Janey Godley's Blog

There was an article on the news about some looney Spaniards that chase an angry bull and yes…you guessed it- the wee bull stamped on someone and badly injured them. Well, here’s the deal folks, keep back from angry agitated animals.

My favourite all time animals biting back had to be the white tiger in Las Vegas that clawed the skull off that scary blonde homosexual guy of Ziegfeld and Roy fame. I am not sure which one of the glittery frocked guys copped the injury, but it was totally fucking well deserved. That’s what you get for making a big jaggy toothed tiger dance to ABBA everyday. Here’s a newsflash guys, tigers are not meant to be living in a hotel in Nevada.

I once saw a man outside a supermarket in Glasgow with an eagle tethered to his wrist, the poor bird was wearing a leather gimp mask, and the freaky man was doing some wild bird display. When ‘Eagle Man’ lifted the bird up it pecked his face. I giggled and ran off.

Folk who go into a bears cave and then poke a stick at it deserve all they get. I know poor Steve Irwin did so much for ecology and wild life, but for fuck sake mate, what did you expect when you spent years jumping on a crocodiles back and swimming underwater near dangerous killer type mammals and fish-type floaty biters. Shit will happen.

I was taught as a small child that if you see a strange dog or cat, do not under any circumstances approach the damn thing. There was a reason for that rule and I bear the scars to this day. I once ran near a dog in the blistering summer heat of 1973 and the dog savaged my hand. It was stressed and I annoyed it deeply by screeching “Hello wee black dog” at the top of my squeaky voice.

I still can’t understand people who let their kids poke fingers through the cage of a parrot in a pet shop or the nutters who let kids lean dangerously over the pens of wild animals at a zoo. If the animals chomp at a kid, then parents should be jailed for neglect of their own children and the animal should get party thrown for it.

I think I have ranted enough, so there is today’s lesson from Aunty Janey- Don’t annoy animals- especially if they have the capabilities of biting your face off.

September 11^th was a really bad day; husband and I had a monumental fight. I left home in flip flops and it rained. To make matters worse Ashley got involved and screamed at us both (quite rightly). I stalked the streets of Glasgow (well, I flip and flopped the streets to be correct) and muttered angry words of hatred.

Why is it when you have a big marital fight and run out of the house, you meet fucking loads of people you know but really don’t want to chat with?I met my accountant, a TV producer and radio host. ‘Great!’ I thought to myself, if I had organised to meet these people it would never happen, but give me teary eyes and soaking wet flip flops and there we go….meeting accomplished.

My hair was in a top knot (which I forgot about until I spotted myself in a shop window) and I was wearing a pyjama top under my jumper and yes…yet again the fucking flip flops in the rain. Did I mention that already?

Husband made me insane to the point where if I had had a gun I would have shot the fucker. I ended up walking about for ages then spotted him in the street as well. So we then had a big shouty fight in the street. People stopped and stared. Stupid people asked if we were ok and other people pointed at the crazy woman in flip flops and funny hair. Husband merely muttered and stomped about angrily. I got so exhausted we headed home and slept like pretzels all curled up, twisted and angry.

There are no answers; we both need a personality transplant or a divorce.

Ashley got soaked in yet another down pour that represents Glasgow’s wonderful late summer weather. She came home completely soaked and stomping about cursing the rain. She accused me of neglect for not birthing her in Florida or some other garden state where the sun shines regularly.

“Why didn’t you consider me when you were pregnant? Why didn’t you say to yourself ‘My child will hate Glasgow, I shall migrate to Australia’ Mum it could have been easier all round?” she whined as rain water cascaded onto the floor from her big giant amount of thick hair, it clung to her shoulders like soaking wet ship ropes.

“I didn’t consider you when I was pregnant because your internment inside my womb almost killed me!” I shouted back. I had suffered terrible during the pregnancy and almost died in a coma, as I had a horrible illness and that’s why I only had one child, I wasn’t medically allowed to have another baby, though making Ashley feel guilty for this is abhorrent, but she annoyed me for blaming me on the weather. So bring it on.

Luckily she laughed at me, she always does.

I decided on a trip to my niece Ann Margaret’s house. It is a fun house with many children and small animals. A bit like a petting zoo cum nursery, but only filled with kids that I love.

Ann Margaret has three kids, Shaun is 11, Abi is 5 and Julia is nearly 2 years old.

