Janey's Blogs - February 2009
Monday the 2nd of February 2009
I have recently toyed with the idea of getting my gigantic breasts reduced. You see, I can never really get decent clothes to fit, everything needs to be baggy on top (size 20) and a size 14 on bottom. It means dresses hang over my body but are fitted around the boob area, I am not skinny by any means, but my tits are fuck-off HUGE. I look insane in strappy tee shirts, I cant wear anything tight or I look like a candidate for ‘Readers Wives’ or ‘Slutty old chicks.com’. My boobs dominate my entire body shape and I am jealous of women who can wear fitted shirts or nice slinky tops.
To make matters worse, I just read an article on that talentless self-starver Victoria Beckham and her latest clothes line. (Did you know she has just invented clothes, dresses and has put style on the world map…no? Well then you are stupid!)
She harps on about the perfect silhouette. That’s OK for her with her body of a nine year old boy that has had two small plastic cereal bowls implanted on the chest wall… My silhouette is reminiscent of Hitchcock’s.
Well at least my hair doesn’t look like it’s just been cut by a special person with safety scissors. Who allowed that to happen? Victoria, get real and grow your hair for fucksake. You are never going to be Audrey Hepburn, no matter how much you refuse to eat or wear giant sunglasses and gamine isn’t even a real word as far as I am concerned.
So back to my REAL giant breasts and the problems they give me.
In the summer heat they weigh me down and almost kill me and you try sleeping comfortably with two giant airbags that seemed to be filled with cold lumpy porridge strapped to your chest. Yes, not funny or sexy eh?
So I have been staring at myself in bright mirrors and imagining how I would look with smaller perkier boobs and, to be honest, it would be great.
I looked up the web for ‘before and after’ photos of women who got a breast reduction and screamed in horror.
Fuck that! They look like some Frankenstein/ Tim Burton-esque sewed-up monster titty experiment.
I don’t want big red welted scars running from my nipple to under my boob. Apparently you lose nipple sensation as well! Who would want to never feel their nipples? Not me… that’s well fucked.
Then I made the huge mistake of watching a breast reduction operation online… Oh MY GOD! They basically slice an anchor style cut from your nipple down to under you boob, whip out the tissue, relocate the nipple and sew it all back up. The breast is left looking like a side of pork sewed up and not for suckling either… all grotesque and scary looking.
So I have decided that big fat boobs are fine. Nothing a good bra can't sort or losing some weight and exercise. Husband would faint if I had small breasts as well - Why do you think this marriage has lasted nearly 30 years? It isn’t because of my sunny disposition or reasonable nature… no, it’s my big tits!
Wednesday the 4th of February 2009
Bay City Rollers and Bones
“Ma, can I get a Bay City Roller jumper? - They are selling them at the Co-op for £1.99!” I shouted through the toilet door to my mammy. My dog Major was at my feet begging to be taken out for a pee; his toe nails were scratching and clicking on the cold lino. Maybe he heard my Ma peeing and this set him off.
“Fuck off, where will I get two quid from?” Ma shouted back over the noise of the loo flushing.
Major lifted a black claw and scratched my leg, his brown eyes pleading with me.
“I am taking the dog out,” I whined back and grabbed the thick metal dog leash off the door handle in the lobby and clipped Major’s collar, only to be dragged off at speed down all the stairs outside. I needed to think of a plan to get two pounds to buy a tartan Bay City Rollers jumper; everyone at school had one except me.
Major stood out the back yard and peed for about ten minutes, whilst scanning the back court for pigeons or cats to attack the minute he was done pissing. He was always on the look-out for a victim was Major. He was an angry dog.
“Hurry up, Major - I need to figure out how to get two quid,” I hissed at him.
Even my dog looked at me pitifully; he knew there was no chance of me getting that Bay City Rollers jumper before the shops shut at 5pm. He finished his pee, scratched the ground with his back legs, flicking up pee-soaked soil over my jeans and tried to pull off the leash to chase imaginary cats. I couldn’t let him free: he would bite the first living thing he spotted and I couldn’t bear to get into a dog dispute today.
Our back yards were a square set of twenty blocks of flats with open closes which led through to the front streets; all the individual closes had penned-off back yards which were segregated by green-painted railings. Major loved getting into other people’s yards.
