I don’t know what to say about how I feel. She was my step mum for 25 years and was my daughters beloved Nana and grand and great grandmother to many of her own and the extended family’s kids. I have had to cancel my trip to Bristol Jongleurs at the weekend as her funeral is on Saturday. I don’t mind that as I would be distraught without my family at this time and sitting in a cold hotel and doing comedy isn’t the best way to deal with pain.

Though I am happy Mamie had a good long fulfilled life and that’s what we all need to celebrate.

As soon as I got into the rather cold room, I sat down and husband called me. It seems my beloved step mum has taken a turn for the worse and there is imminent worry for her making it through the weekend. I felt bereft and stupid for leaving home and not being there for my dad. At that moment the hotel door got banged.

“There has been a fire alarm and we are not sure if the hotel is on fire” a young woman explained quickly. My husband was still on the mobile and waiting to explain about mum.

“I never heard a fire alarm” I said with tears threatening to explode as I was worried about mum.

“No, it is an internal alarm” the woman said.

“A fucking silent fire alarm?” my husband shouted through the mobile phone as he was listening in.

“You have to leave the room” the woman insisted.

I hung up on husband and walked into Narnia; Pitlochry is steeped in deep snow and resembles the movie scene of the Lion, the Witch and Wardrobe. I cried into my snotty sleeve and worried about ditching the show and going back to Glasgow.

Husband called me back to check I wasn’t burnt to death, I explained that it was a mistake and I am back in the room and he then convinced me to stay and do the show. Which I did and it was awesome. People had travelled miles to come to Pitlochry and deserved fun and it was my job to provide it. They were a lovely bunch of people and I was glad to be there by the time the show was over.

This morning I got up and asked about the trains, I was told there was a train to Inverness as I had a show there to do tonight (Saturday). The problem was the train would have to stop at Aviemore and then get on a bus, but that’s ok, I will go for it.

So after much to-ing and fro-ing the train station decided to let me know that the train to Inverness is totally fucked and wont be going anywhere near Aviemore or Inverness, in fact it wont leave at all and a bus will take me instead.

I gasped in frustration, but agreed that the bus will be fine. Then the woman in the train station says to me “There is only one problem, the bus is full to Inverness and we don’t know when another one can be here tonight, the snow is heavy, the road has problems and we don’t have enough buses”

I stood in the station and just felt like battering my head off the ticket office window. I asked about trains home to Glasgow from Inverness on the Sunday. She stared at me blankly.

“Look there is a train coming just now going back to Glasgow, if I was you I would take it and get the hell out of here, there is no guarantee we will get you back to Glasgow from Inverness tomorrow if we ever get you up there”

She was right, so I called the promoter and explained I would need to pull the show. He agreed readily, he assured me all is well and told me to get the hell out of Narnia whilst I had the chance. So I got on the train and that when it all went horribly wrong.

Just as we were five minutes out of Pitlochry, I was sitting chatting at the very end carriage to some Rail staff members who were delayed in getting trains and had all jumped on the Pitlochry escape train as I now called it. One was called Tam; he was a train trolley bloke finally getting home after being stuck in Pitlochry. He was telling me that the station person should have got me a taxi to Inverness if they couldn’t provide a bus. “A bit late telling me that now Tam” I snapped.

The train came to a sudden halt. “Fuck what now” Tam hissed.

Then I spotted a staff member running alongside the outside of the train, he climbed into the end carriage and slammed the door behind him. He then opened the door into the aisle I was sitting at and screamed “Kate! Kate! Kate!” it was slightly disconcerting to see a middle aged train driver look so frightened and screaming down the train aisle. Kate was the catering girl; she was slightly out of his ear shot.

Tam stared at him, then at me.

“Mate, is everything ok? You screaming is worrying me” I said to the man.

I didn’t expect him to answer me so candidly “No, everything is not alright, I just hit a person at the crossing back there” The poor man was deathly white.

I just put my head down on the table and shut my big stupid mouth.

Kate turned and headed back to him. “I have hit someone” he shouted again. Kate ran to him and I could hear them in the back staff carriage making calls to the police and rail networks.

The young train worker Tam looked at me and immediately got up and hugged me. I didn’t need hugged, I wasn’t dead and I wasn’t in shock and I didn’t know him well enough for spontaneous hugs of sympathy. “Are you ok?” he poked his big face near me.

“Yes, I am fine mate, I am worried about the driver and the person on the line, I am absolutely fine” I pushed him gently off.

The train was sat on that line for over an hour as police and transport people were called to the scene. Apparently it was an elderly man who got knocked down by the train, but I am not sure of exact details.

Tam then sat opposite me and told me at least six stories of people who got smashed by trains, he was the death train expert and I just wanted him to shut up, but NO…he had more stories about people who threw themselves or fell onto train lines. He was the goriest wee bloke and it now made sense why he wanted a hug. He was mental.

The train finally set off and of course it couldn’t go straight to Glasgow now, for reasons I am not sure of, it was now stopped at Perth and I had to grab my suitcase and run up and over a metal bridge to catch a train to Glasgow.

So I am home, the gig got cancelled; the man died on the level crossing and my mum is still in hospital.

“Fuck off, where will I get two quid from?” Ma shouted back over the noise of the loo flushing.

Major lifted a black claw and scratched my leg, his brown eyes pleading with me.

