Janey's Blogs - April 2009
Sunday the 5th of April 2009
Dizzee Rascal and Comedy
When I left Glasgow last week, Ashley begged me to get her something nice for her birthday on April 19th, I mostly always give her cash, as she hates me buying her
FURNITURE & ART
So, I am stuck knowing what to get her. She is too old for toys, too old for games and not interested in traditional things like rings, bracelets or any other crap like that... I am worried.
I may have to steal something like Dizzee Rascal as she likes him. I wonder where I can find him? Does these rap boys just hang about darkened clubs? Can I just drug him, put him in a bag, chain him to a radiator and keep him fed and watered till I fly home? I can put him in the suitcase?
Imagine her wee happy face when she opened my suitcase and found a rather groggy Dizzee Rascal?
London is fine, my headache has gone and I am still off the fags big time. I have a brown birth mark/mole that has started bleeding on my back and may need attention. Husband has the cold which is like the gay AIDS on a man. He is actually limping. How can the cold make you limp? Fuck off!
Am going to get my photos done at Steve Ullathorne's tomorrow and lovely Francesca is going to help me with my malke up. Then it's off to a Comedy Debate at the BAFTA offices.
Wednesday the 8th of April 2009
Blemishes and bumps
London has unusual folk in it; I was in Sainsbury’s on Cromwell Road and saw a wee man who had a giant growth hanging off his neck. It was bigger than his actual head and rested on his shoulder. I was gobsmacked and horrified that I looked at this giant ball thing. But I couldn’t stop staring; basically it was a big bloated shiny taut-skinned beach ball of human skin and fluid just sitting there on the man’s shoulder. He seemed OK and was happily fingering some broccoli as I stared at him from different angles.
I wondered how he managed to get through his day with a big cumbersome fluid-filled human growth hanging off his neck everyday. I can’t leave the house if I spot a blackhead in the magnifying mirror. I will dig into my own flesh till I get the fucking thing out and here was a wee man with a ball bigger than his head being accommodated easily! There was a lesson there but I couldn’t quite learn it as I was too busy staring.
Then I had a meeting with Francesca the wonderful make-up artist at Kennington tube station. We were headed to Steve Ullathorne’s studio for my new pics to get done. Kennington tube station doesn’t have much near it to hang out in but I did find a bar.
The pub had just opened and a middle-aged-looking woman was screaming at her wee kid as I entered the bar. The wee boy stuck up two fingers at his mum, she ran round the bar grabbed him and said words in real Cockney that I didn’t understand, but I think she was calling him a fucking wee bastard… I am guessing.
She smiled at me and said: “Fucking school holidays innit?”
The bar was empty but for me, her, her annoying son and a black skinny woman who was cleaning the floor. The skinny woman finished her chores, got a glass of beer, sat down and drank up. I looked at her from the side and she had the biggest bulging eyes I have ever seen on someone. I began to think this was the week for meeting people with strange body anomalies.
She turned to look at me and I gulped down my cola as, full-on, her eyes were truly scary. I know it must be some medical condition that bulges the eyes so big to the point of almost bursting out of their sockets, but it was really worrying to look at.
The skinny black lady with bulgy eyes was now surrounded by the other females who worked in the bar. The women were recalling a nasty situation that had happened over the weekend and the bulgy-eyed lady basically ranted and called everyone a cunt that had upset her group of friends. She was hopping up and down on the damp lino, re-enacting what she would actually do to these ‘cunts’ that had ‘fucked’ her mates about. I was worried that all the stomping would make her eyes fall out, so I stared more in case I missed that.
Then the women ripped out a photo of Jade Goody from the Sun newspaper and made a wee shrine and stuck it on the wall. They cried a wee bit and hugged each other as they recalled their favourite Jade moments and I watched on.
Luckily, Francesca arrived and we left the bar to go find somewhere to eat as that pub didn’t ‘do’ food, which, to be honest, I was happy about. It was a very scuzzy-looking street and that’s rich coming from someone who comes from spam-sucking scum Glasgow.
That area looked really run down BUT we basically walked up ONE street and there were middle class people playing Boules on a small grassy square as a woman groomed a horse!
