Janey's Blogs - November 2008
Monday the 3rd of November 2008
Barcelona and the Shoe
I was in Southampton on Saturday night doing my comedy thing. It was freezing and nice. I got up this morning (Sunday) and my mate John had organised to drive me to Gatwick to catch the flight to Barcelona coz he is awesome and a good mate.
We got in the car at 7am (I hate mornings) and drove for about five minutes when his brand new car started making horrible ‘thudaa thudda’ noises which let us know his front tyre was flat. Fucking genius… all I need is to be stood in the freezing cold morning in Southampton with a flat tyre and a plane to catch.
We stopped outside a building and I stomped about swearing and getting stressed, I was so tired and it’s nobody’s fault that a flat tyre happened but I was mental. Then I noticed the building we were outside was The Samaritans and a homeless man was curled up asleep in the doorway. My problems seemed insignificant now.
So I shut my big privileged mouth and helped John drag out the spare.
It was a different tyre altogether. We were astounded… this was a brand new car, for fucksake.
John called RAC who did come up quickly and the bloke explained that although the tyre looks like it came off a motorcycle, it is the spare and that’s what car dealers do nowadays - to save cash, they give you a wee ‘baby’ tyre to get you home till you can replace it. The downside of this is the big tyre doesn’t fit in the space provided! And you can only drive 50 miles an hour with a baby tyre…? What the fuck is that about?
Anyway, we did manage to get to Gatwick on time and I arrived safely in Barcelona. It had been raining but the weather was nice. The comedy bloke who had arranged for me to come over picked me up at the airport and took me to the hotel. I got in and decided to go straight out for a walk. I pulled on a pair of flip-flops that I had packed and strolled out. I never took the name or address of the hotel and yes…you got it…I got LOST.
My toes started bleeding, as the flip-flops hated me and I wandered round tiny streets taking photographs, and then had to look at the photos to try to work out where I started my journey. I ended up a back alley that leads under a big parapet where homeless people hung out. They shouted stuff at me and I hobbled on. They sneered at me and I hobbled on. And then one man threw a big shoe and it smacked me on the neck. I now have a sore neck and bleeding toes and I am lost in Barcelona.
Finally I texted the comedy man who gave me the address and I found my way back to the hotel. So here I sit. I am hoping the gig goes better than the day I have had.
Wednesday the 5th of November 2008
Life as we know it
Things worry me for no reason. Like the other day, as I sat in a café in Barcelona, I was happily listening to my IPod and enjoying my music when I suddenly had an irrational fear that my dad might die soon. My chest went tight and I almost cried! What is wrong with me? My dad is in his mid-70s and doing well.
Last year he fell off a ladder trying to put up Christmas decorations and knocked himself out; other than that he is dapper and fine.
He does sometimes forget he is old and attempts to lift concrete slabs into his garden or thinks he can trim the hedges with a big fuck-off electrical gadget and has to be stopped. His favourite game is the when the next door’s cat comes in and he torments it with a laser pen light. The poor cat gets exhausted running up and down the walls, dad laughs his head off as the thing looks insane trying to trap a small red dot.
His other favourite thing is to tell me who has recently died in his long list of old pals that I vaguely recall. It usually begins with:
“Do you remember old Jack who ran the pub at the end of the street?”
Me - “Yes, he had a club foot didn’t he?”
Dad - “Yes he did …well, he is dead.”
This is a regular phone conversation for dad and, after he takes great pains for me to recall some old bloke, he then tells me how and when and why that person died. It’s rather odd, but I suppose when you get old the roll call seems to be getting bigger.
He has a wicked sense of humour and when I embark on a big trip abroad I say to him: “Dad, don’t die when I go away as it will haunt me forever.”
He replies: “No, don’t worry, I will hang on till you get back then die in accordance with your busy comedy schedule. Don’t you worry; I won’t screw up your life.”
