp jumper landed in the
recycling box amongst the sticky plastic pop bottles.
She fell asleep. I kept her door open so I could check she wasn’t
going to choke on her vomit, as this haunts me; I knew a few people
who died of this when I was young.
Next morning, I was awoken by the sound of her retching into a plastic
bucket I had placed beside her bed.
“Mum!” she cried through the vomiting noises. I went into
her room and she was laying half out the bed, damp with sweat and trying
to tie up her masses of dark hair that were threatening to land amongst
the yellow bile in the bucket.
I did the good mummy thing and held up her hair and sponged her back
with a cold cloth and she retched up more yellow stuff.
“I am sorry, mum,” she mumbled as her body heaved over and
over to get a teaspoonful of yellow bile out of her alcohol poisoned
stomach.
I spent most of the day checking her, sponging her, washing out a vomitty
bucket and encouraging her to sip some water that bounced straight back
up out of her trampoline-like dodgy tummy.
By teatime she was starting to come round, her body had sweated and
vomited out most of the Tequila and she managed to keep down a glass
of water.
“I am never getting drunk again!” she declared. Her white
face and huge hollow eyes looked like she meant it. Probably she will,
but I hope she never gets that sick again.
Friday the 19th
of October 2007
02:25:34 PM
A real ghost story
This really happened,
I have spent years thinking about it and every time I recall it, it
makes me feel creepy, scared and sad.
Back in 1985 I was pregnant and very ill. I developed some weird sickness
that meant I could not hold down any food during the pregnancy and I
almost had to consider terminating the baby. Luckily I didn’t and
my daughter came through the foetal trauma and is wonderful.
Anyway, the night I want to talk about happened one early evening when
I had such a big argument with my husband. I really wasn’t fit
for fighting or walking out to the dusky streets in a strop – but
I did it anyway. It was something I did quite a lot in those days. I
just simply walked out.
My husband had pissed me off beyond belief and as it was such a hot
summer night I decided to walk along by the River Clyde.
I didn’t really like the river as my mother had been thrown in
its murky water years before and had died that spring night of 1982
at the hands of her violent boyfriend.
I always felt odd looking at the dirty water, as I often pictured her
rotting corpse floating about amongst the reeds. I do have a very vivid
imagination but what happened that summer night of 1985 will stay with
me till I die.
I had walked right down to the dockside. It used to be a busy industrial
place but, now that the shipyards had closed down, it was just a dirty
broken place where old drunks hung out on the rusting decks and corroded
pontoons that used to serve the giant ships.
It started to get dark and the summer sun had dipped beyond the massive
metal bridges on the river and left a strange red striped pattern on
the flat water near the old shipyard. Minutes later, the whole area
went dark as the sun slipped of to the West. There were not many street
lights down at the dockside. The local council had tried to make the
place look presentable by planting loads of trees, hedges and thick
bushes but that only served to hide rabbits and a few city foxes that
would raid the bins.
I sat down feeling nauseous on a bench that had green crackled paint
and deep gouges of graffiti cut into it, making the seat scratchy and
uncomfortable, but I needed a rest.
I watched the water move slowly, my eyes trying to focus into the darkness.
There were some pools of light from the orange street lamps that lit
up various spots along the water side, but only sporadically as many
of the lights were broken.
Empty beer cans and fag ends littered the pathways illuminated in the
freakish-looking orange light, bushes rustled and I could hear moans
coming from various points along the walkway from drunks who had taken
refuge amongst the undergrowth.
I didn’t feel
unsafe or scared. This was my city and drunks aren’t always dangerous.
Most are just friendly and like a chat. We owned a bar at that time
and drunks were my constant companions. I knew how to handle them.
Behind me, I heard the foliage move; twigs were being broken underfoot.
I turned to see who was coming behind me but, in the darkness, it was
hard to see what was there. I assumed it was a fox and dismissed it.
I sat there fighting the need to vomit.
The noise stopped and I focussed back on the river, sitting there in
my own thoughts again. Still feeling angry and sick at the same time,
I went over the fight with my husband in my head. We never stopped fighting.
