Janey's Blogs - June 2010
Wednesday the 2nd of June 2010
So, the shows at Covent Garden Jongleurs are good and odd at the same time: nice room but comprised of a big bunch of people who were surprised that comedy was on, despite the fact they came to a comedy show. Life is like that sometimes.
I spent the weekend in London, and am a bit tired.
I feel as though I have been round the world on a bus and not a good bus either. My usual apartments that I rent in London were busy so I stayed at the Groucho Club rooms: the bed was AWESOME... seriously good bed and wonderful linen. You wouldn't know you were in Soho; it was really quiet and serene and, mind you, I did have a back bedroom.
Sunday I headed home on the train from Kings Cross to Glasgow, as British Airways were on strike again. I enjoy the train actually.
As it was a Sunday, I decided to upgrade to first class as it's cheap on weekends.
I got a cracking seat and was surrounded by lovely old people all getting settled in. You need to check your ticket to see if you can get it upgraded, so I searched out the train ticket bloke and showed him my ticket.
"You only have the one ticket here. You need the reservations part of the tickets," he smugly said and waited for me to find another ticket.
"I have the part that says I should be on the Kings Cross to Glasgow train today... look," I answered and pointed at my ticket.
The train line people give you at least 6 tickets for a return journey and God knows I must have lost one ticket, the ticket that gave my seat number and train time on it.
"Go look for it and I will come back to you," he snapped and walked away.
I searched my bag and I knew I didn't have it. I waited patiently for him to come back, but I couldn't relax as I didn't know what was happening.
Meanwhile there was a really old lady with her husband sitting at one of the table seats near me. She got up to go to the loo and the train was trundling hard, so I offered to help her get to the toilet.
She was pretty infirm and it was easy to help support her and walk her slowly and surely; she was shaky on her feet and her husband was happy to let me help. The lady was very posh and at first she was pretty quiet yet politely thanking me. After the third loo visit, I had her laughing by saying that we would soon be doing a double act dance show by the time we got to Scotland.
She said: "My mother's housekeeper was a dancer before she went into service." Then she held her arms out for me to guide her back. I realised she was used to working class women helping her about, not that she was off with me, but just her attitude that she wasn't surprised that I would tend to her. Her very tall posh husband stood up to the side to let me get her out and into the seat, not thanking or giving me a smile. That sounds like I was expecting some kind of hero worship, but I wasn't – it just felt as though it was somehow expected of me in a weird way.
I sat down and then the lady's husband, who was dressed in a beige linen suit with a pale blue shirt and a fedora hat, leaned over to me and said, "Could you please go see what's keeping the lunch trolley?"
At that moment, a wee Scottish couple in their 70s who were at the table beside me looked in my direction; the wee man had a big Korean War tattoo on his arm that he had chatted to me about earlier. He rolled his eyes and gave me a mock salute, as if to say, "Aye Aye, sir!" and I sniggered but got up and duly did my working class duty.
The trolley for first class was being slow and the fedora hat man gave me the list of complaints about the service. I finally stopped him and said, "I know, but I don't work here and I don't even have an upgraded ticket to be in first class". He smiled and carried on moaning about the state of first class service. I went off, found the lunch trolley, came back and gave him an update on its movements.
Finally the ticket man came back. He stared at my tickets again, gave a huge exasperated sigh, shifted about on his feet and said, "You don't have the right ticket; you need the OTHER ticket that states which train you are meant to be on."
I quietly held it together and said: "Well, technically I do have A ticket. Part of it is missing but I do have a ticket which states I paid to be on the Kings Cross to Glasgow train today; I am just missing the reservations part. But on my iPhone I have the confirmation email that corresponds with that reference number on the ticket, sir."
He rolled his eyes, let out a big huffy breath and said, "I don't take emails or phone texts as a ticket. You need to buy a new ticket now or you will have to get off this train." He leaned back on his heels and stared down at me, fingering his ticket machine.
The old people around me all stared and waited to see what I would do.
I didn't lose my temper; I quietly said, "I am not buying a new ticket."
"Don't you have money or credit cards on you?" he sniggered.