Dad has a better social life than me; he is rarely in when I call him. He goes out meeting his mates and often pops into town on the bus and cruises the pound shops for bargains. My wee lovely step mum says he buys bags of tat that he has to hide in his garden shed, as she is fed up with the nonsense he brings home, and that makes me laugh.
He is addicted to McDonald’s ice creams (which he is NOT allowed and eats them quickly in case he is spotted), he drinks too much coffee and eats chocolate in the middle of the night and stashes his sweets around the house. Mum keeps finding them and gives him hell for it.
Dad doesn’t swear around mum as she quite rightly hates it but occasionally, on the phone to me, he will swear as he is telling me an anecdote and I laugh loudly because I know my step mum is near and she will nip his head off for the language!
He is a great story teller. I recall one tale about when he was a little boy during the Second World War. He was evacuated to some place up in the North of Scotland; he was about 6 years old. Apparently the people mistreated him and he was covered in sores. His mum was worried and she instinctively travelled to the farm and found him all skinny and ill. She wrapped him up and bundled him on the train and then onto a tram; she stuffed him under the seat to get back into the Glasgow city centre.
It was illegal to bring your kid back into the city during the war, but she hid him under her coat as she got off the tram and that saved his life. She was incensed with anger at the farmer and refused to send him away again, though he was finally settled in the Scottish Highlands with a good family till the end of the war and came home all fattened-up and healthy.
When I was a kid, he told me a scary story about a man with a wee black Scottish terrier who went into a tunnel under my school. Dad even pointed out a drain that led to this tunnel in the middle of the grass sports park so I knew exactly where the frightening place was. He told me that, as the man went deeper into the tunnel, he heard a noise and went to investigate. A big dark clawing spectre appeared and chased the big man and he dropped dead with fear, but the wee dog came running out and it was now a WHITE haired Scotty dog. I was terrified of white Scotty dogs as a kid and would scream when I saw one. I couldn’t even bear to go near the grassy sports park at school and I still have nightmares about it.
Years later, I told him how scary that tale was. “The story wasn’t set in your school park. It was a tunnel near the dirty burn and I was trying to stop you going into the filthy water. How the hell did you get that mixed up with your school sports park? Is that why you were rubbish at sport? Did I ruin your chance to win an Olympic medal? You never did listen to me properly!” he laughed.
Dad is funny.
Tuesday the 11th of November 2008
Life sucks big time
Back in 1977 when I was 16, I was rather poor, scruffy and desperate to be pretty and popular, just like every other sixteen year old that didn’t own boobs or nice clothes, I was dreaming of a better life that never quite came to be realised.
Looking back, I wish I had had the wherewithal to scrape together a few hundred quid and flown out to New York to hang out with musicians and artists. Imagine how different things would have been!
I could have palled-it with Debbie Harry, witnessed the beginning of Rap music in the Bronx and maybe even became a famous artist for fifteen minutes. Instead, I stayed in Glasgow and managed to buy shoes before the summer was out.
Life never works out the way you want it.
I really wanted to wear black eyeliner, ripped tee shirts and be a groupie for rock bands. Though I suppose breasts would have helped that issue, unless Gary Glitter was looking for young people to join his gang; then I would have been in with a big shout.
Being nearly 50 has made me realise all the ambitions and yearns have passed me by.
Debbie Harry now looks haggard and that’s probably how I look as well, but haven’t the guts to admit it to myself yet.
But she got to shake her booty in Studio 54 in New York, she watched Bianca Jagger turn up at the famous club on a white horse….a fucking horse….how rock and roll is that?
In 1977 I turned up at the community disco in a nylon top with cardboard in my shoes to stop the holes leaking rainwater into them.
Mind you, I saw Bianca Jagger at an anti-war rally not long ago and she did look a bit old and tired…. but she did get to live the life of a glam star, so she has earned the right to wear autumnal layers and ethnic beads. I don’t. I never got to be a rock chick or live the high life, it all sucks.