I ran around the back letting him sniff bins, scratch at the ground and snuffle through the long grass near the railings. He looked up at me pleading to be let free. He wanted to run about but, every time I let him go, he slipped his bony body through the metal railings and shot off on a bite fest and, although I was wiry and fast, I couldn’t climb over those spiky fences and catch up with him. He was an expert escapist. Before I knew it he would be on the main road attacking pensioners and babies. He was mental and very scary looking.
“No, Major, you will run off and bite people!” I answered as he stared at me.
He sat on the cold ground and lifted a paw at me and gave me his best cute look. So I let the leash snap off his neck. He started walking slowly around our confined fenced yard and then he suddenly shot off and leaped over the first fence in a flash. “Oh! Fuck!” I shouted and started after him. I climbed over three sets of metal railings as he slipped through or jumped over them and made off through the opened close of flats across the backyard. I saw his tail disappear through the close into the front street.
I panicked and kept climbing over the four foot high railings till I reached the close he had run through. I could hear screams from the front street. My heart was pounding. I was exhausted and sweating. Why did I let him go?
On entering Vesalius Street, I saw one old woman pinned up against a front garden fence with Major barking at her feet. The dog spotted me and ran off in the direction of the big main road that ran through our wee scheme.
He slid past big lorries that trundled down the busy road; he sped through the traffic and made it to the opposite side of the road. It took me ages to let the traffic past before I could run across and chase after him. He barked and snarled at passers by. “Get that dog on a leash!” a man shouted. The leash was wrapped around my hand as I panted and gasped my way up the road. His pointy tail was visible and the barking kept me on his track.
Finally, he came to a stop. He watched me over his shoulder; he sat on the pavement quietly as I approached him stealthily. I fully expected him to bolt off again as I got closer, but he didn’t move. “Major, you bad dog!” I shouted as I clipped the leash on him. He just stared at me and padded off quietly.
My clothes were sticking to me with the sweat of running and jumping so fast. He merely hung his tongue out and happily jaunted off as if he was the happiest dog in Shettleston. We got stuck at the main road, the traffic was heavy, buses were speeding past and I was nervous crossing that road, as I had been knocked down by a car two years previously near the spot where we stood. It had taken me almost a year to walk again and, at twelve, I still had a slight limp.
I heard a familiar voice shout “Janey!” from one of the buses as it drove past. The bus stopped near me and loads of people spilled out of the back opening. There was my old favourite uncle John. “What are you doing out with that fucking mad dog on the main road?” he asked.
“He ran away from me,” I explained. Uncle John was my pal. He was a lot older than most of my uncles and had neither kids nor a wife and was often ‘away’ though we were never told where. He never had a home of his own and usually stayed with family members and I loved him. He was quirky and had funny ways of explaining stuff. I once asked him why he never fought in the Second World War and he told me, “Well, you see with all the men away, the women of Shettleston needed someone to replace their light bulbs in their lobbies and I didn’t have a fight with the Germans - they never personally upset me - so I don’t see why I should be a paid killer of someone else’s son.”
Turns out my old Uncle John was a bit of a ‘Lad’ and traded guns with crooks and never fought with anyone unless he had a personal gripe with them. He was occasionally in prison and never really settled with anyone anywhere.
“Look, here’s some money for you," he said, "Now, don’t tell your Ma that I have cash. Say you found it,” and he pulled a TEN POUND note from his pocket. Ten pounds was a fortune to me at twelve. I stared at the note. I don’t think I had seen a ten pound note close up in my own hand. Major sat quietly and wagged his tail at Uncle John. he was about the only visitor to our house that Major didn’t bite.
“That’s a lot of money... Thanks, Uncle John, but I can’t say I found it... Are you sure you can give me this?... I will need to say something,...” I stuttered at Uncle John.
“Well, learn to lie and hide it Janey,” he laughed and walked off.
I stared at the money in my hand. It felt so… wonderful and rich; the texture of the paper had me stroking it constantly. The swirly writing and just the overwhelming fact that I had ten pounds to myself made me feel giddy.
I immediately set off to the Co-op and dragged Major with me; I now had the dilemma of how to get into the shop with my dog. Major could not be tied up outside: he would bite folk.