"Yes, I have credit cards coming out of my wazoo and wads of cash in my bag but I'm still not buying a ticket, especially when you can clearly see I have a ticket for this journey and I have confirmation on my iPhone to prove I should be on this train. Now what we are going to do is you are going to get the police to remove me from this train and when they get on and wonder why you called them out on a Bank Holiday Sunday, I will show them my PART ticket and my confirmed email and you will have to explain to them why you went to such lengths to screw me for cash. Now let's do that. Go and call the cops and I will wait patiently for that to happen. As you have been so lovely to me, I would rather they removed me - I don't want us falling out."
He immediately shouted: "I am not falling out with anyone!" He lost his cool and got annoyed at himself.
"Please don't shout, sir, you are scaring the elderly people sitting in here," I spoke firmly but quietly.
"I am not shouting, I am trying to make myself clear!" he flustered his words. I had got him now: he was panicking and wondering why he shouted and now needed to face getting the cops and standing his ground. He knew my explanation would allow me to stay on the train and he would look like a dick.
"I am just telling you the rules, I don't make them," he added.
"I know that, sir. I accept you have rules. I am just saying that if the police come on they can debate the rules and overrule you and then you wont be held responsible for me being on this train with a part of the ticket missing." I smiled. "I don't want you getting into trouble with the rules do I?" I added. The wee old man with the tattoo thumbed up to me behind the ticket man's back and mock saluted me.
I spoke slowly, quietly and clearly throughout the debate. Ticket man stared at me. He fiddled with his ticket machine and tapped on it with his pen. He then breathed out.
He said: "OK, I will let you off this time, but in future you need to look after your tickets. When you get your tickets from the machine, you should keep them safe..."
I put my hand up and forcibly spoke: "Stop right there. I will graciously accept your kindness for letting on stay on but I am NOT going to stand here and get a big telling off and a lecture about losing tickets. I made ONE mistake, I lost ONE ticket in fifteen years of travel and that is not bad going, but we are done here."
He turned on his heel and left me in my first class seat which, incidentally, I didn't have to pay the upgrade for either. He just left me alone.
Tuesday the 8th of June 2010
So, I got back from my mental train journeys and my trip around the country. I realised it was time for doctors catch up which means, when am away from home, I write down all my symptoms and then get a last minute docs appointment and barrage her with my list, occasionally checking her face for 'cancer sympathy' looks. I am always convinced I have a deathly illness that they have overlooked. Despite this deep paranoia I rarely get things checked, so at least my doctor was surprised to see me. I sat down and pulled out my piece of paper as she rolled her eyes, but tried to keep a straight face.
Here is my list:
1. Blood shot pulsating painful eyes – Her answer: I need glasses'
2. Sticky itchy ears – Her answer: 'I have pus-filled infected ears and need antibiotics and a spray for them'
3. Green poo (yes that's right) - Her answer: 'I have had food poisoning and need to do a sick poo test'
So I had to get my poo on a small stick and take it to the doctor's. Yes, people, you read my blog - deal with the consequences!
To top it all, Glasgow had another mini heat wave so I was full of strong antibiotics and knackered and I had to fly to London as I was doing a slot at the Comedy Store. I actually felt like someone who was filled with green poo and pus... great news eh?
To take my mind off all of my problems, I went over to take wee great nieces Abi and Julia out a walk in the park. Abi is seven soon and wee Julia is four.
The park was full of lovely middle class mummies all gathering at benches chatting and watching over climbing kids. Except for one mother, who ignored her wee blonde child who I like to call 'mental' as this wee chubby thing was smaller than Julia was pushing and pulling all the wee ones off swings and watching for their reaction.
Julia is so dainty and careful getting up the slide, whilst Abi is a proverbial monkey who clearly has 20 toes and will climb anything with skill and dexterity.
Julia finally got to the top of the stairs and ambled over to crouch onto the slide. Just then Mental open-palmed PUSHED her forcibly. I caught Julia's arm; she was shocked and horrified and slid down slowly with giant blue eyes agape.