We always argued. And, now that I was pregnant, I wondered what the
hell I was going to do with my life. I got lost in my thoughts…and
just then I felt someone brush past me from behind. It was a slight
feeling, as if my hair was being touched and my neck was slowly getting
warm.
I got startled and turned round.
There was no-one there, yet I could hear movement around me. I stood
up and saw something… just out of the corner of my vision. It was
like a very small person or a child crouching down and running into
the deep bushes beside the bench.
I wondered who the hell would have a child out at this time of night
and why the hell it was running into the thick hedges. I looked around
for an adult who might have been with the toddler, but there was no-one
around.
“Hello!” I shouted in the direction of the bushes, but no
sound came back.
My stomach flipped at that point and I threw up on the path, just retched
and watched as yellow bile splattered all over the gravelly ground.
I was used to the burning yellow liquid that often came up from my throat
without warning. I hated this pregnancy.
My eyes smarted and I sat back down. I forgot about the child in the
bushes and held onto my tummy. My forehead was clammy and I really wanted
to go to bed now. I decided to get up and head for home.
I walked a few steps and heard more movement amongst the greenery. This
time I stopped and looked behind me along the darkened pathway. Nothing
was there. I spun round and looked ahead… No-one was on the walkway
that I could see. I looked towards the river and nothing moved. I stood
on tiptoes and tried to peer over the bushes towards the deserted streets
that lined the docks… Nothing…No sound of cars or people…that
I could hear anyway.
I stood for a few moments and I heard a child cry out. This alarmed
me, so I leaned down to where I thought the noise was coming from and
there, amongst the dense leaves, I could see a small dark-haired child
crouched down on his haunches. I could only see the top of the child’s
head.
“Hello, are you OK?” I spoke quietly.
It must be a lost kid…One of these drunks has brought a kid down
here and it’s got lost, was all I could think.
The head moved, the face came up and there sat a dirty wee round faced
boy.
His eyes looked very dark and his skin was dirty. I couldn’t quite
see his features, it was so dark. He stood up and he was about three
feet tall and with one filthy hand he beckoned me to follow him into
the hedges.
I knew I couldn’t go in with him as the bushes were too thick and
there was no way I could get my body in between the labyrinth of branches.
“Are you OK?” I repeated. He looked at me and put out both
of his hands. He outstretched to me and I put out my arms to help him
out of the tall, thick hedge. He stopped halfway, so I leaned forward
to get him and encourage him to come out. Just then, I looked at his
face and he was looking past me, as if there was someone behind me.
I immediately looked round and there stood a tall man, watching us.
I suddenly got scared and stepped back onto the path to face him. He
was drunk and holding a can of beer.
“Are you OK, missus?” he asked me.
His breath could have stripped paint.
The sheer smell of booze made me want to retch again.
“Is this your child?” I snapped at him and pointed into the
bushes. How dare he stand there and watch me try to get this scared
kid and not help, I thought to myself.
I never took my eyes off him, just in case he did turn nasty.
It was a dark, isolated place and I was there with a small child in
the bushes. Not an ideal situation.
“No, I don’t have any kids, missus,” he answered and
then added: “Are you OK? You were falling into the bushes.”
I turned to see if the child was OK and not scared of the drunken man,
but there was no-one there. He must have disappeared under the branches,
I thought to myself.
“Hello there! Are you OK?” I shouted out to the kid.
“There isn’t anyone there,” the man said.
“Yes there is: it was a wee boy and I was trying to help him out,”
I answered angrily.
The drunk man stepped back and looked at me, then laughed: “You
were standing there on your own; you had your arms out and you were
falling into the bushes.”
“I wasn’t falling! I was helping out a wee boy,” I spat
at him. “And you scared him!”
I started to think I was going mad. The man kept trying to assure me
I had been standing there alone. He was drunk. What the hell did he
know? My stomach heaved and I vomited again in front of the tall, smelly
man.
He reached over and patted my back: “You don’t look well,
take a seat.” He spoke with genuine concern.
I sat down and wiped my mouth. “Look, I am telling you there was
child in those bushes and he was coming out and then you came along.”
