There is a sub-culture in Venice Beach. It’s a bit like a layer cake, the top is all decorative, expensively hand finished, funky and eye catching and at the very bottom of that sweet alcohol soaked sponge, are the homeless, the mentally affected and the Californian beach burn outs.

There are ‘grab’ tables which are usually full of hand made trinkets and various knick-knacks for sale. After a while the tables all kind of blend into one, but the sellers are full of character and worth having a natter with. Surrounding the grab tables you will see various local ‘dudes’ some famous, some trying to get famous and some plain crazy. There is a lovely black bloke on roller blades with a big white scarf around his head, there is the oily muscle guy who wears the teeniest stars and stripes g-string and entertains by rolling a metal ball all over his tanned muscles and there is the Chief who looks like an Indian chief and has the brownest, crinkliest skin texture that advertises why sunscreen is absolutely imperative. On spotting him I sprayed factor 50 on my face again. He is amazingly lovely though and can dance like the wind.

The Chief is usually in the middle of the big drum circle and their beating serves as a constant thudding backdrop to the ocean vista. People come from miles carrying drums, trash cans, plastic bins and anything that can be banged to make a noise and they play for hours. Apparently the police tried to disperse the drum circle but the Chief won that fight and the locals were split in their opinion about it. I stood at the circle as the sun was slowly dipping, the noise is amazing and you cannot help but dance, it really does entrance you. There are hordes of people playing, all classes, all colours, all ages, just beating and banging away, it is worth seeing if you ever go there.

The Police and local homeowners are desperate to dispose of the pill popping, hashish smoking, beer drinking bongo dancers, but it is those very people who make Venice so bohemian and hedonistic. Without them, it’s just a bunch of rich queens, spoiled dogs and a few long haired rich folk who recalled The Eagles before they were famous. Venice thrives on it’s patchwork of cultures.

I made friends with Talon and Puck, two homeless beach dudes. Puck honed wooden varnished walking sticks from driftwood and Talon made toy cars and the sold them on the concrete beach front.

Talon is the typical tanned long haired, broad smiling beach boy; he had been in Venice for 15 years now. He is so congenial, chatty and very welcoming, but around 6pm as the sun sets and the beer and dope kick in, he gets rather agitated, screaming and basically abusive to the polystyrene head that displays hair wraps at the next table to his. That white blank face gets some verbal shit, but it sits stoically on a spike with coloured plaits streaming over its eye-less face as Talon points and screams about its lack of understanding of his issues. Apparently that body-less head just won’t let Talon drink more Joose.

Puck was 42 years old, sober and had been homeless since Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans, so he made his way to Venice. He smokes some grass but avoids booze. As we chatted on the grass a big topless bloated man in his early 30s, with blood splattered trousers and bare feet came towards us. He was glazed looking and had a haunted face that slightly scared me. He asked for a ciggie then ran off.

“He is Vinny, he picks his hands till they bleed, and he wanders around begging in his bare feet, he will get bullied by the other guys because he has too many mental problems and can’t negotiate or make friends. He is one of the invisible people Janey, if that bloodied half naked man was in Downtown LA, an ambulance would be called, people would scream at the sight of him, but down here he is just psychiatric wallpaper, it’s horrifying and I worry that I might end up like him. The Christians will get him later, they will wash him up, give him shoes, try to force God on him and then kick him back out onto the beach and that will happen till he dies here”  Puck explained.

There was a whole parade of drugged, drunk and deranged came past me that day.

Two lessons were quickly learned by this naïve Glasgow lass.

One- You can buy any drug from a man dressed as the Matrix on a bike but don’t ever smoke a cigarette on the grass at the boardwalk, as that can get you a $170 fine from a cop.

Two- Learn quickly that when someone shouts the words FIVE-O, you can guess that’s the police coming.

FIVE-O was shouted about three times and all the sunburnt guys sidled onto the pavement giving me sympathetic looks as an LA cop caught me and screamed at me for smoking on the grass.