Mental came hurtling down behind her, kicking her back. I looked around for Mental's mum but there were so many folk. Mental then grabbed our pink stroller and tried to throw it on its side, whilst watching my face for a reaction.
I knew it wasn't the child's fault, so kneeled down and took her wee chubby hands off the buggy and said, "No, don't do that." Julia was still staring petrified of Mental the Toddler Pusher.
Just then a skinny woman with a tight sports track suit came dashing over.
"Don't touch my child!" she shouted.
Julia clutched my leg, Abi scrambled down a tree and belted over to see what was going on.
I continued prising the wee girl's hands gently off the pram in case she pulled it on herself. I ignored Mental's mum as the kid then pulled all the jumpers out of the pram and threw them on the ground. Mental stared at me for reaction. I ignored her and spun on my heels at the mum and said, "I will not touch your poor wee child, but you get a grip on her or I will touch you and not in good way."
"Excuse me?" she yelled.
"Don't make me repeat it. Keep an eye on your wee girl, she clearly needs attention and so do you," I snapped.
Abi said, "Your wee girl is Mental."
Julia repeated 'Mental" and pointed at the wee girl who was now emptying a hand bag belonging to someone else and scattering its contents on the ground.
"I am sorry if I offended you, I didn't know she had some problems and I apologise if I hurt your feelings," I explained as the wee girl was now trying to wrestle a dog to the ground as its owner tried to drag it away.
The mother said, "She is just expressing herself; maybe you could learn a lesson from that."
"OK, YOU are MENTAL not her. How's that for expression?" I said and took the kids out of the park and headed to the shops for an ice cream.
As we passed the side of the park there was a sign that said CIRCUS coming to Queen's Park. Abi is now a very good reader and shouted: "Look, Aunty Janey - a circus is coming!"
Julia clapped her hands and screamed, "Yes!"
To which Abi stood stock still, pointed to the sign and said, "No, Julia, not a good thing. Do you want to see baby tigers being made to jump through hoops of fire and wee monkeys in frilly skirts being made to dance?"
Julia stood there with huge eyes and said, "Yes, I do, Abi."
Julia didn't know Abi was a 7 year old circus protester. Abi didn't know she had Julia hooked on 'Tigers jumping through hoops of flame'. Both of them stared at each other. Finally Abi gasped, "I need to teach you about bad circuses, Julia."
Then Abi went on a rant about how clowns have 'bad make up' and are actually scary and frighten kids. I couldn't stop laughing all the way home as Julia kept asking to be told about dancing monkeys!
I do love being with the kids.
The show at the Comedy Store was awesome. A huge bunch of nice comics and me trying to be funny; hopefully the audience liked me and it sounded like they did. But, as Ashley always says, a crowd of people baying for blood and screaming with laughter is much the same noise; it's up to the performer to know the difference!
They did sound like they were laughing.
The heat in London mixed with the strong doses of antibiotics was making me slightly nauseous, but I had a good time.
Hopefully the green poo and ear gunge are going to be a distant memory, but not for you reading this; no doubt it will stick in your mind much like evil clowns do in Abi's head.
This weekend I am at Glasgow Stand doing my thing; hopefully will see you there.
Thursday the 10th of June 2010
Sometimes Life happens
Me and my daughter Ashley have decided to podcast; we have all the info and equipment and will soon be off to a flying start. We will do it... soon.
Meanwhile things are getting ready for Edinburgh Fringe. I will be organising stuff all this week - don't ask me which stuff, but husband made me write a to-do list and I am trying to stick to it.
I love organising the Fringe. Most people get other people called promoters to do it and that's cool, just not for me. I am a control freak and like doing it myself. Then I know it's done the way I want it done.
It's not a nice side to my personality and I am sure it irritates the hell out of my family, but that's who I am.
There are many 'not nice' sides to my personality – many of them I keep deeply hidden, like my need to pick stray hairs off the carpet in an almost obsession-like fashion. The other is my need to chew my hair and spit wee bits out. I am basically mental.
I am sure my husband wishes he went for the tall skinny girl in the floral dress that fancied him in 1979; she wouldn't get up in the middle of the night to sleepwalk and drink the last of the milk, would she?