I spoke quietly as I clutched my stomach.
At that moment, the bushes rustled again and out stepped the wee boy.
His dark hair and dirty clothes were now clearer to see. He had no shoes
on and his skinny legs were all scraped and bloody looking. The boy
simply looked at us both and walked away towards the docks. The man
gasped and put his beer can down. We both got up to follow the boy but
within seconds he was gone. He simply vanished into the darkness. He
wasn’t on the pathway at all. We both turned on our heels and peered
into the dimly-lit dockside in every direction.
We both called out into the dockside. We walked up and down a few yards
in opposite directions, passing each other on the dense dark gravel
path, both wildly looking about for the small boy.
He was nowhere to be seen. I sat down, exhausted, and put my head in
my hands.
“You saw him, right?”
I needed reassurance that he, too, had watched a child disappear. It
wasn’t just me. And I wasn’t pregnant and insane.
“Aye, I did see him. He was about five years old, eh? He didn’t
have any shoes on, did he?” The man spoke with both arms outstretched,
looking as bewildered as I felt.
Out of the dense darkness, two men started walking towards us. They
were slightly stumbling and drunk-looking. One was carrying a plastic
bag with clinking bottles of Buckfast wine. I could see the familiar
gold bottle tops peep out of the carrier bag. This wine was popular
with hardened drinkers in Glasgow; it was cheap and very potent. The
other man had thick bushy unkempt hair and he was swigging beer from
a can with every step he took.
“How you doing, Frank?” asked the taller of the two drunk
men to the man who was standing with me.
“Bobby, did you see a wee boy in his bare feet run towards you?”
Frank, my new friend, asked.
“No, why the fuck would a wee boy be out this late in bare feet,
Frank?” Bobby asked. “It’s almost three in the morning.”
The Bushy haired man slumped onto the bench. He was more inebriated
than I initially suspected.
The man on the bench spoke quietly: “It’s the wee black faced
boy, he is a ghost. He comes out in the night. A few of us have seen
him in the bushes and he always tries to get you in there. Nobody believed
me when I saw him. He just runs about in his bare feet then disappears.”
We all turned to stare at him.
“That’s crap!” I shouted. “We both saw him and he
was a real boy!” I was annoyed at myself for standing on the dirty
dockside arguing with drunk men about ghosts. What the hell was I doing
here?
“I am off,” I said. “I have had enough. Thanks for helping
me, Frank.”
I gathered up my bag and headed along towards the dimly-lit roadside
where I could maybe catch a cab back to the East End.
I didn’t bother to look back. I no longer cared about some mysterious
wee boy. I ignored the men who were debating ghosts and wee black boys.
My head was spinning, I felt sick and I was physically exhausted now.
I spotted a taxi in the distance on the lonely road with its orange
light breaking the darkness. Thank goodness, I thought, I spend enough
time with drunk men in that bloody bar. What the hell am I doing out
this late? My husband will be worried and I need my bed.
The cab stopped, let me in the comfy warm back seat and did a U-turn
to take me back along the road. I sat down, enveloped in the heat, and
looked out towards the River Clyde. I could see the silhouette of Frank,
Bobby and the other drunk man standing beyond the hedges as the taxi
prepared to head off.
Just then, at the bottom of the bushes something caught my eye. I tried
to focus as the taxi was moving off and there I saw a wee dirty faced
boy crouched down low and waving at me. He smiled, his teeth so bright
against the grubby skin of his face. Then he just faded back amongst
the leaves. Right in front of my eyes, he just disappeared.
I clambered on the taxi seat, turning around and kneeling, looking backwards
in case he reappeared.
I never saw him again. I went home and dragged my sorry sick body into
bed. Husband lay holding me tight. He had been walking the streets looking
for me and had been frantic. We promised never to argue again.
But I wasn’t really listening. I was lying in the darkness of my
bedroom still seeing in my mind’s eye the wee black-faced boy who
lived in the bushes.
Monday the 22nd
of October 2007
02:02:39 AM
Aberdeen & Wombles
I had a hectic weekend.
