Before I knew it, we had landed and I was first off! My only issue was that John Cleese was right behind me and I was marching onwards like I knew where I was going! Luckily, we were all heading in the right direction. John Cleese gave me a smile, chatted briefly about how he loved LA and I was out of that airport and into a cab heading to my pal’s house.

The cab stopped near Laurel Canyon as there was a road traffic accident; helicopters were everywhere buzzing overhead and the cars all came to stand still.

I didn’t get too stressed, as someone might have died up ahead but I really needed a pee, like you cannot believe and my bladder turned into a scatter cushion and almost exploded. The more the car sat stationery, the more I dreamt of peeing a stream. The lights of the helicopter shone down reminding me of peeing.

I almost cried, finally the cab moved and I got to Studio City where my mate lives. I staggered through the door, dropped cases, ignored welcome hugs, pushed small babies out of my way and ran to the loo, where I pissed like a racehorse for about an hour.

After a good nights sleep, I was up and out to The Grove in the morning. It’s a lovely smart shopping area with a farmers market, though I don’t think any of those people know what a farm actually is. I managed to get some nice tee shirts for Ashley and got my mobile phone topped up.

Today, we all bundled into the car and headed off to the Getty Museum which is awesome and the gardens are just spectacular. Then it was down to Malibu beach for some kite flying and sight seeing….the scene was awesome.

I did call my old comic mate Rick Shapiro and he invited me to a late night comedy gig at 1am on the Saturday morning, but I had been too knackered the Friday night to attend, so am hoping I catch up with him soon enough.

Sorry this blog is brief, but am knackered again!

“Miranda, Chloe, how are you, is your horse still the best thing ever? Is Fin and Malcolm still flying in from Bermuda?” on skinny lanky girl squealed right in my ear as she greeted other skinny girl’s in the bank queue. Their Home Counties accent made me want to batter them to death with an Irn Bru bottle. The West End of Glasgow is awash with rich students who are pacing their time getting an education before they buy a small castle in Sussex and get to grips with an Aga.

Ok, I know that’s a sweeping generalisation and my own child attended a fee paying snooty school off the Byres Rd, but for fucksake they really irritate me and my daughter is funny and swears better than me, she hates ponies and has a healthy dislike of posh girls who live of ‘Daddies Money’ and who fuck rugby boys called Degs and Dosh who ‘are actually gay but practise anal on the girls first’. (Those were my daughter’s words not mine, and that’s why I love my child, she has a healthy sarcastic attitude in her life).

I recently did a charity comedy night at Glasgow Uni for a bunch of such like students, some were really cool but there were a dose of Chloe’s and Deg’s scattered around. After the gig a foppish looking fellow who was actually wearing a Sherlock Holmes type hat said to me outside the gig “For a woman you were quite good you know”. I almost stabbed his eye with my hot ciggie, but then thought better of it as that was what his nanny probably raised him on…pain and fellatio, so I didn’t say anything. God intervened and a stray wandering dog attacked his shins and bit into his tweed trousers leaving foam and blood behind before it ran off in a squinty demeanour, probably rabid and feral, but somehow I loved that tufty mad dog.

So back to my shopping expedition in the West End, I managed to get into Marks and Spencer’s Simply Food branch, which is tiny. There were at least four couples with those tripod looking baby buggies cramming up every wee aisle as they chatted and compared babies, wee Osh Kosh Begosh clad Fraser’s and Antonia’s all bundled up as mummies and daddies nattered away. “Excuse me please” I begged every three seconds I tried to reach for some steaks whilst clambering over three baby buggies and reaching round big men and women. One posh woman sneered and said “You know, you can leave your trolley at the end of the aisle, we can’t leave our babies”

“Or, one of you can stand near the door with the pram and one of you can do the shopping? Or are you not allowed to pick food without your husband’s say-so? Or, you can take your conversation and prams somewhere else that doesn’t block up a passageway?” I snapped back.

I am of the era where you left your baby at the front of a shop in a pram and watched it with one eye, if it got stolen; you simply went home and made another baby.

Ok that was facetious and I am joking, but if my husband was with me one of us watched the pram whilst the other did the shopping, we didn’t stroll round a tiny shop nattering and blocking up the fucking shop, coz we are working class and know how to mind our manners!