The big glass door to the Co-op jangled as I entered. Major growled low in his throat; he hated new places. My dog was rather autistic and anal for a domesticated animal. Things set him off, like a door bell or a floor brush and he despised goldfish and fish tanks; he attacked them viciously; he tried to bite the glass fish bowl in my bedroom. He was mad.
“That dog can’t come in here!” the woman with the pinched face behind the counter shouted.
“I have ten pounds!” I shouted back and showed her my cash. “I just want a white Bay City Roller tartan jumper for my size,” I added and stood at the door.
She relented and I tied Major to the big pillar at the side of the counter. I begged him not to bite anyone or bark. The woman held out the acrylic top for me to see, I nodded and guessed it would fit me. She wrapped it up in brown paper, sellotaped the edges and held it to me. I tucked it under my arm and carefully wrapped the change into a small bundle and bent down to tuck it into my sock. Major licked my face as I bent down. “Stop that Major - your breath stinks,” I giggled.
I ran for home with my parcel, Major trotting beside me and all the while thinking up a good lie to tell my Ma about the jumper. She could smell a lie and money in seconds and possessed the ability to get the truth out of anyone. I was surprised that she wasn’t an interrogator for the government.
I spotted the butcher's shop on the way and decided to treat Major to some scraps, as he really did get me the jumper I reckoned. Major was barred from the local butcher's as he would run in and try to drag a side of beef off the butcher’s hooks and was known for his daring raids; so I tied him to the lamppost outside, he wouldn’t bite anyone as he could smell the meat and that occupied him.
“Can I have a soup bone and a wee bit of liver please?” I asked. The butcher checked the door for Major. “He is tied up, Mr Cross,” I explained. “He is sorry about the dead cow he pulled down.”
The butcher smiled and wrapped up some liver and a big bloodied bone in greaseproof paper. “It’s OK, Janey. No charge for the scraps and keep that crazy dog back from my shop.”
Major wolfed down the wee bits of liver and chomped down on the bone and we both marched home, happily. I realised that if Major had a bone in his mouth he would never bite anyone, so maybe we had to keep him supplied with bones forever?
Ma was never told about the jumper or the cash; she never saw what I wore to school and it eventually turned up in the washing bag. I had duped her!
The change from the ten pounds was stuffed up the disused chimney shaft in my bedroom and I managed to eke it out for months, buying myself sweets and a chicken supper at the local chippy - all, of course, eaten outside in the back court with Major at my side.
Saturday the 7th of February 2009
Pitlochry and the Killer Train
On Friday I arrived in Pitlochry, I was rather exhausted and tired. I decided to pick the first hotel I spotted to get a room. So there was Fishers Hotel, completely clad in scaffolding, but hey fuck it! It’s just for one night.
As soon as I got into the rather cold room, I sat down and husband called me. It seems my beloved step mum has taken a turn for the worse and there is imminent worry for her making it through the weekend. I felt bereft and stupid for leaving home and not being there for my dad. At that moment the hotel door got banged.
“There has been a fire alarm and we are not sure if the hotel is on fire” a young woman explained quickly. My husband was still on the mobile and waiting to explain about mum.
“I never heard a fire alarm” I said with tears threatening to explode as I was worried about mum.
“No, it is an internal alarm” the woman said.
“A fucking silent fire alarm?” my husband shouted through the mobile phone as he was listening in.
“You have to leave the room” the woman insisted.
I hung up on husband and walked into Narnia; Pitlochry is steeped in deep snow and resembles the movie scene of the Lion, the Witch and Wardrobe. I cried into my snotty sleeve and worried about ditching the show and going back to Glasgow.
Husband called me back to check I wasn’t burnt to death, I explained that it was a mistake and I am back in the room and he then convinced me to stay and do the show. Which I did and it was awesome. People had travelled miles to come to Pitlochry and deserved fun and it was my job to provide it. They were a lovely bunch of people and I was glad to be there by the time the show was over.
This morning I got up and asked about the trains, I was told there was a train to Inverness as I had a show there to do tonight (Saturday). The problem was the train would have to stop at Aviemore and then get on a bus, but that’s ok, I will go for it.
So after much to-ing and fro-ing the train station decided to let me know that the train to Inverness is totally fucked and wont be going anywhere near Aviemore or Inverness, in fact it wont leave at all and a bus will take me instead.