I wish I had headed off to California and got to visit the Troubadour club and listen to The Eagles, Jackson Browne and James Taylor sing live… way before they all became organic drug counsellors, fat and bald. I wanted to jump into Jacuzzis with them when they wore denim shirts and skinny jeans; I wanted them to dedicate a song to me; why didn’t I get to have mindless sex and a heroin habit with the groovy Americans?
I was too busy trying to avoid scurvy and head lice when ‘Hotel California’ was being immortalised to vinyl.
I am off to apply full strength expensive wrinkle cream and try on a dress that will never fit me again.
Youth is wasted on the young.
Wednesday the 12th of November 2008
What is Funny?
There is nothing I hate more than restaurant staff that ignore you and sit chatting SHIT for ages. I took my daughter out for dinner and we sat there starving.
“Well, it’s not a secret anymore,” the annoying blonde waitress giggled.
“I knew you kissed him,” squealed the red-haired girl.
The red-haired girl sat stroking the blonde girl’s hair and a big daft young bloke was plaiting the red girl’s hair. They were the tableaux of annoyance.
Ashley and I were the only people sitting down, so it wasn’t as if they had much to do, but a fucking menu would have been welcome. We were too tired to fuck off elsewhere. So I eventually shouted “Hello!” and then acted nice as those bastards can pee in your food.
The food arrived and it was not too bad, but the staff need bludgeoned to death with a blunt spoon.
Today started with a call from the man who is supposed to fix my laptop and he was late. The insurance I took out on my laptop gives me home visits if it is fucked and my keyboard was worn out and the click button on the internal mouse was broken.
He eventually arrived as I was leaving. Husband was now in charge of the geek and I left the geek instructions.
“Do not do anything that wipes out my memory, just fix the keys please?”
“I can’t guarantee that,” he said smiling.
“No, you will guarantee that,” I said not smiling.
“I can’t guarantee that your memory will be fine, but I will try. By the way, I have parked my car in your private car park out the back will it be OK?” he added.
“Yes, it will be OK, but I can’t guarantee that. Now fix my laptop with minimum damage to its well being,” I said as I slammed the door leaving.
Husband gave me a hushed whispery telling off in the hallway. “Don’t be nasty to the bloke.”
“Fuck off…and if he screws my laptop, you better go set fire to his car” I hissed back.
The rest of the day went fine. Had some meetings that went relatively well and hopefully will be fruitful as the year wears on.
Spent the night clearing out the hall cupboard which smells funny and none of us can figure out what the damn smell is. So every article was emptied out and washed down, but we still can’t figure out where the strange smell is coming from.
In the midst of the clear-out Ashley found our old vinyl LP collection and demanded she get them. I told her “No” and she sulked. I have no idea why she wants them…. probably because she thinks everything is really hers and can’t quite grasp why she can’t get everything she sees. I may bite her when she is sleeping and see how she likes that.
Had a rant about crap TV to my husband who sat there nodding. I mean, seriously, how can that much shite get commissioned? I can’t be the only person who screams at the telly. The thing is… everything I hate seems to be everything people on a UK comedy website forums LOVE… I know this because I googled the name of the show and screeds of adoration came up. I must be one of those people who hate things that everyone else just raves about! You know that feeling when you stare at a painting and everyone sees something that you just can’t? I see a big square red and brown box that a toddler with a squint may have painted with a potato stamper and other people see genius works of art and pay millions for it.
It’s all fucked. I hate that type of comedy TV sketch shit where a bunch of students have got together and created something that doesn’t have a punchline but has a ‘deeper meaning’ and annoying emotional-haired boys squeal with hysterics at it.
WHY? I don’t know….I am probably too old and dim to get it.
I also watched the Sarah Silverman sketch where she swims about like a mermaid then pees a bed and gets her friend and a policeman to come quick to her house because ‘There has been an accident” is the unbelievably bad punchline and I pulled a nose hair out to relieve my inner pain. Was that FUNNY… honestly? Really? People laugh at that?