“Look mate, people are smoking crack over there, men are buying dope, two people are practically having full on sex, a transvestite is hustling a woman in a wheelchair, but if I smoke a ciggie on the grass suddenly I am offensive?”  He let me off after I apologised.

The amazing thing about the homeless people is their dedication to keeping their environment clean. They throw every single piece of litter into the bins, they recycle cans and plastic and left over unwanted food doesn’t reach the litter bins, if the homeless spot you throwing food away they ask for it immediately. They scour the grass picking up things aimlessly and constantly chuck stuff in the trash cans. They shout at tourists who drop stuff, it amazed me, but then again, if the open ground is your home, then you treat it well.

The local shopkeepers sell a beer called Joose, which is neatly disguised in a big colourful can and looks like a fizzy drink, but it contains 10% alcohol and is only $3 a can, which keeps the boozers well oiled. The sun beat down on Venice but as it set a cloak of menace descended on the place and it did get rather seedy. Puck made me leave at 6pm making me promise never to return when it was dark. “It can get dangerous Janey, I am being serious, go now” he insisted.

Venice beach was a real eye opener to me, the guys were so welcoming and I will truly miss Talon and Puck, my tour guides for the weekend.

The buses are awesome but regular Americans don’t ride the buses, apparently only ‘Mexicans and mental folks’ use the service according to one rather obnoxious person who advised me to avoid them. Strangely that comment made me want to go the buses even more, so I did.

The first step is finding the buses in your area; they are very well hidden so the Metro website is a must. BUT…the problem is…the website is very complicated to work out. Finally I located a bus stop near the house where I was living. There is no real info on the bus shelter, so you do have to stop every bus and ask the driver for help with your trip, which annoys people and I did get in the way of the Mexicans and mental folk who pushed me about a bit. But, I was determined so I finally boarded a bus with the intention of going to Santa Monica beach. It would take about 2 hours, as there are no dedicated bus lanes in Down Town La, so you get stuck in the traffic all the time.

The next obstacle is that most of the bus info is written in Spanish on the buses, how racist is that? Even the TV that plays on the bus is mostly in Spanish and it made me realise there is a real class divide to contend with. You see in London LOADS of people of ALL classes ride the public transport, in LA that really doesn’t happen.

Then there were the poor mentally affected who seem to LIVE on the buses full time and the sheer numbers of them startled me, it was atrocious that these poor folk just wander the streets with gigantic balls of rags, bags of cans wrapped about their bodies, usually accompanied with voices and various facial ticks. I have never seen so many of these damaged people in my entire life. EVERY single bus had at least five shouters, screamers or body pickers.

The scary thing is, you can’t help but watch them. One wee Oriental woman dressed in three sweaters and no shoes had a particularly awful affliction she seemed compelled to bend down and touch a spot on the bus floor in a certain pattern. The bus kept shunting her about and she had to start all over again, people were getting pissed off at her as she pushed them out of the way till she reached her ‘special touching spot’ beneath their feet.

On that same bus one big black man who smelled like a bad kebab screamed and pulled the wire to stop the bus every five seconds, this in turn drove ‘touch the floor woman’ to distraction and they had a wee scream at each other.

Just when they got off a young blonde female in her early 20s with a scruffy young guy climbed on board. She was wearing a cropped top and kept pulling it up and sticking her tongue out and dancing provocatively.

The girl was so beautiful but looked damaged and was overtly outgoing to people. We all ignored her, but she got more outrageous and started to talk to strangers, the young guy with her giggled but looked embarrassed.

A big homeless grizzly bearded bloke climbed on board and the girl made a beeline for him. She wiggled her bare tummy at him, he in turn screamed at her.

“That’s one Pandora’s box she shouldn’t even begin to open” I whispered to a Mexican woman beside me. The woman nodded at me and we both looked at the girl with concern.