I suspect that skinny girl with the untangled hair and sleek body is right now working a good steady job and is good at making scones: everything my husband likes in a woman. But he got me, the hair-collecting woman with dreadlocks and tugs in her scalp, with a penchant for growing ear infections better than anyone else.
I wonder what happened to my first boyfriend - George. He is probably either in jail or dead I suspect. We went out with each other for a few months in 1977. He never went to school and graduated to petty theft and drug dealing in the 80s and he was a crap kisser. But I bet you he would have let me keep a cat AND a rabbit. But I bet he would have had a dangerous dog and made me breed... not the dogs... I mean ME. He would have battered six kids out of me and not cared for any of them... so I suppose I gave up an animal lover for a child nurturer.
Maybe I need to stop looking back and go brush my hair and then collect the stray ones off the carpet as they fall out of my head.
Monday the 14th of June 2010
My Life and it is
I think am not a bad daughter. I try hard to make sure I get to see my dad and talk to him most days. He has been widowed for over a year now and he is a bit lost. Last week I popped into town; I had called dad but he wasn't in; he goes out most days. Just as I walked down Buchanan Street, I spotted him on a street bench and he was talking to a wee old woman.
They were nodding and chatting, they looked like strangers talking but still they were at ease with each other. As I approached him, my heart thudded as I thought: "My God, he is so lonely he is talking to a strange wee lady - it's my fault he has no-one to speak to - I never visited him enough."
"Hi dad," I said and he got up laughing and said, "This is my beautiful daughter. What a surprise, I didn't know you were in the country."
My dad is used me not always being in Scotland, despite me telling him constantly my movements: he still gets surprised even when I land on his doorstep.
The wee woman smiled and got up saying goodbye; she made room for me to sit with him.
"You OK, Da?" I asked him.
"Yes, I needed a wee rest. I was meeting up with my buddies earlier and fancied a wee coffee and sit dow. The weather is good eh?" he answered.
"You are not terribly lonely are you?" I asked him nodding towards the wee lady who trotted off down the street.
He looked at me and said, "I did speak to people before you were born. I know how to chat to folk and, no, I am not that lonely I have taken to harassing pensioners."
I laughed and he laughed and we sat there in the street catching up with each other. I miss him and worry terrible that I am not with him enough or doing enough. He has an adorable step-daughter who visits him and looks after his shopping needs. I am grateful to her beyond belief.
"Are you still a comedian?" he asked me. (He does this all the time, it's our private joke.)
"Yes, I am and are you still an old man obsessed with wheelie bins?" I replied.
"Aye, I am," he sniggered.
Today I called him and we chatted again. I thought what it would be like not to be able to see him in the street of be able to call him up. I think about him all alone in his house or sitting in the dark missing my step mum and I get so upset. I hope I am a good daughter, I hope he doesn't think I have no time for him in my busy life.
I was once told that the best thing you can give an elderly relative is your time; they just want some of your time to spend it with you.
I am lucky I have a good dad and am going to see him tomorrow.
Meanwhile, life is consumed by all things Edinburgh Fringe... getting posters made, hiring a flyering team and making sure all is well with my to-do list. I dream about the to-do list as husband makes me add and amend it constantly. His Aspergers makes him wake up at 5am and say, "Did you write down that thing I told you to?" and I stare at him in the dark and say, "What thing?" and then he starts switching on lights and fumbling with a pen. Yes, my life is truly awesome.
Am off to London this weekend to work and to catch up with pals, if you fancy a peek at my show listings for Edinburgh here are the links.
Sunday the 20th of June 2010
Lots of stuff to say
London was awesome and I am now home. I stayed in the Groucho Club which has rooms and they are awesome. It really isn't as noisy as it used to be since they redecorated and the beds are just... dreamy!
Staying right in the heart of Soho has its plusses and negatives. For one you are so central your name could just be called LONDON; the down side is the madness that you witness going for a midnight stroll.
When you live in Soho you have to accept the place and not be too snooty about what you see with your own eyeballs.