It’s me that’s got it all wrong, I can feel people writing back as I type this telling me I am shit and a crap comic. They are probably right; I have no sense of humour.
Sunday the 16th of November 2008
It’s a distorted cruel world that we live in
Two weeks ago a terminally ill girl won the right to refuse treatment after a hospital ended its bid to force her to have a heart transplant. Hannah has a hole in her heart and copes with various symptoms from previous childhood illnesses.
Hannah is aged 13 and had decided she wanted to die with dignity and fought for her right to do so, tooth and nail.
Hereford County Hospital child protection team contacted authorities and threatened to remove Hannah from her parents' care if they failed to bring her to the hospital for the life-saving operation.
Her parents were swamped by the might of the social services and hospital protection team, but stood by their daughter’s decision and the case has been dropped. Hannah is now at home and preparing to die in her own time.
Meanwhile. in the rather down market poor area of Haringey, London, the social services, the child protection team and a paediatrician failed to recognise the systematic abuse of a 17 month old boy who was found dead in a blood-splattered cot last year.
The wee boy named Baby P attended the hospital where a prominent paediatrician failed to notice his broken back and several broken ribs; he was allowed home to die at the hands of his mother and her abusive boyfriend. The doctor said the baby was ‘miserable and cranky’ two days before he died. I suspect his broken spine, ripped ear and numerous injuries might have made him rather upset.
Baby P had been the subject of many social services enquiries and was on the child protection register and, despite that, the social work team were at pains to keep the family together.
Haringey Social Services seem to have learnt no lessons from the Victoria Climbie case in 2000 when Victoria managed to slip through the social care net and died at the hands of her carers.
The court case surrounding Baby P has led Lord Laming to start an investigation into the issues surrounding his horrific death.
He said, “It would be awful wherever it happened, but it seems particularly sad that it has happened in the same area where Victoria Climbie experienced this same awful cruelty and a terrible death and involved the very same services.”
Social Services do a sterling job when they get it right. Yet there are too many social protection workers who are determined to ‘keep families together’ and in the process manage to let real evil bastards slip through the net. Adults who are determined to torture kids will manage to dupe the authorities into believing everything is fine with their kid. Like the mother of Baby P. - She smeared chocolate over his bruised face, yet the care worker couldn’t tell the difference between the dirt and the cuts. That’s appalling and worrisome.
I am sure Baby P would have said different if only he could have had a voice. He wasn’t allowed to speak, he couldn’t speak, he was battered and cowed like a small tortured animal.
The Social Services in Haringey need to account for what went wrong. Yet again another ‘investigation’ will occur to please the government and the do-gooders will bleat their excuses. Someone somewhere let that wee boy down and that needs to be addressed.
Things won’t change unless you go live in Hereford, where it seems the Social Services are determined to get involved in the care and protection of your child.
Tuesday the 18th of November 2008
Winter is coming
We keep getting told that an Arctic Blast is coming to the UK. Now that sounds like a cocktail to me, does it not? The weather in Glasgow was awesome today, those Autumnal leaves as a backdrop to my lovely city are just wonderful to gaze upon.
Ashley and I went out for a meeting in Glasgow with a TV person, not much I can write about here as nothing is ever set in stone until the ‘cheque hits the mat’ (as they say in my family), but exciting none the less.
We had a great lunch at The Rogano, which is one of Glasgow’s oldest and most famous restaurants. It has original Art Deco fittings and Ashley has been eating there since she was two years old. It was where she tasted her first real champagne and where she gulped her first oyster (not aged two of course). The food is great and they do amazing seafood as a speciality.
My dad and mum are currently staying at our lodge up in Balmoral; it is just beautiful at this time of year. I know Princess Diana famously hated Balmoral and the surrounding area, but I adore the place. Our place has an on-site swimming pool; the lodge includes a sauna, jacuzzi etc… but I can never get a week off at this time of year to go visit. My dad meanwhile has all the time in the world to go there and he and mum love the place. He called me to describe the beautiful leaves, the glowing sky and the sharp bright sunlight and made me all jealous. Though I am happy he gets to see it all.