OK, it wasn’t a horse it was a chocolate brown Labrador, but it looked like a horse to me. There were restaurants that served food that Francesca and I didn’t even understand!
We still don’t know what a ‘tart dulexe with black cabbage friguay’ is!
How can an area be so divided by such small geography? One street had bulgy-eyed screamers crying over Jade Goody and the next street had men in mustard yellow corduroy trousers talking about Japanese sculptures!
Anyway, we ate food we did understand and headed off to the studio where Francesca made me look ravishing.
Except I do have a big wrinkly eyelid and, in my magnifying mirror, no amount of make up was going to hide it.
My stomach sank as Steve got up close with a big lens into my face; I knew he would catch the wrinkled eyelid.
So, after I got over my own facial disfigurement, I headed off to the BAFTA offices where I attended the Comedy Debate, which was less of a debate and more of a moan about Ross/Brand. The good news is I got to see lovely Bennett Aaron and Michael Legge (who has a rapey-type shaved head) showed me a nice picture of Jerk on his phone; she looks lovely and all pointy-nosed, pointy-toed and cute. She looks like a ballerina dog.
So finally I got home, downloaded Steve's photos of me and there - as big as fuck - is my big wrinkly eyelid!
The photos were awesome and, yes, my wrinkled eyelid is there in full-blown glory, but I need to understand that it can be concealed a bit, unlike the poor man who had an extra head in the Sainsbury’s or the scary lady with the bulgy eye illness in Kennington.
Monday the 13th of April 2009
My time here in London
I love the underground tube in London. The way those people squash their unclean bodies up against you, the way they ignore old people standing and crush their bags instead onto a much needed seat… I love London! I end up just shouting at people and telling them to move out the way or move to let a pregnant woman sit down! I am a grumpy old woman on transport. I just hate the way people ignore others and become ignorant to others' needs in public. I always give up my seat, help with prams and heavy luggage and, by writing this, I now sound like a really old lady who learnt lessons during the Second World War.
I particularly hate the way twenty five Italian teens with backpacks cram onto the pavement and refuse to let anyone through, so the only way along the street is to step onto the dangerously busy Cromwell Road. Not me, people. I simply gird my wee loins and push my way right through the middle of these irritating folks; they scatter like cheap ten pins and some of them even fall onto the dangerous road and realise how scary walking into the traffic can be! I love London.
London isn’t frightening, despite people trying to constantly worry us about terrorism. The news is full of scary stories.
Is it just me or are you still wondering what happened to all those dangerous people the police pointed guns at in Clitheroe in Lancashire last week? Apparently a ‘Big bad thing' was going to happen after they caught some Asian men taking photos of a shopping centre in Manchester. Turns out the Police and government didn’t have enough evidence to have these dawn raids. But at least we know the ‘Big bad thing’ hasn’t happened. Fear, people, that’s what they want us to suffer… fear!
I am not scared. I have been on buses and trains since I arrived and I won’t be put off. London city is amazing and you need to get round it to enjoy it!
The gigs have been great fun, especially Tiffany’s gig at Girls with Guns at the Phoenix, EdComedy at the Hob in Forest Hill and Downstairs at the Kings Head in Crouch End: such supportive and great intimate gigs. Tomorrow I will be at Comedy Camp in Soho and that is just a lovely wee room as well.
Other than doing comedy, I have been getting my posters, images and entrys done for the Edinburgh Fringe. The deadlines scare me. I worry myself sick about it and get really fractious over every single word in the brochure and it turns out people don’t actually read the fucking thing and go see comedy on either a whim or a recommendation, so all the worrying was for nothing!
Ashley is happy at home and is still determined that I buy her a birthday present on my homecoming, but she doesn’t want – jewellery/ electronic goods/ handbags/ shoes/ clothes/ furniture/ books/ DVDs/ gift vouchers/ cash… so am fucking stuck! I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO GET HER! Ashley, if you are reading this... help?
Wednesday the 15th of April 2009
The credit crunch must be biting hard, as my friend is no longer buying expensive cuts of meat for her dog. Sharkey was used to venison, which confused me, as I don’t think dogs can naturally bring down a deer in the wild, can they? Sharkey is now on cheap can food and seems to be holding a dirty protest at this horrific treatment. He has taken to wetting the beds!