I expected to be greeted by screams of horror from onlookers but a bunch of other people who were equally pissed off gathered round and one snooty old lady shouted “Yes, for goodness sake, can you move the baby buggies and let us shop; you really don’t need to gather here and chat, now do you?”

Just then an assistant came over and asked politely if the six parents and three prams could move out of the way and let customers do their shopping. The Boden Gang were horrified and snorted and clicked their hooves a bit (by this point I imagined them to be haughty ponies) and they finally shifted the expensive prams into gear and trundled them out of the shop. Fathers were left with babies and suddenly they all looked scared, some of them didn’t even know how to put the brake on the pram. The women harrumphed about a bit and sniffed at the staff, every now and then rushing out to check on their children as it was clear the daddies were incapable of caring for their precious babies on their own.

I wanted to smack those women, but then I realised I was over reacting and should happily just shop and shut up.

I recall my own mammy leaving me and my brother and sister at the shop front of Curley’s the Grocers shop. It was the 60s, the shop sold ‘provisions’ and we were told not to move, talk or touch anything as she waited the queue to be served for butter, cheese, bread, cold meat and tin goods.

It was freezing on that cold main road, but we never moved. Every now and then mammy would crane her neck, make eye contact and shake her fist at us, just to remind us that death would follow if we deviated from her rules. There were prams and other kids gathered outside, babies howled and sniffled, but they too had to wait as mammies in a food shopping queue were relentless in their mission. My big brother would push me about and get me into trouble “Mammy Janey moved and kicked a puddle at me” he would shout into the shop front.

Women would tut-tut and my mammy would scream over the huddle of head scarves and grey rollers “Janey, wait till I fucking get out there, what were you told!” other kids would giggle and start annoying their own siblings.

Before long women would emerge with big brown shopping bags and slap the legs of kids who squealed and jumped about to avoid the death lash of cold hands of freezing skin.

Ah….those were the days!

So it is now 2009 and I am excited about the coming year….lets hope it’s a good one!

December 10^th…

I am in Leicester doing my first week run of Christmas gigs at Jongleurs. First of all I have to say that the awesome apartments we are in are just the best ever. Our penthouse flat with livinginthecity.com is amazing, the size of the place is wonderful and it’s within walking distance of the city centre. I hate hotels and having to stay in one for a full week is just evil and feels like a prison cell with two people negotiating their way round a foamy double bed. That’s why I always stay in serviced apartments. Hotels also charge you unbelievable amounts for parking and internet, whereas with livinginthecity.com all the costs are included which is just perfect.

I woke up a few days ago with a horrible sharp pain in my right boob. It is incredibly sensitive and means I have to wear a bra at all times, as the minute my booby moves on its own accord its like a hot knitting needle being jagged into it. So I have to wear a really firm bra, even to bed which is torture as every woman with tits as big as mine knows the best feeling in the world is taking your bra off at night!

I have an appointment with the local hospital this week to get it checked.

Leicester is fine though Boots the Chemist did have an issue with my Clydesdale Bank ten pound note. Apparently the assistants have a screen where they check strange looking notes and the photo they have onscreen of the Clydesdale Bank note did not correspond with the one I handed over. So they refused to let me buy some painkillers which after reading the last paragraph you will know how much I needed them, and not a fucking situation with a ten year old shop assistant.

So, as the girl told me she couldn’t accept my note – what she actually said was “Get real cash and I will let you have your goods”

I merely grabbed the stuff and said “Call the police, because I have just invented a new crime called ‘legal shoplifting’ as I offered you the legal tender Sterling and you refused to take it”.

The girl stared at me and her bottom lip trembled, so I then whipped out my phone and took a photo of her, as I need to see that image on my laptop for years to come. I made a Boots girl cry, she should have considered her “get real cash” statement.

So they got a manager down to see me as I refused to leave until they resolved the issue. The teenage manager came down and tried to explain why Scottish money isn’t easily understandable, well I think that’s what she said but unfortunately with her really strong Somalian accent, I struggled to grasp the conversation and had to carefully word my argument without having a bout of racism, which to be honest was filling my mouth and had to be swallowed. The last thing I wanted to be was a racist as she had just been about my money which is Sterling as I kept pointing out.