I am busy here at home; husband and I are trying to get all the paperwork sorted for the next tax year and accounts. It bores me to death and makes me want to drink bleach and needles just to get away from it all.
Life is nice today; it could all go wrong tomorrow though!
Wednesday the 19th of November 2008
Stepping Stones Nigeria
My dearest blogging mates, I don’t often write on my blog to appeal or ask for help as you all well know, but hear me out.
Whenever we think of Nigeria and charities, we always think ‘Scam Spam’ and switch our brains off.
I just watched a Dispatches documentary programme in the UK about children who are beaten to death or abandoned because some local nutter in the Nigerian Delta region decided for no good reason that the kid was a witch. Often the kids are killed, or the parents have to pay shed loads of cash to allow some local ‘Prophet’ (read con artist for prophet by the way) to cleanse the child.
The whole thing is absolute rubbish but the Nigerian Delta region is steeped in suspicious Christianity/ witchcraft practices for years now and the whole thing is exacerbated by propaganda films made by some crazy church leader who infects the brains of these poor people with arcane ideas of witches. They say kids as young as one year old can kill an adult with a spell! The sign of witchcraft in a child is crying at night and a high temperature, which covers just about every baby in the world to be honest!
Jesus would weep if he saw what these lying rats do in his so-called name.
Trust me, you would only have watch five minutes of this British documentary and you want to get on a plane and rescue the kids yourself.
Gary Foxcroft is an ordinary bloke from England and he is the director of the charity, he was studying in Nigeria when he realised the problem and is dedicated to helping the children. The link below is the website, please click and help if you can?
It is a charity that rescues, protects and fights for the rights of these abused kids, please click on the link and see if you can help them in any way?
Thanks to all my blogging friends for any help on this issue.
Friday the 21st of November 2008
Cardiff is Madness
I arrived at the airport and got a cab to get into town; the cab driver was lovely and remembered me from my last visit. Then he proceeded to use his mobile phone with one hand and drive with the other; surely, if he recalled me, he would know I was a cranky confrontational bitch!
“Mate, if wanted to be in a car with a man driving dangerously with one hand, I would get an unlicensed rape taxi, so quit with the mobile and put both hands on the wheel please, that’s what I am paying for!” I snapped. He called me something nasty in Welsh -I think? Is ‘moaney cuntish person’ a Welsh saying? I don’t know…
On entering the Marriot Hotel, I spotted the lovely comic Bennet Aaron; he looked worried. He had good reason. Seems our hotel booking from Jongleurs had gone suspiciously missing and we were now homeless. Do bear in mind that NZ are playing Wales at rugby and Cardiff town is like Bethlehem… no room at the inn.
So, after much hand wringing and lying through their teeth, we were told the rooms were booked wrongly! Who knows? Bennet called Jongleurs and we are moved to the Future Inn (which doesn’t have space capsules, which quite frankly means the name is not befitting my idea of the future. I want a robot in my room that can wash my pants).
Anyway, I am now in this hotel. The internet isn’t expensive but it is far away from the gig and I am pissed off. That will be another expensive cab journey to work! Arrrggghhh!
The good news is that this hotel has a digital juke box in the room and I am chilled listening to Crosby, Stills & Nash… not cool, I know, but I am old.
I do love Cardiff and I do love the job, but I hate all the shit that goes with it.
Sunday the 23rd of November 2008
Castles, Charity Rabbits and other things
It used to be the strongest people in the town that defended a castle, men who poured hot oil over the stone walls or shot you with a fast arrow, not in Cardiff.
Their castle has a skinny job-seeker-trainee in acrylic who merely stepped aside when I walked past without paying £8 to see broken stuff of olden days.
The job seeker got all edgy and asked: “Have you paid for the castle?”
“No, I think your national trust fund and private donations do that, but I haven’t paid to go in if that’s what you mean,” I answered.