They have a cat called Squeak who is moody and slightly evil and hates being stroked. The have a rabbit called Tufty who is pathologically attracted to Squeak who HATES it. They have a small goldfish called Bubbles who sucks on and drags the paraphernalia in its tank; therefore it rearranges the ferns and sunken ship into its very own floor plan, it may be a gay decorator in a past life. 

They have a hamster called Bobby who up until last week had no personality, but more about that later. There is a guinea pig, who I have never seen but am assured exists somewhere in the house.

Squeak the cat is a surly dreary cat for one so young. No stroking or purring or playfulness with this beast. He skulks about the big tenement flat with an air of discord and glares at all who look at him. Poor Abi was desperate for a cat and she now owns one that has the personality of an angry disenchanted pensioner who demands food, prime couch space and no touching whatsoever.

Tufty the rabbit has learned no lessons from the spitting angry cat and would demand regular pretend rabbit-cat-sex and tried to hump the insane looking cat that constantly clawed at the poor wee black beast. The wee rabbit had to be neutered to halt the attempted cat rape incidents that the kids were constantly curious about. Too many questions arose from the kids for Ann Margaret to cope with. I thought it was funny; the cat glared at me when I laughed and I knew it was plotting some deep revenge.

Bobby the hamster was always quiet and his cage sat atop the rabbit hutch. Squeak the cat would often stare at Bobby and hiss at him, this stressed the wee creature so the cat and hamster were always kept apart, but with a busy household it was hard to keep this rule going. Especially when baby Julia left every door open in her wake as she explored her own home.

Last week Squeak was in his usual sentinel duty staring at the hamster. His nose right up at the cage, the hamster furiously tried to run five hundred miles on his wee wheel, but was getting nowhere away from the big moody cat.

Ann Margaret shouted “Squeak, stop threatening the hamster”

Squeak slowly dragged his head round to look at Ann Margaret and as he did this his big pointy papery ear peaked in between the hamster cage bars. Bobby saw his chance; he scuttled up and bit hard right into the cat’s ear. Squeak howled in pain and almost dragged the hamster cage off the hutch as the hamster would not let go.

The cat’s tail bushed into full toilet brush mode and finally escaped the jaws of Bobby the hamster. The cat ran up the walls terrified and squawked about the kitchen hissing and spitting in fear.

Bobby clung to the bars watching the cat scream, his beady eyes were taking in the whole scene. The rabbit was inside the hutch beneath peeping out to see what just happened to his beloved sex kitten, all hell broke loose as the animals screeched, hissed, thumped and rattled about their various cages!

Ann Margaret laughed her head off and checked the cat’s ear, it was fine, no skin broken, but he was even more surly and skulked off under the baby’s cot for some rest.

Bobby the hamster escaped last night, well I say escaped, Julia let him out, she is all for freedom in animals and often lets the rabbit out at teatime just to add to the melee that is her home.

Squeak spotted the hamster, Ann Margaret watched closely as the wee hamster strolled past the cat, looked at it and walked on. Squeak walked backwards away from it, Bobby looked like he may be wearing a wee leather jacket and carrying a flick knife, he was king of the Beasts now and nothing will stop his reign.

Squeak hid back under the baby’s cot. His spirit is broken, he will have to go back to threatening the goldfish who regularly rearranges his tank, and ignores the feline.

Recent news on the hunt for Madeleine McCann has revealed that their parents have spent ‘about a million pounds’ so far in trying to find their missing toddler.

The fund that was set up to find their daughter is still active and the cash has been spent on various forms of investigation it has recently been revealed.

There can be no cost on finding your missing child, I agree with that, but what really got me angered was the Team McCann statement at the end of the press release when it states that Mr McCann again expressed his anguish at leaving Madeleine alone with twins Sean and Amelie as they went for dinner in Portugal's Praia da Luz resort.

But he said the couple were "not negligent" but "profoundly regret" what happened.

I hastily and angrily disagree with Gerry McCann and would like to ask him that if he doesn’t see his actions as negligent will he be leaving his twins unattended on their next holiday? Can they not just admit that leaving their babies without proper supervision is wrong and irresponsible?

Constantly defending your own reckless behaviour smacks of either naivety or arrogance, and someone needs to raise this subject matter. Some areas of the press have been scornful and even accusatory towards the McCann’s and newspapers have either been sued or threatened to have legal wolf hounds snapping at their throats, recently the detective who handled the case when Madeleine originally went missing has written an inflammatory book. He too is being threatened with the suing stick, yet no-one actually holds Mr McCann to account over his own seditious statement about being innocent of neglect.