The girl then said “We have to be careful in case it is a forgery”

“Well then if you think it’s a forgery, it is your civic duty to call the police and report such activity, I will wait here for them, meanwhile can I take some painkillers as my right breast is killing me and I need to take them” I uttered.

There a crowd of young Boots assistants gathered, they were a multitude of various nationalities, it was like being stared at by the kids from United Colours of Benetton poster. Suddenly I was the immigrant with strange money! I did like the tables being turned and it was quite insightful, then I stopped enjoying the irony as my tit pulsated and I screamed “Give me the fucking painkillers and take the fucking money or I will call the police right now”

They all jumped startled and finally gave me my change and threw the painkillers at me.

December 16^th….

The comedy gigs are ok so far.

My tit still aches, in case you are wondering what the fuck I am talking about, my right boob has been aching like a cluster bomb went off inside the damn wobbly thing. Back in Leicester last week I bought a sports bra to sleep in as I cannot at any point go bra-less or the booby feels like a small angry troll is inside it and cutting all the elastics that hold my giant tit onto my ribcage.

So I am now in Nottingham and doing MC for Jongleurs all week. We are staying at lovely serviced apartments through City Pads Serviced Apartments and they are awesomely better than any hotel.
Next door to the apartments is a BREAST SCREENING clinic. So I walked in and asked them to look at my explosive diddy and they told me that they don't have a walk in clinic, so I need to get a GP referral. Next to the screening clinic is a walk in health clinic, so I went in there- turns out that place is for methadone and drug users.

I explained my tit hurt and could I have methadone for the pain, I even clutched my sore tit to prove the point. They glared at me and pointed to the door. No sense of humour, these drugs helping people.

So I now know where the walk in tit clinic is and shall endeavour to get there some time this week before I die of tit pain.

Husband meanwhile asked me if my LEFT tit was feeling ok, which is typical of him.

Nottingham is nice so far, the audiences are fairly feisty but not mad crazy bastards....yet.

December 17^th…

Nottingham has been relatively fine. The lovely Steve Williams (who I think is fucking ACE and one of the funniest Welsh speaky type comics on the circuit) is just a blessing to watch, his Dolphin noises routine made me wee a bit into my knickers. Marc Theobald is wickedly wonderful and Smug Roberts makes me laugh from somewhere deep inside.

I had a nice night; the Nottingham police party were noisy chatty cunts and deserved to be shot at point blank range in the head. I was Mc and ticking along fine. Then a skinny nice bloke got up to go for a pee and I sung a wee song in a funny light voice " Look at the nice man in a tight shirt going for a pee" the man then theatrically danced (if I say 'minced' that would be homophobic trust me read on...) then I sang " he looks slightly gay" THE BLOKE at this point shouted "Slightly Gay?" and danced and laughed and i sung on "and he is off to go to the loo to arrange all the toilet rolls into a lovely pyramid" The audience giggled and we got on the second act and then went to a break.

I went for a ciggie when a woman came over to me and said "You are funny but do you know everything you said tonight was incredibly homophobic?"

I looked at the lady and gasped "Everything? Everything I said?"

"Yes, I am a dyke and I need you to know that you were really homophobic and because of people like you saying stuff we get beaten up in the street" she insisted.

"Ok, please tell me all the stuff I said that was homophobic as I take criticism like this seriously" I answered.

"Everything" she snapped.

"Ok...my stuff about laughing at the Asian terrorists setting fire to their hair in Glasgow terror attack, was that homophobic? Or was it me asking the pregnant woman about her baby? Was it my stuff about my daughter being middle class? Was it me saying I have been married 28 years and to keep sex alive I fuck other men? Was it me asking the two different police forces to fight each other for our entertainment? Was it me saying I look like an over friendly cleaner? Was it me saying my tit was sore? Was it me bantering with the sexy guy at the front and asking him questions? What exactly about everything I said was homophobic?" I asked her.

"Well it was when you said the guy going to the loo was gay" she blurted out.

"Well that was one thing not everything and he said he was GAY" I answered.

"You don’t understand you are being homophobic" she argued.

"Were you offended when I laughed at terrorists being shit at organising a terror attack and setting fire to their own hair?" I asked.

"No" she said.

"Well, then you only got offended at the one thing that you felt affected you, I find that offensive" I said.

So I went back on stage and apologised to the man who I suggested was gay, he laughed and took a bow and the crowd happily carried on clapping as I brought on Smug Roberts.