“Can you leave, then?” he asked politely, so I did. I left politely.
I don’t see why we have to pay to get into castles. I refuse to do it.
I took some pics of it from the outside. By the way, before anyone gets all nippy about my not paying to get in to Cardiff Castle, I have never paid to get into Edinburgh Castle either; castles should be free. I pay enough tax to get into them for free, that’s all I am saying!
The only flight to Glasgow from Cardiff is at 8pm at night so, thankfully, the hotel let me have a 3pm checkout, which is awesome as it can get frustrating hanging about Cardiff with its big expensive castle and cold whippy tea-inducing wind.
I have booked my flight to LA in January. I am going over for ten days and am severely looking forward to that! A wee break is just what is need in my busy life. In January I turn 48 years old which means, by then, I will have outlived my mammy by almost a whole year, which I have been anticipating since she died at 47 in 1982. I always imagined I too would die young, yet see me! I am still alive!
Last week I bought a goat, chickens and rabbits on the Stepping Stones Nigeria website as social conscience Christmas gifts for all the wee kids in my family. Wee funny great niece Abi, was rather unimpressed.
“So, you got rabbits for poor kids in Nigeria and then they eat them, what kind of nasty thing is that to give as a gift?” she asked. Bear in mind Abi has a rabbit of her own and it took us ages to explain to this lovely wee five year old the benefits of her giving up a Christmas toy so a small abused child can eat. She did eventually get it, but I can still see her face trying to make sense of it all.
When I showed her the website for the Stepping Stones Nigeria charity site, and explained all about small kids being abused as they were suspected of being witches and wizards, she gulped and took back every selfish thing she had said and begged me to pledge more cash. Poor wee soul. Kids here in the UK really don’t understand how really blessed they are until you point it out.
The good news is that some of my blog mates and friends have taken note of the link I sent them about the charity and have been sending cash and mobile phones to help out, so THANKS everyone - I appreciate you taking the time to help. Every penny will help a child and that’s a good thing!
Wednesday the 26th of November 2008
Me and George Clooney
My Facebook profile photo is a wee snap of me and the sexy George Clooney. You can go check it if you so desire: just type my name into Facebook search and you will clock me and the delicious man himself.
Now, loads of people have contacted me by email and asked me about the star-crossed meeting of me and Mr Clooney or ‘Geordie-Boy’ as I like to call him!
It was at the BAFTA Film Awards in 2006 and I spotted him in my peripheral vision as he walked alongside me.
We were almost walking side by side as we both headed to the toilets. People were staring, taking photos and generally pointing and some sexy women even practically ‘presented’ to him.
I quickened my pace to get in front of him and out of the way so people staring didn’t have to suffer the wee Scottish woman in their much beloved photos. Just at that moment he quickened his pace as he probably need a pee. He ended up right beside me again and I was like a wee Geisha in high heels as well trying to totter off at speed.
He caught up beside me and I smiled, turned to him and said, “Stop flirting with me, George Clooney, you have been doing it all night.”
He burst out laughing, a nice genuine laugh as he took the cheeky joke on board. He reached over and took my arm as if he was escorting me to the loos. That made me like him, as he could have balked and huffed off.
“Nice accent.” He spoke quietly as he smiled and acknowledged the people he encountered on our way to the loo. It was now within sight; we both walked quicker; people cleared a path for us.
“I loved your movie Good Night and Good Luck,” I said.
“Thank you. What do you do?” he stopped in the doorway of the toilets.
We were now surrounded by make-up artists who were giving women and men a free make up thingy, that I didn’t quite understand.
“I am a comedian,” I answered as the ladies from MAC cosmetics gasped and pointed at George.
“Really? Like live stand-up?” he asked as a woman started taking photos on her phone.
“Listen, I really need to go to the loo,” he interrupted himself.
“Do you need any help in there?” I giggled.