It may go back to the old days when pets are merely given left-over dinners and not succulent moist pots of rare game to choff down at tea time.
There are people I know who get their pets regular dental treatment which makes me wonder what on earth my childhood dog Major did for breath freshener. Maybe eating the lino was perfect for his gums and teeth, though it made my mammy insane and did nothing for Major’s backside. I am not saying that domestic animals shouldn’t have veterinary treatment or be cared for, I am just wondering what happened to scabby dogs; you know the kind I mean? The big odd-shaped mongrels that never get ribbons in their hair or specialised shampoo, wee tufty Glasgow dogs that don’t need a sat-nav to get round the city late at night; they know their way better than the cab drivers. I miss those dogs.
They could often be found raiding the local chip shop bins and, when caught, they just stared at you disdainfully as if to say: “What are you looking at? Get out of my alley!”
Those kinds of dogs seemed to live for years, they came in all shapes and sizes and would balk at the idea that fancy women would take to carrying wee dogs in their handbag. That’s abuse in the dog world; those folks need biting or medicated.
People assumed the street-wandering scabby dogs were strays, but they weren’t. They knew exactly where they were going, they knew the best places to eat, sleep and copulate. Masters of their own destiny, they would avoid the crazy women who wiped their doorsteps with ammonia to stop them lifting a leg and the women who plastered them with buckets of cold water when they got ‘stuck’ on a bitch. These angry wifies were given a wide berth. These street hairy gangster dogs knew which butcher would throw them scraps, they were up to speed on their knowledge of the kids that liked a game of catch and I am convinced they pooled that information with like-minded waggy-tailed friends throughout the area.
We don’t get those animals any more. If we see a dog out walking alone, without a collar or a companion, we assume it’s lost or needs arrested, just in case it has a warrant out on it for biting kids in the face.
I am sure there was a valid reason for clearing scabby dogs off the streets of Glasgow, but somehow I miss them and Glasgow is duller place for it.
Friday the 17th of April 2009
Bernie Katz, Prince of Soho
I am chuffed to say I personally know Bernie Katz. He has just written an awesome book called 'Soho Society', which has a lovely foreword from Stephen Fry.
Soho is an altogether fascinating place for me. I wandered around it when I arrived in London 16 years ago. I loved every coffee bar, club and rat trap that I spotted. I imagined that the women who had ‘model’ above their windows were actually ‘models’ and not faded foreign hookers.
The hub of Soho for me is the Groucho Club. Bernie Katz is the Joel Grey Cabaret-type Emcee of the club - He is the small whirlwind of a man in the centre of all the action. Bernie is about as tall as me, which reaches five foot nothing to be honest, yet his presence is enormous and wondrous.
He is one of those wee enigmatic blokes who have been present in every century. Dickens has described him in detail, possibly picturing the Victorian Bernie as ‘The shifty Gay Jew’ as we know how Dickens loved his stereotypes and never missed a chance to display his anti-Semitism.
Pepys no doubt recorded a night out with a 1665 version of Bernie Katz which would have left him either sterile or bisexual but, either way, a heap more fashionable for knowing the firecracker that is Bernie Katz!
Bernie’s book ‘Soho Society’ is both touching and laugh-out-loud funny.
There were characters and places in the book that I recognised and will now cast a softer more sympathetic eye on: super-fast agents like Harrison Avenue (the character name in the book). I never knew his anus suffered so much pleasure/action/pain nor that he had a cocaine-shrivelled cock, which explains so much about Harrison’s extremely odd behaviour the last time we met. His insulting madness made me almost choke him, but I did get a magnum of expensive champagne for not killing him in the upstairs bar. Bernie was right, Harrison needs to be pitied not scorned.
My favourite story about Bernie is a personal one. I was in Glasgow shopping and Bernie called me.
“Janey, its Bernie here from the Groucho Club. How are you, darling? I need you to give me a number you may have…. Where are you?” Bernie’s voice became serious.
“I am in Primark, Glasgow,” I said.
Bernie simply hung up on me. The buzz down the line was ominous.
I could just imagine his wee face all screwed-up in disgust that I was standing in Primark. Bernie does fashion, he does couture, he doesn’t do Primark. I laughed and carried on with my day, I forgot about Bernie’s strange phone call.