Later on as I was leaving the show the lady who had complained got me again and gave me another lecture about my homophobia, to be fair she was trying to be reasonable in her argument but in the middle of it she said "Now I know you are a lovely person and its good to see a woman go up on stage and do that job, you have great balls" at this I stopped listening as she was now being sexist but apparently me singing a wee ditty to a bloke who was going for a pee who danced about incited homophobic rage on the streets of the UK and I need to listen up and learn.

"When you say homophobic stuff onstage it gives people the right to abuse us on the street" she cried.

I stopped listening and tried to walk off stroppily but I was wearing wellies as it was raining and I just looked like a nutter trying to flip flop away from an angry woman in denim. I walked back and hugged her and told her I took on board what she said but I will always say stuff that is offensive to someone onstage, whether it be about their accent, their job "what media studies? Is that a job?" or whatever...I will offend someone, even a knock joke can be offensive.

December 20^th…

What can I say? Christmas brings the best out in people!

I expected madness, anger and general Christmas stupidity, but all in all it’s been ok. Last night the audience were pretty small but as MC they weren’t totally impressed by me. In fact it was one of those nights when a crowd of people stare at me wondering why the fuck I am still taking on a mic. There was a funny side to it as two big blokes at a table laughed loudly as their mates stared at them wondering why they were laughing at me and that made me laugh. Basically it was male dominated and during the day I had suffered my husband stare at me with seething hatred as I talked, I could see he was bored listening to me and now onstage I had 100 men stare at me with the same face. Nice!

Husband has a trick to get me to shut up, its called sex, now I cant possibly have a gang bang with hundreds of strangers in a comedy club for a few reasons. A) I am not Jodie Marsh B) Men don’t want to have sex with me C) I would probably talk through that as well and annoy them further.

Luckily the crowd were relatively cool with the acts and that’s what’s important as an MC, it’s not about ME ME ME…it’s about making the road easier for the comics coming on.

So tonight is Friday and I am hoping the crowd are lovely. I still have a sore right boob and haven’t had it checked yet. On top of that I have one blocked up nostril and that’s just such a pleasure to endure.

Meanwhile Ashley is back home and ordering the Christmas dinner, she is a great cook and I am looking forward to getting back to Glasgow.

I woke up a few days ago with a horrible sharp pain in my right boob. It is incredibly sensitive and means I have to wear a bra at all times, as the minute my booby moves on its own accord its like a hot knitting needle being jagged into it. So I have to wear a really firm bra, even to bed which is torture as every woman with tits as big as mine knows the best feeling in the world is taking your bra off at night!

I have an appointment with the local hospital this week to get it checked.

Leicester is fine though Boots the Chemist did have an issue with my Clydesdale Bank ten pound note. Apparently the assistants have a screen where they check strange looking notes and the photo they have onscreen of the Clydesdale Bank note did not correspond with the one I handed over. So they refused to let me buy some painkillers which after reading the last paragraph you will know how much I needed them, and not a fucking situation with a ten year old shop assistant.

So, as the girl told me she couldn’t accept my note – what she actually said was “Get real cash and I will let you have your goods”

I merely grabbed the stuff and said “Call the police, because I have just invented a new crime called ‘legal shoplifting’ as I offered you the legal tender Sterling and you refused to take it”.

The girl stared at me and her bottom lip trembled, so I then whipped out my phone and took a photo of her, as I need to see that image on my laptop for years to come. I made a Boots girl cry, she should have considered her “get real cash” statement.

So they got a manager down to see me as I refused to leave until they resolved the issue. The teenage manager came down and tried to explain why Scottish money isn’t easily understandable, well I think that’s what she said but unfortunately with her really strong Somalian accent, I struggled to grasp the conversation and had to carefully word my argument without having a bout of racism, which to be honest was filling my mouth and had to be swallowed. The last thing I wanted to be was a racist as she had just been about my money which is Sterling as I kept pointing out.

The girl then said “We have to be careful in case it is a forgery”

“Well then if you think it’s a forgery, it is your civic duty to call the police and report such activity, I will wait here for them, meanwhile can I take some painkillers as my right breast is killing me and I need to take them” I uttered.