This isn’t another diatribe against the press hungry parents, because if my child had gone missing I too would move heaven and earth to find her, but I wouldn’t deny neglect if it were my own careless actions that originally rendered my child vulnerable. Appearing stoical in their own defence over what actually is- a dangerous attitude to parenting will not win the public’s heart and spur them onto help finding the missing child. The subversive behaviour of the McCann family has managed to distance people from their cause.

Just put your hands up Mr McCann and admit you were both wrong, people make mistakes and you and your wife are paying for that more than anyone I know, but just don’t tell me that leaving your kids alone in an apartment is not neglectful. If you don’t believe me and feel like suing, then click on the NSPCC website and check the law out for yourself.

My great Niece Baby Julia is slightly eerie at times. She is almost two years old and very different to the other kids in her family. Shaun and Abi are brown haired and brown eyes, whereas wee Julia is pure white blonde with huge blue staring eyes. Shaun and Abi were really funny chatters and very sociable, whereas Julia is slightly quieter and a wee bit more solitary. But she is very funny, smart and kind.

Lately her mum Ann disposed of Julia’s cot and replaced it with a small bed, so Julia could be in a big girl’s bed like her elder sister. But Ann tells me there have been problems with this arrangement.

“Janey, the problem is that Julia can now get in and out of her bed on her own and last week I got up at 5am to pee, as I tiptoed through the big tenement hallway in the dark, I spotted a movement down the far end near the door. I struggled to see through the dense shadows and there stood Baby Julia with her big pale moon face, wearing a white nightgown she had the pet rabbit in one hand and packet of dry noodles in the other. She was deathly still; the rabbit was blinking in fear. The only light that was coming through was from the stained glass window of the door and it cast a yellow-ish glow over her, I nearly pissed myself with fear. Julia just kept staring at me then whispered ‘Hello mummy’, she dropped the rabbit and glided into the kitchen, and it was really creepy. I chased after her and found her sitting at the dinner table in the dark, she is quite odd. I tucked her back into bed and hardly slept a wink listening for her, so the cot is back out and she caged in until she can stop her night time creeping”

This story made me laugh out loud. Wee Julia is a character all on her own; she is very individual and loves you to read books to her. Her attention span is awesome and she watches your mouth as you read the words. Her speech is coming on heaps; I love her wee happy face, though she has never been a big smiler. Julia smiles when she feels like it and does reward you with a big grin if she feels you deserve it.

She told me last week “Love you Nanty Jenny” and kissed me on the cheek. I was so touched, but I still wont keep her overnight, I would crap myself if I saw a wee scary baby stalk the house in the twig light hours.

“You are a really good on stage, I loved you as an MC, maybe one day you could even do comedy” the blonde girl in the silver top shouted at me as the disco banged out its cheesy tunes in Leeds Jongleurs Comedy Club.

That is the best compliment I could ever receive as comedy club host. </p> A comedy MC is someone who holds the gig together, someone who chats to the audience in between comics hitting the stage. This is the person who sets the tone and gets the room ready for the big event.

A funny fluffer…if you will! Rubbing the audience into a height of comedy readiness, the foreplay of fun.

The MC is not supposed to be the big hitter of jokes on the night, people should be happy to hear them talk, but equally anticipating the arrival of the comic coming on stage. No MC worth their wages should eat the show, bask in the headlights or try to out-do the big name coming on; the MC is a scene setter - not scene stealer.

The MC can also be the front line defence on the coal face of live comedy.

Christmas parties full of reluctant comedy goers are the biggest trial for a good MC; I know this as last year I spent a whole Christmas week as MC at Leeds Jongleurs. Trying hard to get the large group of men from Barstock’s Garage to shut up and pay attention to the stage, whilst they shout ‘Show us your tits’ can be a hard slog.

Knowing that the comics are sitting watching the crowd, hoping you can educate that audience in the art of listening within ten minutes can be nerve wracking but really rewarding when you get the heaving mob to sit back and relax.

In the event of an aggressive rowdy audience, you are sent out as the scout, it’s your impression on them and your consequential conquering of the ensuing enemy that will secure the safe passage of the acts that grace the stage.

Being defensive and shouty doesn’t always work; it can serve to aggrieve the men who are not used to a woman speaking out loudly. Though a good funny put down followed by some witty charm directed at the growlers usually works.

I know this from my past life as a pub landlady. When a huge gang of antagonistic men descended on my bar, I always made it my point to find the ‘leader’ and recognise his management qualities.