He laughed heartily and cheekily offered me to come into the gents toilet and the MAC cosmetic ladies all shrieked and clapped. He held the toilet door open and said: “I dare you.”
“I have seen a penis before!” I shouted with laughter and headed off to the ladies next door to the gents.
We both came out of the loos at the same time. The MAC cosmetic girls were huddled round him and taking photos. George came over, chatted a bit about comedy, then the cosmetic girl offered to take our photo, George agreed and she took my phone. The reason I am pointing in the photo is that I was trying to point out where the fucking button was on the phone. “Fucking hell, ya mad bitch, how hard is it to work the camera on a phone?” I screeched and George kept laughing at me swearing at the dumbass heavily-made-up girl.
So that’s why I look aggressively mad in the pic and he looks laid back and happy.
He told me he liked women that swore in Scottish and asked me to say “fucking hell, ya mad bitch” again, just so he could laugh again.
He kissed my cheek, held my hand tightly, then said “Good Night and Good Luck, Janey,” and headed off.
Sunday the 30th of November 2008
It came to my attention recently that I was being too hard on a rowdy audience. I took a step back and had a rethink, I have never been over-the-top horrible to anyone in a comedy crowd - I have never walked out and said: "You cunt, shut up!" with total malice and contempt in my voice - Having said that, if there are a bunch of blokes who are shouting "show us your tits " as soon a I step onstage, I have hammered into them, then I pat their heads for being good and get the audience to applaud their good behaviour much in the way I do with kids. My Scottish accent does make it sound harsher; I know this.
Though it's odd when male MCs and male comics hit the stage and say to women: " Your tits are gorgeous. Can I come on them later?" or "You all look like hookers from here, girls!" "Shut up, tart!" "You - gay boy - you fancy me?" "Hey cunt shut up - I don’t come to your job down the docks and knock the cock out of your mouth." Everyone laughs and so they should as it is all playful banter; it only seems to mean something bad when I say it.
When you MC gigs it is your job to control a crowd. If they are being nasty and mean to people and the show managers or staff ignore them, then really it is up to you to stop the screaming mad people so the acts can come on. Having said that it can be really horrible trying to shut up ten drunk men who scream in unison without having to give them a bit of dominatrix / be nice/ shut up/ yes I like sucking cock/ now shoosh/ type of banter back.
And, yes, I have used the cunt word onstage but never screamed at someone in anger and fever pitch rage - but I also tell them immediately that 'cunt' is a term of affection in Scotland and we call new born babies 'cute cunts'.
Strangely, the men who abuse me most onstage and get a good tongue-lashing back are the ones who, after the show, congratulate me for having fun.
Now, the downside to that is you don’t want to create an argumental slagging match as an MC as the shouters then think it is OK to do that with the acts coming on - So I tell them, "If you need to scream out, wait until I come back on and we can have a bit of a banter". It sometimes works; it sometimes doesn’t; and sometimes people are just cunts and won’t shut up and shouldn’t be in a comedy club to begin with and the staff should sort them out.
My reputation has always been that I am aggressive. Michael Legge is convinced I have a penis and has said so in his blogs and I LOVE him for it, because it personifies exactly what I am trying to say... If I stand up to people and sort out a rowdy crowd, then I cant be a woman I must be a man!
That's fine and I like that theory.
I am not saying I get it right every time. I am not saying that, every night I control, bite back and handle a rowdy crowd, I have been spot on the money. I am sure there have been nights when a confrontational atmosphere has seeped in because I answered back. I am just saying that I am learning as I go and I don’t have the advantage of being pretty or unthreatening. I am older, I am fat and I have an answer to loud blokes who don’t normally believe that women should be comics.... that isn’t a bad thing.
I just hate it when an act has a hard time on my watch and I feel very responsible when it happens.
I am going to start wearing dresses, lose hundreds of weight, never swear again. I might pretend to be educated and own a pony. I will be quiet and demure. I will still be funny though: there's no reason I cant be. I am not sure yet... it might work and people will never ever call me aggressive again.