Then I stepped into the Fraser’s Department store in Glasgow and wandered up to their Gucci display. I could smell the expensive leather jacket, I reached out and touched how soft it was - like a slippery moist baby's cheek - when my mobile rang out.
“Janey, its Bernie. Where are you now?” he snapped at me.
“I am standing at Gucci and looking at a leather jacket” I replied.
“Good, now we can speak. I really can’t bear to have my voice be exposed in Primark. I knew you were near exclusive things, I feel comfortable speaking now,” he said.
I laughed my head off as Bernie simply chatted. Only Bernie could know I was in close proximity to couture!
If you get the chance to get your hands on 'Soho Society', do grab it, sit down and greedily read each vignette and devour the stories. You will be amazed at the content and stunned by the art it contains. A real significant slice of Soho culture.
Saturday the 18th of April 2009
Susan Boyle from Scotland has become a sensation on the web and in the media. She was the rather chubby, dowdily dressed woman who walked on stage at Britain’s Got Talent on TV last week. The audience were shown on TV looking horrified and appeared to be mocking and giggling at Susan as she explained her singing dream.
Though the minute her voice rose throughout the theatre the audience and judges were visibly stunned, she sings like an angel.
Susan lives with her cat in West Lothian. She is single and rather than looking ‘unkempt’ and ‘bushy haired’ I think Susan looked really confident and walked onstage with ease! She bantered with the judges, ignored the nasty sneers from the hip young crowd and belted out a great song.
Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore tweeted about her and her YouTube video is getting over 25 million hits and counting!
This is a woman who doesn’t bother with upper lip waxing, hair serum or fashion advice, this is a Scottish woman who does charity work, plays with her cat, eats cake on telly and sings better than Madonna and doesn’t have to starve herself and body pump her loins to get an audiences respect. She has talent and she is openly honest about her wee Scottish life and I love her!
I hope she wins the competition and I hope she gets a record deal and doesn’t change who she is. The last thing we want is Susan done up like a ‘Haddy Supper’ scrubbed, brushed and flashed up by some skinny make-over bitch.
My other deep concern is that Susan is really naïve and lives in a tiny wee village with a wee village mentality. Reading about her and watching news interviews it seems her back story is that she was bullied and laughed at as a child. Some folk have hinted that she has mild learning difficulties – which in actual fact could be translated as dyslexia mixed with social awkwardness but in small rural Scotland that would be decided as ‘special needs’ especially back in the 60s when Susan was a child.
In a media circus that is driven by the young and beautiful, it goes to show that a rather tufty woman with enormous talent can overcome all prejudices.
They slinky, young and extremely hip will never have the singing pipes that Susan possesses and has been keeping quiet about in Blackburn, West Lothian, all these years! Good on her!
Either way she needs protecting from the media and gently eased into her new life. I was appalled to hear that Russell Brand (media whore who would sell his foreskin for attention) has announced he will have sex with Susan the Virgin. All this done in his inimitable multi- syllable style and made to look like he would be doing her a favour. I was always a big fan of Russell and defended him during the Sachs-a-phone scandal of late, but that just makes me feel ill.
The thing is, Susan said she had never been kissed, that doesn’t necessarily make her a virgin, in Scotland men will have sex without kissing! (OK that was a wee joke)… either way her personal life needs protecting. Brand’s slimy boasts annoy me.
And that’s why I worry about her.
I hope they don’t change her, I hope Susan enjoys her moment in the sun and I hope we all get to hear her lovely voice pretty soon.
Monday the 20th of April 2009
The Leaving of London
I had a late night Saturday. My mate Elaine and I headed off to Oxford Jongleurs; it threatened to be evil. There were nasty stags all congregating and being cuntish. I quickly got them ready for the first act, I was the fastest microphone mistress in the world.
Susan Murray went on first and slayed them, her no holds barred attitude won them over, we were all pleasantly surprised and the crowd were fine. Then Anthony King went on to have one of the best gigs that I have seen him do! I love his quirkily intelligent wordsmith creative act and the potentially annoying crowd LOVED him as well.
The whole night was topped off with the energetic Richard Morton; the crowd carried on being lovely and responsive, which goes to show that first impressions aren’t always good to judge things on.