There a crowd of young Boots assistants gathered, they were a multitude of various nationalities, it was like being stared at by the kids from United Colours of Benetton poster. Suddenly I was the immigrant with strange money! I did like the tables being turned and it was quite insightful, then I stopped enjoying the irony as my tit pulsated and I screamed “Give me the fucking painkillers and take the fucking money or I will call the police right now”

They all jumped startled and finally gave me my change and threw the painkillers at me.

The comedy gigs are ok so far.

One toddler dried my hair and managed to bring my fringe straight down over one eye and asked me “how does that look?”

I stared at myself through one eye and sang loudly “I was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar, when I met you” coz I did look very Human League-ish.

She was way too young to get the reference and looked about the busy salon making eye contact with other toddlers who were slapping bright colours onto adult’s scalps.

Big Katie came over and laughed out loud, she took the hairdryer off the small child and fixed my fringe for me, so I didn’t look special needs.

The day didn’t end there because I jumped on the wee underground tube train we have in Glasgow to get home. As soon as I sat down, a man in a pair of shorts and bright yellow tee shirt sat beside me. It is freezing in Glasgow, what was he thinking of?

Anyway, the scary man was sitting with empty eyes and clutching a Rubicks Cube and at every station (70 seconds apart) he mixed up his Rubicks Cube and then solved it every station we pulled into. I was really freaked as he jiggled his legs and shouted

“Beat that Luke Skywalker” whenever he solved the puzzle over and over again.

Passengers were all staring with frightened eyes, give us a terrorist bomber and we in Glasgow will kick the shit out of him en masse, give us a scary psychiatric patient clutching a Rubicks Cube and we piss ourselves in fear. 

I leaned over, touched his arm and said “well done”. All the other passengers gasped and mentally begged me not to approach the man. The bloke screamed loudly, banged his head backwards against the window and shouted “don’t touch me”.

People ran up the tube grabbing their masses of Christmas shopping and all eyed me angrily for awaking the demon in Rubicks Cube man.

I just laughed out loud and sat there out staring him. “I am dangerous” he hissed at my face as he clicked his Rubicks Cube. The passengers all stared at him.

I jumped up, stamped my feet and screamed “I am CRAZY AS FUCK!” right back at him. He cowered in the seat sat quietly and now everyone was staring at me.

“He is not dangerous, he just wants to freak us all out and the best way to deal with him is to OUT-Nutter the nutter” I sat back down and yet people were still freaked out and now thought I was the nutcase. But I won and that’s all that matters and my hair looked nice and I could see people admiring it.

It came to my attention recently that I was being too hard on a rowdy audience. I took a step back and had a rethink, I have never been over the top horrible to anyone in a comedy crowd - I have never walked out and said "You cunt shut up" with total malice and contempt in my voice-having said that if there are a bunch of blokes who are shouting "show us your tits " as soon a I step onstage, I have been hammered into them, then I pat their head for being good and get the audience to applaud their good behaviour much in the way i do with kids. My Scottish accent does make it sound harsher I know this.

Though it's odd when male MC and male comic's hit the stage and say to women " Your tits are gorgeous can I come on them later" or "You all look like hookers from here girls" "Shut up tart" "you gay boy you fancy me" "Hey cunt shut up I don’t come to your job down the docks and knock the cock out of your mouth" everyone laughs and so they should as it is all playful banter, it only seems to mean something bad when I say it.

When you MC gigs it is your job to control a crowd. If they are being nasty and mean to people and the show managers or staff ignore them, then really it is up to you to stop the screaming mad people so the acts can come on. Having said that it can be really horrible trying to shut up ten drunk men who scream in unison without having to give them a bit of dominatrix / be nice/ shut up/ yes I like sucking cock/ now shoosh/ type of banter back.

And Yes I have used the cunt word onstage but never screamed at someone in anger and fever pitch rage-but I also tell them immediately that cunt is a term of affection in Scotland and we call new born babies cute cunts.
Strangely the men who abuse me most onstage and get a good tongue lashing back are the ones who after the show congratulate me for having fun.

Now the downside to that is, you don’t want to create an argumental slagging match as an MC as they shouters then think it is ok to do that with the acts coming on- so I tell them, if you need to scream out wait I come on and we can have a bit of a banter. It sometimes works, it sometimes doesn’t and sometimes people are just cunts and won’t shut up and shouldn’t be in a comedy club to begin with and the staff should sort them out.