I gasped in frustration, but agreed that the bus will be fine. Then the woman in the train station says to me “There is only one problem, the bus is full to Inverness and we don’t know when another one can be here tonight, the snow is heavy, the road has problems and we don’t have enough buses”
I stood in the station and just felt like battering my head off the ticket office window. I asked about trains home to Glasgow from Inverness on the Sunday. She stared at me blankly.
“Look there is a train coming just now going back to Glasgow, if I was you I would take it and get the hell out of here, there is no guarantee we will get you back to Glasgow from Inverness tomorrow if we ever get you up there”
She was right, so I called the promoter and explained I would need to pull the show. He agreed readily, he assured me all is well and told me to get the hell out of Narnia whilst I had the chance. So I got on the train and that when it all went horribly wrong.
Just as we were five minutes out of Pitlochry, I was sitting chatting at the very end carriage to some Rail staff members who were delayed in getting trains and had all jumped on the Pitlochry escape train as I now called it. One was called Tam; he was a train trolley bloke finally getting home after being stuck in Pitlochry. He was telling me that the station person should have got me a taxi to Inverness if they couldn’t provide a bus. “A bit late telling me that now Tam” I snapped.
The train came to a sudden halt. “Fuck what now” Tam hissed.
Then I spotted a staff member running alongside the outside of the train, he climbed into the end carriage and slammed the door behind him. He then opened the door into the aisle I was sitting at and screamed “Kate! Kate! Kate!” it was slightly disconcerting to see a middle aged train driver look so frightened and screaming down the train aisle. Kate was the catering girl; she was slightly out of his ear shot.
Tam stared at him, then at me.
“Mate, is everything ok? You screaming is worrying me” I said to the man.
I didn’t expect him to answer me so candidly “No, everything is not alright, I just hit a person at the crossing back there” The poor man was deathly white.
I just put my head down on the table and shut my big stupid mouth.
Kate turned and headed back to him. “I have hit someone” he shouted again. Kate ran to him and I could hear them in the back staff carriage making calls to the police and rail networks.
The young train worker Tam looked at me and immediately got up and hugged me. I didn’t need hugged, I wasn’t dead and I wasn’t in shock and I didn’t know him well enough for spontaneous hugs of sympathy. “Are you ok?” he poked his big face near me.
“Yes, I am fine mate, I am worried about the driver and the person on the line, I am absolutely fine” I pushed him gently off.
The train was sat on that line for over an hour as police and transport people were called to the scene. Apparently it was an elderly man who got knocked down by the train, but I am not sure of exact details.
Tam then sat opposite me and told me at least six stories of people who got smashed by trains, he was the death train expert and I just wanted him to shut up, but NO…he had more stories about people who threw themselves or fell onto train lines. He was the goriest wee bloke and it now made sense why he wanted a hug. He was mental.
The train finally set off and of course it couldn’t go straight to Glasgow now, for reasons I am not sure of, it was now stopped at Perth and I had to grab my suitcase and run up and over a metal bridge to catch a train to Glasgow.
So I am home, the gig got cancelled; the man died on the level crossing and my mum is still in hospital.
Thursday the 12th of February 2009
Been a long hard week
After last week's debacle trying to get trains to Inverness and then trying to get home, I finally made it my step mum Mamie's bedside in hospital. She was so weak and sickly from various illnesses, predominantly lymphoma cancer. Mamie was 78 when she passed away on Wednesday morning at around 2am with her daughter by her side.
I don't know what to say about how I feel. She was my step mum for 25 years and was my daughter's beloved Nana and grand and great grandmother to many of her own and the extended family's kids. I have had to cancel my trip to Bristol Jongleurs at the weekend as her funeral is on Saturday. I don't mind that as I would be distraught without my family at this time and sitting in a cold hotel and doing comedy isn't the best way to deal with pain.
Though I am happy Mamie had a good long fulfilled life and that's what we all need to celebrate.
Monday the 16th of February 2009
Who knows why?