For one, the homeless who beg on your doorstep will engage, harass and bug you and blame you for being ON THEIR PATCH... and I fully accept that. They were there before you. They need money and you clearly have it... so come on fat lady pay up! I don't give cash anymore to the people who beg, not because I am some snooty up-my-own-ass capitalist, but because there is a credit crunch on and they don't like pennies being foisted on them. They look at your petty change the way Prince Phillip looks at Chinese people but without the casual racism.
"Can you give me £4 to get into a hostel?" one man asked.
"No, sorry, I can't give you four pounds, would you like fifteen pence?" I replied.
"You Scottish tight-fisted fuckwit!" he snapped at me. His dog even sneered.
I was insulted, spat at and harangued by a fake poet who claims to be the 'Bard of Soho'. I have to give him cash for his really shit poems. Apparently he couldn't make a rhyme out of my suggestion of 'I am paying ten grand for a Fringe show why don't you give me cash for my art?'
He kicked me on the back... Yes... he lifted his heroin-abscessed leg and booted my back, leaving my white linen shit filthy. I accepted the mark gracefully and wore the boot stain with pride. I felt accepted.
Now, before you think am giving Soho a bad name, there is the amazing side to it. The sheer buzz, the noise, the lights, the fabulous West End shows, the gay men who promenade, the children who play footie in the street, the 'models' who ply their wares with gusto and the total London vibe with of all manners of life sitting cheek by jowl with the fancy restaurants, private clubs and sex shops. I love it.
I love watching the black cabs trying to run down the 'illegal unlicensed uninsured' rickshaws that peddle their business in central London. Taxi cabs HATE them and if you ever want to hear a taxi driver swear talk about them... they go MENTAL... it's fun.
The Groucho Club itself is awesome, but you are not allowed to talk about what happens inside it; finally I feel like I am a mason and have a secretive code to abide by. You can't take photos or mention famous people or twitter about them or give information about what happens inside; to be honest nothing bad happens, it's not Sodom and Gomorra... it's just famous people having drinks with non famous people like me sitting about.
Suffice to say I met a musical hero and called him by the wrong name. I am crap at being amongst very famous people. Two things happen: I either think I know them personally because I have seen them on telly or I don't know them at all and get them mixed up with someone I went to school with. I am no Perez Hilton. I am more 'Magrit the over friendly cleaner'.
The worst thing is when you pop out for a ciggie and chat to some anonymous bloke and the paparazzi turn up and flash into his face, blinding you and leave you wondering who the hell you just spoke to!
But, all in all, Soho is an amazing place and if I ever wanted to live somewhere it would be right there, so I can understand why the homeless like it so much. Like the late Robert Palmer once sang: "It takes every kind of people".
Thursday the 24th of June 2010
LA's fine - the sun shines most the time
I have arrived... in Los Angeles. The flight was amazing, as I got upgraded to club class and lay down, slept, nibbled on lobster... had a reaction, took an anti-histamine and slept more. Yes, rock and roll hives: that's my life. I know I can't eat shell fish, but it was too good not to itch over is all I am saying.
On landing in LA, you have to wait in ominous queues to get through customs and every second woman was a wee Indian lady in ethnic dress with no command of English and the Americans just pissed themselves with excitement holding them back and shouting out: "Can anyone speak Urdu?"
A woman from the back of the queue came forward and translated. I laughed, as it doesn't take high intelligence to understand that, if they are using passengers on the same flight as people to translate the potential 'immigrant liars', then... who knows... isn't this an old plot line from 24?
Anyway, more queues happened. We then had to line up to get out of the airport and get more immigration checks. My mate Daryl was on the other side waiting on me as he was driving me to my friend's house. I couldn't call Daryl as there is no signal to use phones in immigration.
Anyway I finally got out of the airport and INTO the HEAT of LA.
Daryl and his lovely girlfriend and I had a leisurely drive up to my mate's house, which by the way is amazing. They have a pool and I have a new swimming costume... what's not to love?
So I have had a full night's sleep, had some nice food and am now sitting by the pool deck writing a blog. By the way I heard England managed to score a goal.... is that actually true?