My reputation has always been that I am aggressive, Michael Legge is convinced I have a penis and has said so in his blogs and I LOVE him for it, because it personifies exactly what I am trying to say...If I stand up to people and sort out a rowdy crowd then I cant be a woman I must be a man!
That's fine and I like that theory.

I am not saying I get it right every time, I am not saying that every night I control, bite back and handle a rowdy crowd that I have been spot on the money, I am sure there have been nights when a confrontational atmosphere has seeped in because I answered back. I am just saying that I am learning as I go and I don’t have the advantage of being pretty or unthreatening, I am older, I am fat and I have an answer to loud blokes who don’t normally believe that women should be comics....that isn’t a bad thing.

I just hate it when an act has a hard time on my watch and I feel very responsible when it happens.

I am going to start wearing dresses, lose hundreds of weight, never swear again, I might pretend to be educated and own a pony, I will be quiet and demure, I will still be funny though, there's no reason I cant be, I am not sure yet...it might work and people will never ever call me aggressive again.

Now, loads of people have contacted me by email and asked me about the star crossed meeting of me and Mr Clooney or ‘Geordie-Boy’ as I like to call him!

It was at the BAFTA film awards in 2006 and I spotted him in my peripheral vision as he walking alongside me.

We were almost walking side by side as we both headed to the toilets. People were staring, taking photos and generally pointing and some sexy women even practically ‘presented’ to him.

I quickened my pace to get in front of him and out of the way so people staring didn’t have to suffer the wee Scottish woman in their much beloved photos. Just at that moment he quickened his pace as he probably need a pee. He ended up right beside me again and I was like a wee Geisha in high heels as well trying to totter off at speed.

He caught up beside me and I smiled, turned to him and said “Stop flirting with me George Clooney, you have been doing it all night”

He burst out laughing, a nice genuine laugh as he took the cheeky joke on board, he reached over and took my arm as if he was escorting me to the loos. That made me like him, as he could have balked and huffed off.

“Nice accent” he spoke quietly as he smiled and acknowledged the people he encountered on our way to the loo. It was now within sight, we both walked quicker, people cleared a path for us.

“I loved your movie Good night and Good Luck” I said.

“Thank you, what do you do?” he stopped in the doorway of the toilets.

We were now surrounded by make up artists who were giving women and men a free make up thingy, that I didn’t quite understand.

“I am a comedian” I answered as the ladies from MAC cosmetics gasped and pointed at George.

“Really? Like live stand up?” he asked as a woman started taking photo’s on her phone.

“Listen I really need to go to the loo” he interrupted himself.

“Do you need any help in there?” I giggled.

He laughed heartily and cheekily offered me to come into the gent’s toilet and the MAC cosmetic ladies all shrieked and clapped. He held the toilet door open and said “I dare you”

“I have seen a penis before” I shouted with laughter and headed off to the ladies next door to the gents.

We both came out of the loos at the same time. The MAC cosmetic girls were huddled round him and taking photos. George came over chatted a bit about comedy then the cosmetic girl offered to take our photo, George agreed and she took my phone. The reason I am pointing in the photo is that I was trying to point out where the fucking button was on the phone “fucking hell you mad bitch how hard is it to work the camera on a phone” I screeched and George kept laughing at me swearing at the dumbass heavily made up girl.

So that’s why I look aggressively mad in the pic and he looks laid back and happy.

He told me he liked women that swore in Scottish and asked me to say “fucking hell ya mad bitch” again, just so he could laugh again.

He kissed my cheek, held my hand tightly, then said “Good Night and Good Luck Janey” and headed off.

Their castle has a skinny job-seeker-trainee in acrylic who merely stepped aside when I walked past without paying £8 to see broken stuff of olden days.

The job seeker got all edgy and asked “Have you paid for the castle?”

“No, I think your national trust fund and private donations do that, but I haven’t paid to go in if that’s what you mean” I answered.

“Can you leave then?” he asked politely, so I did. I left politely.

I don’t see why we have to pay to get into castle’s I refuse to do it.

I took some pics of it from the outside. By the way before anyone gets all nippy about my not paying to get in to Cardiff Castle- I have never paid to get into Edinburgh Castle either; castles should be free, I pay enough tax to get into them for free, that’s all I am saying!