Just then the blonde girl made eye contact with me, sniggered and said “Do you know any titty bars in Santa Monica?” She looked at me challenging an answer.

“Do I look like the kind of woman who frequents titty bars, or runs titty bars or knows anything about them?” I laughed.

She didn’t expect me to take up the challenge, but smiled back at me. She was staring at me cautiously and I could see she was trying to work out the accent and the vibe.

She then explained to me that she was 19 years old and she was living on the beaches on LA and was homeless but did ‘anything’ to make cash for her and Todd her boyfriend. He smiled and nodded as he stroked her back. I told her I was Scottish and visiting LA.

“Are you married?” she shouted over the bus engine noise.

“Yes” I replied, rather perplexed at the change in conversation and the level of intimacy she was aiming for in this short exchange.

“Are you happy?” she asked.

“Yes I am, why?” I asked.

“Well, I was going to say you could give up Scotland and come live with us on the beach, we can steal you a bicycle and we could live in LA till the winter came along and then we could move South, what do you say?” she shouted. Todd thought this was a great idea and nodded furiously as he picked scabs on his hand.

I obviously took too long to answer this as they both leapt up excitedly and hugged me. “Come with us” she screeched.

“It sounds fabulous but I would miss my daughter and husband” I smiled.

“Do you love your daughter?” she asked me.

“Yes, very much and I would be devastated if I didn’t see her again” I answered.

“She is lucky, my mother hated me” she said.

She then lapsed into silence and stared out of the bus window, she didn’t speak again for ages. When the bus reached Santa Monica harbour we all got off. They got their bikes off the front of the bus, hugged me, laughed loudly and pedalled off into the sunshine. I felt so sad for them and couldn’t quite shake off the depressing feeling it left me with all day.

The beach was awesome; I got some food and a cold drink and sat by the ocean deep in my own head, just listening to the wave’s crash on the sand. The heat was stunning, I had to completely lather myself in sunscreen as I burn in a minute.

The day past quickly, I loved the place and wandered about aimlessly watching the families, the homeless and the well heeled all enjoy the sunshine.

My beach day didn’t end there; I have heaps to tell you all about Venice Beach and will do so in my next blog.

Well anyway on Sunday after staggering about in the 86 degree heat on roads where the only other people I met were wandering homeless poor Mexican drunk men, I got a call from Andrea Abbate, and she is a fabulously funny comic from LA.

Andrea told me what road to get to and she came to pick me up. She had with her a lovely wee son called Andrew who was obsessed with Spiderman and he was cool.

Andrea took me back to her house and I can’t tell you how fabulous it was, though she did have two big dogs who likes to practise fucking each other in the back yard!

Andrea is a cracking hoot, and we had a great natter, she let me wash my hair and feet (yes, I was that manky, I had Amy Winehouse feet to be precise-I needed cleaned up after my marathon walk) and we chatted on her patio.

That was after we played 500 games of “pretend you never knew Spiderman was real, then I come in dressed as Spiderman” from 5 year old Andrew…he is adorable and loves that repetitive game. He was so cute I played along, even though Andrea and I were exhausted with the game, I LOVE kids and Andrew exploited me no end.

Then Andrea told me she and her husband were Scientologists. At this I was intrigued…I have never MET one and had 6 million questions and became as repetitive as Andrew with my “Pretend Scientology didn’t exist and then you come in as a Scientologist” game….God knows she played along (but then God doesn’t exist in her equation). I fully expected to leave that house with two tin cans strapped to my wrists and half my income gone…but NO….it was as easy as meeting a Catholic but not as easy as meeting a Jewish person who wanted to convince me they owned Israel.

So there you go…I am not converted nor freaked out…they were lovely people and I fully intend to cultivate my new friendship with the Scientologists and see how that works out for me.

Last night I ended up in bed at 8am with a horrible migraine that made me disabled.

Today I am going downtown for a meeting with a casting agent and I may even stay out late…who knows?

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.