Elaine and I went straight from Oxford to Groucho Club in London’s West End. Elaine had yet to be introduced to the Groucho and she walked straight into the enigmatic Bernie Katz dancing wildly to ‘More than a Woman’ in the reception. “Dance or leave!” Bernie shouted. Elaine danced, we laughed and Bernie hugged and kissed ‘members’ - by members, I mean club members not penises, which Bernie would happily kiss at any given moment.
I love his madness.
We ended up drinking and dancing and finally getting home at 3am. Both of us are on the wrong side of 40 for that kind of high-jinkery!
This morning I got up at 9am, husband and I packed and got ready to leave London. Fuck, I was tired…husband snickered at my groggy grumpy state.
We got on the Piccadilly line and I sat sleepily on the first seat I could find. Opposite me sat a well dressed Oriental man who decided to really dig into his nose, I mean fucking really dig into that beak of his; he was pulling out slimy snots and eating them. I was disgusted and people were just averting their eyes. He sat there in tweed coat, fine woollen trousers and shiny leather shoes eating fingerfulls of crusty snot! He then bent his head back and got his pinkie up there as he knew there were tasty morsels yet to be pulled down for noshing.
“Oh, fucking stop it now!” I eventually shouted at him.
People around me looked at their feet. I had had enough, I wanted to have a snot-eating-free journey and that wasn’t too much to ask, was it? He looked at me and sat there staring. His finger was slightly poised.
“Stop picking snot and eating it will you please? It is a Sunday morning and I really don’t want that to be what I see today, so fucking stop it please?” I yapped into his staring face.
I noticed him whisper across the aisle to a woman, she was saying something in a language I didn’t understand and won’t guess at in case it will sound racist. It could have been Cantonese, Japanese… I really don’t know, but it sounded like angry wife berating nose picking husband in public. She gave him some verbal abuse and he aggressively snapped back at her whilst pointing at me. I don’t think he has been reprimanded in public about his beak-picking antics. He was annoyed at me, she was angry at him and he finally stopped eating the contents of his nose. Husband finally caught my eye from the seat on the other side of the carriage. We were separated by the entry space and doors area; husband gave me a look that asked, “What’s wrong?”
“That man kept picking his nose and eating it!” I shouted down the carriage. The oriental man sneered at me, his wife tutted at him and everyone sat uncomfortably. But at least we didn’t have to watch him eat groggy snotters. People in husbands’ end of the train craned their neck to see snot-choffing man.
We finally got to Heathrow, got on a plane and ran into a hug from my daughter Ashley in Glasgow. It is her 23rd birthday and we missed her so much. We got her a Warren Zevon vinyl LP (she is a fan), a book about producer Stanley Kramer, a book about the Coen Brothers, a DVD box set of Party of Five (she loves 90s TV) and a bottle of vodka. She was delighted at our obscure gifts.
Am happy to be home. I go off to LA on Thursday and then onto NZ for the comedy festival.
Wednesday the 22nd of April 2009
My Tits got felt
A great title I know but it’s not erotic. I forgot to tell you all this when I was in London. I was pondering a new bra at a shop in Kensington that caters for women with breasts the size of small inflatable dinghies and I spotted a good bra. I picked it up and went in to try it on. Just as I got my baps out and attempted to get the big babies under control a wee women threw the curtain back and said:
“Right, so let’s see if this will be a good fit.”
I wasn’t that worried. I have had an Australian doctor pull a whole baby out of my vagina with two big salad tongs or forceps. I am over shame and shyness, but this woman had wiry steel wool hair and was wearing K Skips shoes and jeans with an elasticated waist and that was what scared me. I am not suggesting she was a lesbian or a sexual deviant; that wouldn’t bother me either. I once spent a night in a prison cell with a girl who was gay and whacked men’s cocks with a spatula. I know this coz she told me. What worried me was this woman was juggling my over sized tits and looked like she was trying to catch giant jellies from the sky in her hands.
She wasn’t capable of doing the job was my issue; that and the fact I didn’t ask for a woman wearing acrylic handing my tenders.
She then finally got the hang of me.
She then showed me how to ‘lower’ myself into the bra from the front and not drag it up my body, she then showed me how to arrange my nipples for comfort and it was quite interesting. It was when she started rearranging my nipples through the material I got worried.