I would make sure he knew that I was aware of his influence over ‘his men’ and played on the power conflict within that dynamic. Basically if he couldn’t contain his troops, then he was a weak man and I would make sure that the watching public were aware of his flaws. Men also assert themselves quicker when you relate to them as female figure in their lives. Emotionally remind of them of their mother, sister or daughter and the mood can change…usually for the better

The same applies with mixed groups and females who seem to be getting out of hand.Mutual respect and acknowledgement of status can level most playing fields; undermining people will always serve to fan the flames of anger.

And to think we all thought it was just talking for money?

There has been an explosion of ideas and technology the past ten years. These have mostly come from the creative kids who grew up in the 1960s and 70s. Decades where these kids grew up without electronic games, DVDs, multi channels on the TV and no one knew anything about mobile phones.

Yet their innovative ideas created the majority of the latest gizmos that dominate today’s society.Children, who fell out of trees, stayed too long in the sun, drank out of ponds and more often than not spent summers with nothing more than a ball and a stick.

We made dens out of dirty blankets and tried to tame vicious dogs, we ate bread and sugar, stole rhubarb from gardens and ate it in bulk without washing it and we stayed out till 10pm in hot summer nights without mobile contact.

The kids I knew never had access to video cameras yet we played out scenes from Kung Fu movies and imagined the cameras to be right there capturing the action. We explained entire movies, scene by scene, summarising the plot to the kids who missed the latest block buster film. We played old tape cassettes of music we had copied from the radio so we could all dance in the hallway of our tenements. We were the generation that were just too early for the IPod, yet we made the best of what we had.

Kites were awesome and involved a lot of running, bikes were generally haphazard and often broken yet revered and kids knew how to build one from scratch, comics were swapped, toys were constantly repaired, roller skates were shared between a whole community of kids and a dirty old mattress became a trampoline for the summer.

We knew Michael Jackson when he was black, we were convinced Skippy the Bush Kangaroo could talk and we imagined the days when we could wear a watch that would display TV shows live to our wrist.

Who knew that the kids with no real toys would foster enough imagination to create the fantastic technology of today’s world?

The kids of the 1960s could only dream of a future world. The gadgets we saw on the old episodes of Star Trek would fire our imagination. All those hand held electronic devices that could transport people up and down the galaxies, made me excited about my future.

I personally believed back in the 70s that the Jolt Belt from the TV hit show the Tomorrow People would most certainly be available in the year 2000. Imagine how wonderful that could have been? We wouldn’t even need to remove our shoes for security purposes first! Just simply press a button and arrive at our chosen destination.

We were the generation that used our imagination and our unbridled passion to create the wonderful stuff that our kids enjoy today, yet we spent days with nothing but a wooden board, two old broken skates and the ability to make it into a small inner city push cart.

Today’s youngsters have no real idea how to occupy themselves without electronic goods; they wont know the joy of building a den or organising a spontaneous party that involved building a fire and roasting stolen potatoes from mums cupboard. Everything is done for them, wee girls are sexualised too soon and wee boys no longer get to dress as cowboys without being labelled gay.

The kids of the 70s have something that the children of today will never have- a childhood!

It’s all over for yet another year and the newspapers are still reporting on the ‘down turn’ of the ticket sales and problems with the ticket box office. Even the good old Scottish weather has become a feature in itself. The splashing showers got more attention and reviews than some heavily financed shows this year.

My own personal look back at this year’s Edinburgh Fringe is wonderfully optimistic. Despite all the gloomy news about the slump in ticket sales, I had my best year ever.Some reviews of my show were less than favourable, yet I sold 60% more tickets this year than any other. Which makes me wonder if the reviews do sell the shows?

When I got a host of four and five star reviews back in 2006 and 2007 I was playing to fifteen people a night. This year my lowest audience was 90 punters.

So what does make the show a success? Is it the word on the street? Early press and features? Is it the gritty hard working Flyering team or just a plain determination to keep going and giving your audience a show they like? I am not totally sure.

A few things were rather disconcerting for me this year. One being the sheer amount of papering the rooms with free tickets and two-for-ones right up until the last day, this kind of marketing devalues the shows that depend on money coming through the door.

Luckily many punters who come to the Fringe have come to realise that the ‘Free shows’ are already catered for on Peter Buckley Hill’s and Alex Petty Free shows already. I fully support both of their ideals and understand that they are a great way for fresh comics testing the Fringe waters and I hope they grow throughout the years. What I find upsetting is the ‘Big Four Venues’ giving away free tickets when I am in the same venue as a show that will gladly throw the tickets to anyone who will grab them.