My flat has been very neglected over the past week due to recent circumstances. I am behind in my West Wing watching schedule and I need to get writing next week's Scotsman Column. I have to start designing this year's fringe poster and working out the PR for the show. I am going to be at The Pleasance again this year but before all that happens I am at the Glasgow Comedy festival at the Tron Theatre on Saturday 28th March. The tickets are selling well, so that's a great sign.
So I need to get my finger out of my ear and clean my flat, and get organised all round.
By the way, I have been getting fashion and beauty tips from some bloggers and I just want to say that the photo of me with the green shirt on and long dark hair is two years old. My hair is shorter, lighter and my dad says I am just beautiful, but then he is quite old and his eyes are wonky. So quit telling me how to look, I have perfected my grubby image over the years and I am happy with my slightly dishevelled façade. Put it this way... I still get laid. OK, it's from my husband and he too has dodgy eyesight, but that's a mere technicality. I am surrounded by blind folk who think I am gorgeous.
Life is getting back to some form of normality after my step mum's funeral.
Last night as I sat writing I heard a strange noise coming from the kitchen at 2am.
"Ashley, are you sanding the kitchen units for no good reason or scraping toast?"
Then I smelled the burnt toast and realised that my silly child had fucked the toaster again. Like me, she has a tendency to break anything electrical. Soon she will just break men.
Life has been rather dull since I haven't been on public transport or anything that makes me collide with the public. But next week its all systems go as I get back on to my gig list and start climbing onto trains, planes and cars.
Wednesday the 18th of February 2009
What do you do when your 13 year old child has a baby? Do you call the police? The social services? Or do you get Max Clifford on speed dial and secure a video diary exclusive with the Sun newspaper?
What do you do when the said child has a squad of boys claiming to have bedded her under your roof? Do you launch an investigation into your daughter’s obvious low self esteem issues, reconsider your parenting skills or do you speak exclusively to your agent and organise a very public DNA test?
Why isn’t anyone absolutely horrified by the press for paying these families for their sad pathetic story?
Baby faced Alfie Patten (who is about 12 years old but looks like is seven years old at a push) and Chantelle Steadman are gaining column inches aplenty when in fact they should have a team of social workers and child protection people on the case instead of glorifying this disturbing under age sex case and leaving it open for more kids to copycat it. Having a baby underage should not catapult you into a national celebrity.
In this world of wannabe- famous-now climate, it won’t be long before another wee girl gets herself knocked up with high hopes of a newspaper/magazine exclusive pay out. Shell-suited parents are basically dragging their pregnant kids and selling them to London hacks, very Dickensian! Bare footed babes hawking their stories for Nintendo DS games and some shiny shoes.
There will be chavvy, spam sucking social housing scum everywhere encouraging their baby kids to procreate for a full page spread in Heat magazine. Oh! Maybe Posh Spice will design skinny jeans for them when their flabby twelve year old tummies lose the stretch marks?
Maybe she too will get big photos of her plastered over the front pages with her under age boyfriend, they might even get invited to the Jeremy Kyle show, get an overnight stay in a Travelodge and maybe be given loads of free stuff?
They will be terribly bewildered when they soon realise they can’t raise the cash to pay for a bib as the nation will be bored with that story and life has moved on. One underage baby story a year is plenty for people to gawp at.
You only have to look at Karen Matthews and her scam to kidnap her own kid for donated cash to realise that there are dim witted fame seeking folk who go to extreme lengths to gain notoriety and big bucks. Matthews was an adult, so imagine all the teenagers watching the TV and reading the papers who could easily believe they too can jump on the teen baby bandwagon.
There should be a press black out to protect these innocent misguided kids and their stupid parents need nailed to the sofa and asked if they can understand the words ‘supervision' and 'due care’ Where are these people when two kids are banging each other at teatime in the single rooms of these council homes?
Having sex too young can increase your chances of cervical cancer, there are many health issues surrounding childbirth too young, yet none of that is mentioned any where in the news bites.
The other point that disturbs me is that the public acceptance of very young girls having sex and publicly declaring it – it is one step away from confirming the paedophiles excuse that ‘under age girls need screwed and love it’.
Girls under sixteen years of age shouldn’t be having sex, its illegal, wrong and damaging.
Let’s educate our vulnerable kids and stop wiping their wee faces and shoving them in front of a camera to talk about their sex lives.
Friday the 20th of February 2009
Men and their big tool boxes!