“I think I can manage,” I spoke briskly. She left in a hurry and swished the curtain fast behind her. The bra fitted OK, once I got my juggly bunnies into it. I went to pay for the bra and said: “Can you tell the woman fitter in the lemon jumper my bra fitted OK and thanks for her help?”
The till assistant looked at me and said: “We don’t have any bra fitters on today; who are you talking about?”
I left the shop and realised that I was touched up by a frizzy-haired woman who happened to be in the bra fitting section. Is that sexual assault?
I don’t know but she did give me some good advice, despite being crap at handing my boobs.
Anyway, back to today, I met up with John Smeaton; you may recall he was the bloke who kicked the airport attackers in Glasgow’s only Taliban attack at the Glasgow Airport in 2007! Well, realistically speaking, the guys were actually two local doctors from the general hospital who were shite at terrorism and ended up with their hair on fire and dying; anyway John Smeaton was the accidental hero and is my mate.
We had a good old natter. Both of us have stopped smoking and we are going to Kelly Cooper Barr’s style night at 29 in Glasgow tomorrow. We caught up and had coffee and spoke about John’s upcoming nuptials. He is getting married in July!
John walked me to Fraser’s department store and headed off. He will have enough time to shop when he becomes a husband and the poor fucker doesn’t need to suffer me shopping as a practice run. I need to get some decent flat shoes as I am to Los Angeles this weekend and then onto New Zealand on Monday to do the NZ Comedy Festival. I am excited and can’t wait!
Husband cant wait to see the back of me either I imagine. We just spent three weeks together in London and he is quite fed up of my annoying face and voice.
I will no doubt let you know how the fashion and style night goes with John.
Sunday the 26th of April 2009
Living on the road
Well I am finally in Los Angeles. The flight was fine, in fact it was good as I got to have 3 seats to myself which fits my wee fat body perfectly. I am staying at The Inn on Venice Beach which technically isn’t in Venice Beach but it’s not far from it and it is pretty nice. The downside is the room they gave me had an adjoining room which is separated by a thin door so, at 6am, I was woken by a wee old American woman who was clearly deaf and was shouting her entire holiday plans at her deaf husband.
“Marlin, we really should go to the Universal Studios and then get a bus to Santa Monica. What do you think, Marlin?”
I lay there wanting her to either sleep or die; her husband responded by coughing really loudly; that was just a blessing to hear that early. Where are LA crime lords and old-people killers when you need them?
I spent the night having insane dreams that there was a hole in the arch of my foot in the sole and I was squeezing out of this hole a tube-like substance of putrefied fruit! Yes, rotten sticking peaches and bananas were seeping out of this evil painful hole in the bottom of my left foot! What the fuck?
So, back to the noisy room.
The management moved my room after I explained about old Shouty woman. I am now in a suite with a balcony. So I headed down to Venice Beach and called my daughter Ashley and told her that I was standing in front of the Venice Beach webcam. She logged on and text me to say she could see me but I was merely a blob in the distance! I got a lovely piece of guerrilla art for her done by a cool street artist.
The weather is really nice, the sun is shining and I miss my family already as I know I am off to NZ for a whole month and it can get lonely, but I do love my job!
Tuesday the 28th of April 2009
The Intriguing Inn
The Inn at Venice Beach has been intriguing indeed. The staff were always helpful... until today. I had to check out at midday and my cab to the airport isn’t until 7pm tonight, so I had a walk on the beach and bumble about in the sand.
I came back to the hotel and asked the new receptionist if there was a spare room in which to have a shower as I am soon to embark on a long haul flight to NZ. She quickly told me, "No, you will have to go down the street and find maybe a gym that will let you have a shower." I balked at that idea. "Do you have a toilet?" I asked.
She grudgingly got me a hand towel and pointed towards the staff loo. The sink had a big circular crack in it and, as I tried to wipe the sandy residue off it, my finger got sliced on the sharp edge of the ceramic break. Blood spurted everywhere. I came out, explained why I was bleeding and asked for a Band Aid. "We are all out of them; the first aid kit is empty. If you go down the street the corner store sells Band Aids," she explained.