I went up to Aberdeen as I was performing my one woman comedy show at
The Lemon Tree club/theatre which is an awesome space to do comedy in.
I got an early train up and checked into a hotel just on the outskirts
of the main city centre as I figured that would be quiet. No it wasn’t
quiet. As I checked in, there was a huge big Cockney accented family
form London all screaming and fighting with each other at 11 am in the
morning.
There were kids, mums, dads, fat women, baldy fat men, skinny screeching
young women, spiky haired drunk loud young men ... all having a big
barney in the main reception.
They were running
in and out of the hotels main bar, sloshing beer and vodka around in
glasses as they took part in the debacle. (They didn’t dare leave
their drink unattended, incase someone else downed it).
“Nice!” I thought to myself as I now imagined my quiet Friday
afternoon spent by the swimming pool would no longer exist.
I went into the main bar/restaurant to get lunch. The hotel was quite
secluded and I don’t drive, so I thought a swim then lunch should
be a good set up for my show that night.
I managed to sit through eating fish and chips whilst the din of Cockney
screamers went on, apparently they were all attending a family wedding
at the hotel he next day.
I am sure it was
lavish classy affair that I would have to miss as I left for Glasgow
the next day.
Despite the noise and madness I made it to The Lemon Tree that night
and the show went great. I did one hour and forty-five minutes onstage!
I had great fun and the audience were lovely.
I slept well that night and travelled home the next day by train, watching
the beautiful Scottish countryside show off its spectacular autumn display
from the train window.
Saturday night in Glasgow, I was lying in bed trying to sleep about
1 am, but there was noise beneath the windows and I couldn’t quite
work out what was going on. I leaned up and opened my window and looked
down and there was a young man pulling stuff out of my garbage bins.
I am three floors up but the noise was really loud as he pulled stuff
onto the concrete. He leaned down and started picking stuff out of my
refuse collection and was shoving it into a bag.
I know that people can steal your identity by collecting your paper
bills and info, but we shred everything and recycle all our shredded
paper, so that wasn’t concerning me. What did bother me was the
sheer amount of noise and mess he was creating.
He moved on and started in the bin shelter across at the next flats.
He was like a mad dog pulling rubbish out and throwing it over his shoulder
and scurrying through all the discarded refuse that had been tied up
in bags and was now scattered all over the car park.
I decided to call the police: either he was a mental patient who really
needed help or he was the worst and most indiscreet identity thief in
Scotland.
I sat at my window and watched the police car arrive. Now I don’t
like the police and hate calling them on anyone, but I started to have
real concerns about this young guy; he was manic in his search and the
noise was getting the neighbours at their windows.
The police simply brought him out of the bin shelter and chatted to
him; they then put him in the back of the police car and shut the door
as they went into the bin shelter.
They searched the big bag he had full of stuff. I hung out of my window
and shouted down: “Is there any paperwork in that bag?”
The young police man shouted up: “No, it’s just all rubbish
to be honest. I think he has mental problems.”
“Or maybe he is a Womble,” I shouted back down and the policeman
laughed and waved as he drove off with the poor guy.
Womble’s were animated characters on UK telly back in the 1970s.
They wore big furry suits, looked like bears and they collected rubbish
from other people’s bins and from local parks to recycle. They
were a big family of Wombles and the kids who watched it loved their
nice wee moral stories about not throwing away good working stuff and
that recycling was the way forward. The Wombles were very advanced for
their time!
I think I just got a Womble put in a police cell…shame on me.
Joking aside, I hope the poor guy gets himself sorted; a mental illness where you are compelled to root through rubbish bins cannot be good for your health.
Wednesday the 24th of October
2007
02:27:44 AM
Kill the PC
I stared at the blank screen
on my laptop, it blinked and effectively died, right there in front
of me. A tight pain went in my chest, but then it blinked back on and
I quickly saved loads of my files and emailed them to myself. Then I
killed the pc by turning it off. I knew it would never come back on.
Thank fuck all my emails and videos are stored online, no more shit
OUTLOOK EXPRESS to make life feel like it ran down a drain. I love my
BT Yahoo…whooo hooo!