The only flight to Glasgow from Cardiff is at 8pm at night, so thankfully the hotel let me have a 3pm checkout, which is awesome as it can get frustrating hanging about Cardiff with its big expensive castle and cold whippy tear inducing wind.

I have booked my flight to LA in January, I am going over for ten days and am severely looking forward to that! A wee break is just what is needed in my busy life. In January I turn 48 years old which means by then I will have outlived my mammy by almost a whole year, which I have been anticipating since she died at 47 in 1982. I always imagined I too would die young, yet see me! I am still alive!

Last week I bought a goat, chickens and rabbits on the Stepping Stones Nigeria website as social conscience Christmas gifts for all the wee kids in my family. Wee funny great niece Abi, was rather unimpressed.

“So, you got rabbits for poor kids in Nigeria and then they eat them, what kind of nasty thing is that to give as a gift?” she asked. Bear in mind Abi has a rabbit of her own and it took us ages to explain to this lovely wee five year old the benefits of her giving up a Christmas toy so a small abused child can eat, she did eventually get it, but I can still see her face trying to make sense of it all.

When I showed her the website for the Stepping Stones Nigeria charity site, and explained all about small kids being abused as they were suspected of being witches and wizards, she gulped and took back every selfish thing she had said and begged me to pledge more cash. Poor wee soul. Kids here in the UK really don’t understand how really blessed they are until you point it out.

The good news is that some of my blog mates and friends have taken note of the link I sent them about the charity and have been sending cash and mobile phones to help out, so THANKS everyone- I appreciate you taking the time to help. Every penny will help a child and that’s a good thing!

“Mate, if wanted to be in a car with a man driving dangerously with one hand, I would get an unlicensed rape taxi, so quit with the mobile and put both hands on the wheel please, that’s what I am paying for” I snapped. He called me something nasty in Welsh, I think? Is ‘moaney Cuntish person’ a Welsh saying? I don’t know…

On entering the Marriot Hotel, I spotted the lovely comic Bennet Aaron, he looked worried. He had good reason, seems our hotel booking from Jongleurs had gone suspiciously missing and we were now homeless. Do bear in mind that NZ are playing Wales at rugby and Cardiff town is like Bethlehem… no room at the inn.

So after much hand wringing and lying through their teeth, we were told the rooms were booked wrongly! Who knows? Bennet called Jongleurs and we are moved to the Future Inn (which doesn’t have space capsules, which quite frankly means the name is not befitting my idea of the future, I want a robot in my room that can wash my pants).

Anyway I am now in this hotel, the internet isn’t expensive but it is far away from the gig and I am pissed off. That will be another expensive cab journey to work! Arrrggghhh!

The good news is that this hotel has a digital juke box in the room and I am chilled listening to Crosby-Stills & Nash…not cool I know but I am old.

I do love Cardiff and I do love the job, but I hate all the shit that goes with it.

Whenever we think of Nigeria and charities, we always think ‘Scam Spam’ and switch our brains off.

I just watched a Dispatches documentary programme in the UK about children who are beaten to death or abandoned because some local nutter in the Nigerian Delta region decided for no good reason that the kid was a witch. Often the kids are killed, or the parents have to pay shed loads of cash to allow some local ‘Prophet’ (read con artist for prophet by the way) to cleanse the child.

The whole thing is absolute rubbish but the Nigerian Delta region is steeped in suspicious Christianity/ witchcraft practises for years now and the whole thing is exacerbated by propaganda films made by some crazy church leader who infects the brains of these poor people with arcane ideas of witches. They say kids as young as one year old can kill an adult with a spell! The sign of witchcraft in a child is crying at night and a high temperature, which covers just about every baby in the world to be honest!

Jesus would weep if he saw what these lying rats do in his so-called name.

Trust me you would only have watch five minutes of this British documentary and you want to get on a plane and rescue the kids yourself.

Gary Foxcroft is an ordinary bloke from England and he is the director of the charity, he was studying in Nigeria when he realised the problem and is dedicated to helping the children. The link below is the website, please click and help if you can?

http://www.steppingstonesnigeria.org/

It is a charity that rescues, protects and fights for the rights of these abused kids, please click on the link and see if you can help them in any way?

Thanks to all my blogging friends for any help on this issue.