"Isn’t against the law to have an empty first aid kit, ma'am?" I asked.
"Can you get me my luggage as I think I have a band aid in that?" I asked her.
"It looks heavy. Can you come and get it yourself?" she answered.
I struggled with a bleeding finger and bloodied cloth and my luggage.
Then I spotted the lovely Spanish room maid and asked her, "Do you know where I can get a Band Aid?" The blood seeped through the small white face cloth. The maid got me a Band Aid and the receptionist asked me, "Can you please throw that towel away? It has your blood it and I am legally not allowed to touch your blood."
"I think legally you should have provided me with a Band Aid after your sink sliced my finger. I may sue and, ye,s I will get the towel in the bin thanks," I uttered.
So I finally got cleaned up and I not only will post this to my blog but I will post it to the survey that the Inn on Venice Beach asked me to fill in this morning.
I am about to get on the flight to NZ and will no doubt talk when I get there.
Wednesday the 29th of April 2009
First night in NZ
OK, the flight from LA first. You all know about the debacle of me getting my finger sliced in a hotel toilet, well that’s all been resolved. The manager emailed me today and has refunded cash to my credit card regards my stay. Well done Inn at Venice Beach!
So, the flight from LA. Well, I managed to get three seats together which fit me perfect. The downside was the plane was flooded by the paedophile dream that is an entire cheerleading team. A ‘Squeakle’ (the collective noun for skinny girls in pink Lycra) of these teens all gathered around my seats. It seems they were seated in my special sleepy quiet bit of the plane!
I was busy making my wee seat nest when all I could hear was the girls screeching and chattering; it was like the noise you make when you rub a piece of damp polystyrene up and down a glass. So I leaned over my seats and three big blue-eyed 13 year olds stared back.
“Listen up, girls, I am going be lying down for the entire flight. I am due my period and it makes slightly killy, which is stabby but in a Scottish way, so don’t kick the seats, don’t yank on the back of my seats and keep the noise down and we will all make it to NZ.”
They stared back and silently nodded. This was going to be an easy night.
I did manage to sleep most of the night and, yes, my period did arrive, like a big fanfare of pain and blood. It was so bad I had to get up and wash my pyjamas in the toilet of the aeroplane. I was scrubbing at bloodstains in that tiny wee bowl; life is evil at times. Then I went back to sleep.
Anyway, I finally woke up at 90 minutes to landing. I noticed a long-haired young man with smooth lovely skin sitting on the end aisle row across from me.
He chatted and asked me questions about where I was going and where I had come from and then he told me he was from Mexico. On perfect timing the pilot came on the PA system and said: “Ladies and gentlemen, just to let you know on landing in NZ we will be boarded by health officials checking for swine flu.”
“Oh, well, you might get to see NZ at some point,” I smiled and he made a weary face.
Finally, the plane landed and I gathered up my stuff and started off towards immigration. There were people outside the plane who were passengers on our flight in paper masks and TV crews filming them. My body immediately heated up - remember I had a period, my temperature always soars at this time.
Sweat started dripping off my scalp and running down my face. Health officials were watching everyone coming off the plane. I saw the giant twisted snaking queue that was immigration and knew that if I stood there with my hot sweaty period flush I would faint and that would be swine flu hell.
I saw the empty booth ‘for invitation only’ and smartly headed right up that lane. People watched me, the immigration man in the booth watched me. My purposeful walk led me right up there. I gave him my boarding documents and my best smile.
“Do you have an invite to come to this booth?” he snarled. I sweated more.
“Listen, sir, I waited two hours at the NZ High Commission in London to get a work permit and I paid to come to your country, I have done waiting queues, so I just invited myself.”
He stared and smiled slowly.
“What is it you do?” he then asked sharply as he flicked through my passport.
“I am a comedian at your NZ comedy festival,” I answered.
“Make me laugh then,” he challenged.
“I can’t, I have a big filthy sexual fetish about young men in official blue shirts with Kiwi accents, they make me think dirty thoughts and disable me from being funny,” I said.
He stopped staring at my passport, looked at me - and let me through.
Life is good. So it is Day Two and I am up out of bed and it is now 5am. I have a TV interview at 6am, with me in a funky spa being grilled about comedy... just hope I stay awake.