I took the dead laptop
back to the shop where I had a fight about my ability to claim the insurance
- which resembled that scene with Al Pacino in Scarface when he snorts
too much coke and goes on a killing spree or that famous scene in Ben
Hur when Charlton Heston races a chariot and horses amidst blood and
death.
The whole store came to a standstill as I had what I suspect to be my
first ever hormonal menopausal flush. I sweated, screamed and even threw
myself on the floor.
After a quiet lull, the manager assured me it would be fixed within
24 hours for free.
I am beginning to like this menopausal thing. Fuck, I must have looked
scary. Husband (who was standing outside) said he could hear my incredibly
funny insults come through the front doors as they swished open and
shut as customers came in and out of the store.
He also added that when I left the place I looked like one of those
women from the hit TV show TENKO, all dishevelled and traumatised.
Luckily, the PC was restored and returned to me. I love it….it
looks better and runs faster than a cute kid being chased by Michael
Jackson.
Now all I have to deal with is menopausal things.
From the beginning of the year I had a situation where, if I coughed,
some pee came out. how awful is that? The last thing I need is to smell
of piss.
You hit 46 and suddenly your pelvic floor muscles decide to go south.
So, to remedy the situation, I have been doing a rigorous exercise plan
of pelvic floor training. Now my muscles and pelvic floor are as strong
and tight as a kettle drum. I even tried it out by coughing…nope
no pee there! I may open beer bottles with my vag as a new party trick.
I think husband may be impressed…
Friday the 26th of October
2007
02:01:53 AM
Why do we Hate?
I am off to London this weekend,
just for a week of gigs down south. I am looking forward to it, I do
love London.
There is a distinct anti-
English feeling sometimes in Scotland; people can very rude about southern
cousins. Some people say to me: “That’s a shame you have to
go to England to work, poor you - they are bastards,” and I reply:
“You are a racist, fucked-up nutter, now leave me alone!”
It can work both ways, especially with the likes of Kelvin MacKenzie,
the ex-editor of The Sun newspaper.
He relishes in his anti-Scottish speeches which he does in the press
and on TV.
Mr MacKenzie said on BBC
TV show Question Time: "Scotland believes not in entrepreneurialism
like in London and the South East. The reality is that the Scots enjoy
spending it, they do not enjoy creating it, which is the opposite of
down in the South."
It seems people in London shout out in the street to him: “Go Kelvin!
Keep telling those Scots to fuck off!"
If people shouted out: “Go on, tell those Pakistanis to fuck off,
Kelvin!” he would be charged with inciting racial hatred and quite
rightly so! It seems OK to hate the Scots. But not all English people
treat us this way.
As I say, it can work both ways and there is a deep undercurrent of
anti-Englishness even in comedy clubs in Scotland. I hate it when Scottish
MCs feel the need to tell an audience that the next act up is ‘English’…some
people boo and that’s awful.
There is no point to explaining
their nationality in some disparaging way and offenders of this hate
crime need to be pulled off stage by the promoter, as far as I am concerned.
I have never had anti-Scottish feelings when I am performing in England.
Sometimes there are a few boos when there happens to be a significant
football match concerning Scotland that day…football often brings
hatred into a situation. But there has never been anything really obnoxious
hurled at me about my nationality.
Hating a country because they are not your country or because they are
a country beside your country…it's just mental, especially as we
are all supposed to be British!
It’s the same with cities. Glaswegians are supposed to hate people
from Edinburgh and vice versa…I don’t really understand it.
Then it comes down to streets, people from one street being territorial
about some other street next to it…What the fuck is that about?
Gangs all stabbing each other because their post code is slightly different.
Meanwhile the houses they live in are rented and at any minute they
could get evicted and move to another street…then start all over
again…wondering what to do with the tattoo that says ‘Smith
Street Gang Rules’ on their arms!
I don’t have a conclusion to all of this as I am now slightly bewildered
and am off to tattoo on my leg: ‘I love Scotland and other countries,
even Communist ones’. That should take up some time.