Saturday the 26th of June 2010
Day Three in LA and all is well
I have the most awesome room with a private loo... things are good. I went out for a walk on day two round the neighbourhood here in Valley Village and basically there are no pavements or - since am in the USA - 'sidewalks'. You are either treading on someone's manicured lawn or walking on the road. The place is very white picket fence. I imagine there are wives in sticky-out skirts making cookies and planning their own suicide in the midday heat. Apparently 'the Valley' is the porn-making capital of Los Angeles... so who knows what is going on?
I passed a beautiful house and outside they had a yard sale. I had never seen one and decided to dive right in and pick through some nice stuff and believe me the dresses were cute. Just then a young skinny woman in a tight tee shirt and tiny denim skirt came rushing over shouting: "What the hell are you doing, lady?"
"Er... I thought it was a yard sale?" I said slowly replacing a white dress onto the coat rack.
"This is a film set and those are props," she screeched. "Didn't you see the big van and the lighting crew?"
"No, am sorry I didn't!" I sloped off.
So, I presume, some white picket porn was taking place and as usual I get in the way of some good sex.
The next day we headed down to Big Boy's Diner which is a traditional burger joint that has an event every Friday, where classic cars and old fashioned vehicles line up to show off their 'classic-ness'.
It was amazing and there were rows and rows of proper old Americana blokes with fat stomachs, grey pony tails and yard chairs watching people watching their cars.
It seems to be a whole community of folk who turn up to kick wheels, check out old cars and show each other what's under their bonnets. I have never seen such clean engines; they are all impeccably smart.
One bloke watched me taking some photos and said, "You like the cars?"
"Yes, they are pretty amazing, eh?" I replied.
"This has been going on since 1958 round here and you know this is the place to pick up guys," he smiled. He was about sixty odd years old with a dyed quiff and a small Chihuahua on a lead.
"Really, this is a hot pick up joint?" I smiled trying to be cool.
"Yeah, baby, look," he said and, with a flourish of his hand, he showed me a bunch of really old men in giant denim dungarees with bad hips leaning on walking frames, propped beside cars that were vintage but not as old as them.
"Yeah... but the buffet is hardly fresh is it?" I laughed and moved on taking more pictures.
Soon I am going to Venice Beach, my favourite place. It takes almost 2 hours on public transport but I don't mind as a taxi cab is about $100 from the Valley and that's just one way! You would think we were miles away from the coast but we aren't – it's just the traffic is so heavy.
Los Angeles has a crap transport system - the problem is there are no dedicated bus lanes to enable the buses through the city. The Metro trains which are awesome and cheap only go downtown (basically half way into the city). The trains don't go down to the beach or anywhere near the coast. Which means you need to get the bus and it drags slowly through the city behind all the traffic and takes forever.
That's my fault for not driving is all I can say but why does the city encourage everyone to drive? They don't make it easy NOT TO!
The other night I went out to see Paul Provenza do his podcast at a small theatre. He is a cracking comic and has a book out called Satiristas! You must check it out. The same night I bumped into my old mate Rick Shapiro. I haven't seen Rick in ages and he has good news about getting some acting work. In fact it's awesome news and I will leave it to him to announce it.
Either way I am enjoying my time and still have adventures to take.
Monday the 28th of June 2010
Ooops, I got burnt
My favourite thing in Los Angeles is to take a bus. Those of you who saw my show last year you will know what I am talking about. Me and the loonies get on just fine and dandy and the buses are chockfull of loonies.
On the 702 bus there was big fight between a wee man with a walking stick and a driver who wouldn't ask young Japanese students to get off the disabled seats.
The lame man screamed at the driver: "I hate communicating with strangers. You tell the fucking gooks to get off the seats meant for disabled people!"
The Japanese students sat en masse passively; they didn't even blink when the disabled man screamed again at the driver "Tell those impolite fuckers to give me a seat! I fought in Vietnam and these fuckers remind me of the gooks!"
I sat there gobsmacked.
The driver tried to pacify him: "Sir, you have to stop that racist screaming. Just ask the kids to move; it's not my job to tell people to give up their seats."