I believe punters will feel aggrieved at having to pay £11 for a ticket when they have gotten used to hanging around some shows that will simply give them tickets at the door to get the bums on seats. I can understand that papering rooms is acceptable for the first few days and previews. I myself did two-for –ones on the first three days. After that, it’s cash only.

I have never papered rooms at the Fringe, not even when I first did my one woman show in 2002. I would rather play to six committed punters than 40 people who really didn’t want to be there. Though that it my own personal view.

My biggest gripe with this year’s Fringe Festival was the oddly awarded If.Com Award for Panel Prize. It is usually awarded to people or a show that are deemed the ‘spirit of the Fringe’ and this year the money and title went to ALL comedians who performed in Edinburgh. Apparently there was a free bar on the 25^th of August. I didn’t bother to turn up, as I don’t really drink and didn’t agree with their choice.

I believe the Spirit of The Fringe should have gone to Peter Buckley Hill. A man who has been coming to the Fringe for at least a hundred years, supporting comedy, initiating the Free shows, showcasing comics and just being a jolly old stalwart that personifies the bonhomie of The Royal Mile. I can’t even begin to believe that the If.Com panel found it hard to pick one person for that award, despite their protests I believe something seriously went wrong or some sort of controversy went down at that final meeting. How hard would it be to pick someone? Isn’t that their job?

At least all the comics on the Fringe can now have the If.Com logo on their posters next year; after all we did all win the prize collectively.

Well done to all who braved the rain, the ticket system fiasco and the seemingly low attendance numbers just to perform at the biggest arts festival in the world. I hope it was worth it.

I wrote this last night when I couldn’t sleep…

It really is the middle of the night here in Edinburgh. I am staring out of the big ceiling to floor windows into the dark night sky and all I can hear are gulls screeching their odd hollow laughter at me. It’s like the echo of the stage.

So that’s another Edinburgh Fringe Festival over and done with. My 7^th year of solo shows to be exact and I sit here quietly. The whole house is asleep. Husband is happily snoring and daughter Ashley is exhausted and lying half in, half out of her flowery duvet in her bedroom, I peeped in to check she was ok. I do that every night of her life when we are in the same house. Ashley worked really hard this year organising the Flyering team and making sure the public got my face on card in their hands despite the rotten weather.

The show this year has been my most successful to date. We sold 60% more tickets this year than last. The fringe had been fraught with problems from day one as the box office failed to work! (The only we needed them to do was sell tickets and they bloody couldn’t) The weather was horrendous and people were thin on the ground due to the credit crunch and other shitty things that stall the economy. Yet I am pleased as punch.

I won an award this year (Nivea Funny Women) and I got some great reviews.

I also managed to reach a core target audience of people who had NEVER been to see comedy before, (they told me so) yet they got on trains, buses and cars to come see my show. That is an awesome feeling.

But this strange feeling of pulling everything down and moving the family yet again to another city does become weary. I realise that we are just travelling show people, cases packed, publicity material stored and the show moves on yet again.

I don’t think I will ever settle in one place for the rest of my life. You get hooked on moving around, doing comedy in a different town, different continent or country year in and year out. Husband is getting fed up with it I think. He lay in bed tonight and asked me when we pack up again to go off after we go back to Glasgow and when I told him it was next week, he sighed. He never spoke, he turned around in bed, moved my arm off his chest and humped into a ball and fell asleep. I fear he is bored with it all and who could blame him?

Ashley will settle back in Glasgow as she has Uni to get back to and her own life. She has been coming to Edinburgh Fringe with me since she was 10 years old, back when I first started doing three or two hander shows in the mid 90s. She even did stand up comedy herself in her One –Girl show when she was 13 years old. It’s in the blood.

I had such a great time this year; it was very laid back and lazy at times. I didn’t take on as much work this time and was only doing one show a day, other than the few nights I was a guest on someone else’s bill of course.

Husband and I got to spend loads of time together as we didn’t have many guests stay over at the Edinburgh Flat as we had done in the past. It was just the three of us for most of the time. Though he did go back to Glasgow for a few days respite from the Festival madness, he did enjoy the peace and quiet!

I am off to Glasgow today and will miss Edinburgh. Roll on next year!

I am a Scottish Stand up Comic, Actor Playwright and Journalist. Also am published Author of "Handstands in the Dark" my critically acclaimed memoir.

I work all over the world, either on tour with comedy or theatre. Follow my stories daily and catch up with my unique life.

I love writing my Blog & reading the comments posted, but I do not always have the time to reply or to chat, Thanks.

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