What makes men love soldering, (not soldiering - that's rather mental, I don't get that) I mean getting a soldering iron, flux and some soldering wire and welding things together. My wee dad LOVES soldering, he solders things that clearly don't need soldering, like squirrels to the washing pole and odd metal objects around his home. (OK, the squirrel was a joke, but I believe he would try it if he had the chance).
Husband had to check over an electric dust buster from dad as it wasn't really working and it had been over heating; when husband opened it up, there had been some guerrilla soldering going on inside it!
My dad has on occasion soldered stuff around his home, like light fittings, ornaments and small bits of jewellery. It's a throw back to his old days when he was a fixer of all electrical things. My dad also glues, tapes and has string tied to things all over his wee house; it makes me giggle. Yet the dust buster wouldn't work and he handed it to my husband.
So, husband got his big tool box out and the fucking noise he made clattering through it was akin to the sound of a fork lift truck crashing into a steel tanker. Men can't simply pick out tools and nimbly choose one, the way a woman would quietly go through a handbag looking for lipstick... NO... they drag hundreds of big clanky metal objects about, like some robot hand crushing cars in a junk yard.
Then he slams them down on the table and starts banging hammers, screw drivers and boxes of nails around, as if he is in the Noise Olympics and is defending his record for big disturbing sounds.
I know it's a cliché but, by fuck, men love their tool box.It must take them back to the old days when a bulky tool box in one hand and a roll of gaffer tape in the other made them THE KING OF STUFF!
"Women stand back! - I have a soldering iron and some star screwdrivers! Your world will be a safer place when I am done here!"
One day I had a look in that tool box and discovered an array of strange men objects. Why are there so many screwdrivers? How many sizes of screws are there in the world? And what the fucking hell is an ALAN KEY? And who is Alan and why do we have his L-Shaped keys in our home?
There are also small boxes full of tiny nails. I have never seen anything so dainty and who needs tiny nails? Do we know a doll house dweller that needs petite nails put up their tiny curtains?
I won't ever know the answer to these questions but am sure many women will write in to tell me that they too have a tool box and are capable of doing the odd jobs by themselves. I don't and I never want to... but soldering looks fun!
Saturday the 21st of February 2009
Jade Goody’s Wedding
It was rumoured that cancer sufferer and Big Brother celebrity Jade Goody was prepared to die on camera to provide money for her two kids and the publicity machine behind her claim this was an honourable and brave decision on Ms Goody’s part.
Apparently since the revelation of her disease had become national news, more women are getting smear tests and that can only be a good thing, cant it?
What made me slightly uncomfortable about that was who really wanted to watch that poor mum die? I spent three nights recently watching my beloved step mum slowly succumb to cancer and die yet, in between sobs, I was outside smoking a cigarette. Now my mum didn’t die of lung cancer or smoking related illness, but the irony of the situation still exists. The Cancer Unit sign above my head didn’t stop me from puffing away, so my question is this: What would we learn from watching a young woman take her last breaths? Would it make us more aware of cancer?
Does the recent recession make us so gutted that we need to watch someone else slowly die so that the horror of joblessness and evictions make us feel better?
Is that really who we are as a nation?
Her wedding is going to be the big event in the press and telly instead and this will be a harrowingly sad portrayal of this young woman’s nuptials. Today in the UK press all the red tops have Jade Goody pictures and stories of her going shopping for wedding rings and the last-minute organising of her big day. It seems the public can’t get enough of her last moments.
It wasn’t that long ago Ms Goody was slated as a national embarrassment; her TV Big Brother appearance that featured horrid racist remarks raised comments in Parliament.
Yet now she is the impetus for young women getting their cervix checked, something millions in government cash and health campaigns failed to achieve.
It is also horrible to realise that the only way Jade Goody got the nation’s favour back in her camp was when we all realised she was actually dying. She was made by the camera and now she is prepared to die by it. I can’t believe her death live on television would have been something that people would have wanted to share.
Ms Goody deserves the best of care during her precious last moments with her family; she didn’t need a lighting crew or soft focus music as she said goodbye to her children. Watching people grieve is highly emotional and who knows the effect this would have had on the family surrounding her. Thank goodness the decision has been overturned and her death isn’t going to be prime time telly.