The disabled man with the stick fell onto the floor of the bus; the Japanese students took pictures of him on their phones. That made him much screamier than ever. Finally, an older man who was with the load of Japanese students came down and told them to move, but they wouldn't move off the seats; they clutched their Hello Kitty purses and big bags tightly, refusing to budge.
I got up (of course I did) and helped up the shouty Vietnam Vet (if he was that). I gave him his stick and got him to his feet. I grabbed the tee shirt of one big student on the disabled seat and pulled him off; he didn't resist and he glared at me and took a photo of my angry face close up. I stood on his ultra white sneaker. At this point, you may ask 'how did you know they were Japanese?' which is suggesting I am racist, but they had a big tourist banner with them which said 'Japanese Student Group' and that cut out the guessing for me.
The students then all moved as one big group and trundled up to the back of the bus; their impoliteness annoyed me and most of the girls were wearing mini kilts… why? I don't know is the answer.
The Vietnam man with one eye and a penchant for casual racism shouted: "Gooks!" at them.
"Hey man, stop that," I said to him.
He looked at me and screamed: "Lesbian Scottish bitch!"… apparently all Scottish women were lesbians and if I didn't believe him, he said, "Just look at Martha Stewart!"
I didn't know she was Scottish or a lesbian but I know she's been in jail, so what the hell do I know?
Either way, I made it to Venice Beach after a 2 hour train/bus trip and then sat on the beach sweated off my factor 30 sun block and managed to burn my face and the back of my neck. I look like a chip pan melted my face.
I spent a whole night swathed in Aloe Vera and that stuff is magical. Then I swapped to Sudocreme and now look less toasted and more burnished.
Am loving L.A.
Wednesday the 30th of June 2010
The Burns are fading
My nose looks like someone took a blow torch to it and the back of my neck looks basically like a burn that occurred when a chip pan was thrown at me. I won't ever sit near a burning ball of fire called the sun ever again.
The good news is I love LA and have met loads of awesome people, even the couple who had a big screaming domestic fight on our street. (How dare they - we are posh - but, anyway, this man and woman had a bust up.)
How, I don't really know as she owned a car and he was on a silver scooter - not an electric one, the kind you push with your feet and should give up doing when you hit puberty. She was a feisty big black lady and he was a skinny dreadlocked black man. They screamed at each other.
At first I thought she had hit him accidentally with the car but that wasn't what happened - Anyway they were on our street, him on his scooter and her in the car. I had to stand on a brick fireplace and put my ear to the window and shoosh the kids to hear them. I wasn't really interested but it was a slow blog day.
There is only so much sunburn you can write about.
She got out of her car and shouted at him, he grabbed her car keys and scooted off, she stomped about angrily and then the car sat on the road with its emergency lights flashing, then they both came back, made up, he put his scooter in the boot and they drove off with All the Single Ladies blasting out the stereo. I love Beyonce; she makes people love each other again.
So, other than that, I found a cracking sports bar near us and ate a hotdog, drank a beer and sat with big burly redneck-looking men and screamed for The Dodgers. I pretended I was American and made wild gestures when things happened at the baseball game on the big screen. I didn't know what was going on, but it's easy to copy people when you are with them; you can become them and think like them. That's probably how Bush got elected so many times; people just drank beer and copied each other.
It was great fun. I kinda want to grow a ponytail and own a flat back truck and swear at baseball on a regular basis; it may help when my menopause kicks in. You know how some women change when they go through their change of life? You know how some women take to knitting jumpers with fluffy tabby cats on the front and grow a small beard? Well I am going to start drinking beer and wearing plaid shirts and punching walls when am full of beer!
Other than that, I met up with Gina Yashere who is a wonderful black female comic from London and we know each other from the UK comedy circuit. She is doing awesome in LA; she has a regular slot on the Jay Leno show and has had a Showtime comedy special; she is amazing. We had a cracking vegetarian lunch. That's about as LA that I get… eating vegetables.
So I am off to have big adventures this weekend before I go home…. watch this space.