The UK is now a fame-seeking, publicity-hungry nation. Kids no longer want to be plumbers, accountants or civil servants; they all want to strip naked, attack each other or sing their way onto our screens. The sheer amount of amateur videos being loaded up onto the web proves my point.
When Ms Goody came to pubic attention through our UK TV screens she was both slated and revered for her uneducated, over-weight chavvy attitude. She represented the worst of the Face of Britain, yet managed to make millions of pounds throughout her career. Now it seems her cash has dwindled and she needs to sell the photos of her wedding to raise more money for her kids.
I am going to hide myself from the sheer out-pouring of public grief over Jade Goody, not because I am a hard-hearted woman, but because I find it hard to cry for people I don’t know and didn’t really respect as a human when they were alive. I am not going to be a hypocrite.
There is much to be said about Jade Goody’s upbringing that had lead her to be a mouthy, racist bully. She was obviously lacking in love and guidance as a child, but that still isn’t enough of an excuse to be that cruel and nasty to folk when you are a fully-developed person.
People can drag themselves above their past experiences and strive to be a better all round human.
Despite my misgivings, I truly hope she has a wonderful wedding to her boyfriend Jack Tweedy. There needs to be a happy ending to their love story and this seems to be the one the nation wants.
Jack Tweedy rose to national fame after he started dating Jade and even ended up in the Big Brother house on TV with her. The father of her two sons Jeff Brazier is now a TV presenter. Two men who have gained fame and fortune by association with Jade Goody.
Jack and Jade had a turbulent romance; he was accused of being unfaithful and then just recently spent time in prison for attacking some bloke. Jade was in and out of magazines over the past six months claiming to be well rid of the young Jack but, soon after, there were big news splashes of them both cuddling up. Glossy magazines love a good ‘are they/aren’t they’ story. Since her cancer story broke, Jack and Jade have been inseparable.
Who knows the emotional hell of facing up to knowing your girlfriend is dying and wants a wedding before her death?
My sympathies lie with her loved ones and her wee boys who will surely miss their mum. I do hope they get a better start in life and grow up to make Jade Goody proud.
Tuesday the 24th of February 2009
Ashley's broken toe and Roland Gift's new single
My poor daughter ran to answer her mobile phone the other night. She cracked her baby toe off the dining chair, then hopped, skipped and jumped along the living room, then went down into a forward roll moaning loudly. It made me laugh so much I almost peed the couch. I heard the toe crack from across the room. Her dad looked at the toe around 2am and immediately took her to the hospital as it had gone black.
She now has it strapped up and now walks like a discombobulated ballerina. Ashley normally walks on the outside of her feet and this strapped-up toe makes her walk on the inside of her feet and she now looks even funnier. I have to stop laughing. I feel bad but it was so funny at the time.
Either way, she smiled at her birth when she really hurt my vagina back in 1986 when she took great delight in being born with as much difficulty as possible, so it's all even as far as I am concerned.
I am off to London this weekend for comedy gigs and am really looking forward to it. I have been waylaid for weeks now with the paralysing grief of my wee step mum dying and it will be good to get back to normal, though I am still worried sick about my dad.
I wish I could do something to make him feel better. I know that's a stupid thing to say as nothing I could possibly think of will make him feel better but it just worries me.
I could always send Ashley up to recreate her big tumbling toe-crushing incident; my dad would piss himself at that. We do have the same sense of humour.
That's an idea, I could just send my daughter to live with him for a few nights and let her fall down his stairs, burn her fingers in the oven and other clowning gaffes. He likes a good slapstick comedy, my dad.
On another front. my favourite all-time musical hero Roland Gift (Fine Young Cannibals fame) has released a new single called 'Crush' and you can get it on iTunes. It's truly awesome and I can wholeheartedly recommend it. His voice is just so smooth, unique and sexy and I am addicted to being 'crushed' by Roland.
I am in the throes of getting everything ready for the Edinburgh Fringe and, to be honest, if I get one more offer of yet another advert in yet another Fringe brochure, I am going to have to sell Ashley on the web to pay for it all. There might be a creepy clown-loving pervert who likes women who inflict pain on themselves who would pay a fortune to keep her in his basement.
I am off to look at the purple blackberry which is now her baby toe.