“I am taking the dog out” I whined back and grabbed the thick metal dog leash off the door handle in the lobby and clipped Major’s collar, only to be dragged off at speed down all the stairs outside. I needed to think of a plan to get two pounds to buy a tartan Bay City Roller’s jumper; everyone at school had one except me.

Major stood out the back yard and peed for about ten minutes, whilst scanning the back court for pigeons or cats to attack the minute he was done pissing. He was always on the look out for a victim was Major. He was an angry dog.

“Hurry up Major, I need to figure out how to get two quid” I hissed at him.

Even my dog looked at me pitifully; he knew there was no chance of me getting that Bay City Roller jumper before the shops shut at 5pm. He finished his pee, scratched the ground with his back legs, flicking up pee soaked soil over my jeans and tried to pull off the leash to chase imaginary cats. I couldn’t let him free, he would bite the first living thing he spotted and I couldn’t bear to get into a dog dispute today.

Our back yards were a square set of twenty blocks of flats with open closes which led through to the front streets, all the individual closes had penned off back yards which were segregated by green painted railings. Major loved getting into other people’s yards.

I ran around the back letting him sniff bins, scratch at the ground and snuffle through the long grass near the railings. He looked up at me pleading to be let free, he wanted to run about but every time I let him go, he slipped his bony body through the metal railings and shot off on a bite fest and although I was wiry and fast, I couldn’t climb over those spiky fences and catch up with him, he was an expert escapist. Before I knew it he would be on the main road attacking pensioners and babies. He was mental and very scary looking.

“No, Major, you will run off and bite people” I answered as he stared at me.

He sat on the cold ground and lifted a paw at me and gave me his best cute look. So I let the leash snap off his neck. He started walking slowly around our confined fenced yard, and then he suddenly shot off and leaped over the first fence in a flash. “Oh Fuck” I shouted and started after him. I climbed over three sets of metal railings as he slipped through or jumped over them and made off through the opened close of flats across the backyard. I saw his tail disappear through the close into the front street.

I panicked and kept climbing over the four foot high railings till I reached the close he had run through. I could hear screams from the front street, my heart was pounding. I was exhausted and sweating, why did I let him go?

On entering Vesalius Street, I saw one old woman pinned up against a front garden fence with Major barking at her feet. The dog spotted me and ran off in the direction of the big main road that ran through our wee scheme.

He slid past big Lorries that trundled down the busy road; he sped through the traffic and made it to the opposite side of the road. It took me ages to let the traffic past before I could run across and chase after him. He barked and snarled at passers by. “Get that dog on a leash” a man shouted. The leash was wrapped around my hand as I panted and gasped my way up the road. His pointy tail was visible and the barking kept me on his track.

Finally he came to a stop. He watched me over his shoulder; he sat on the pavement quietly as I approached him stealthily. I fully expected him to bolt off again as I got closer, but he didn’t move. “Major, you bad dog” I shouted as I clipped the leash on him. He just stared at me and padded off quietly.

My clothes were sticking to me with the sweat of running and jumping so fast. He merely hung his tongue out and happily jaunted off as if he was the happiest dog in Shettleston. We got stuck at the main road, the traffic was heavy, buses were speeding past and I was nervous crossing that road, as I had been knocked down by a car two years previously near the spot where we stood. It had taken me almost a year to walk again, and at twelve, I still had a slight limp.

I heard a familiar voice shout “Janey” from one of the buses as it drove past. The bus stopped near me and loads of people spilled out of the back opening. There was my old favourite uncle John. “What are you doing out with that fucking mad dog on the main road?” he asked.

“He ran away from me” I explained. Uncle John was my pal, he was a lot older than most of my uncles and had neither kids, nor a wife and was often ‘away’ though we were never told where. He never had a home of his own and usually stayed with family members, and I loved him. He was quirky and had funny ways of explaining stuff. I once asked him why he never fought in the Second World War and he told me “Well, you see with all the men away, the women of Shettleston needed someone to replace their light bulbs in their lobby’s and I didn’t have a fight with the Germans, they never personally upset me, so I don’t see why I should be a paid killer of someone else’s son”

Turns out my old Uncle John was a bit of a ‘Lad’ and traded guns with crooks and never fought with anyone unless he had a personal gripe with them.

He was occasionally in prison and never really settled with anyone anywhere.

“Look, here’s some money for you, now don’t tell your Ma that I have cash, say you found it” He said and pulled a TEN POUND note from his pocket. Ten pounds was a fortune to me at twelve. I stared at the note; I don’t think I had seen a ten pound note close up in my own hand. Major sat quietly and wagged his tail at Uncle John; he was about the only visitor to our house that Major didn’t bite.

“That’s a lot of money, thanks Uncle John but I can’t say I found it, are you sure you can give me this? I will need to say something” I stuttered at Uncle John.

“Well, learn to lie and hide it Janey” he laughed and walked off.

I stared at the money in my hand, it felt so…wonderful and rich, the texture of the paper had me stroking it constantly, the swirly writing and just the overwhelming fact that I had ten pounds to myself, made me feel giddy.

I immediately set off to the Co-op and dragged Major with me; I now had the dilemma of how to get into the shop with my dog. Major could not be tied up outside, he would bite folk.

The big glass door to the Co-op jangled as I entered. Major growled low in his throat, he hated new places. My dog was rather autistic and anal for a domesticated animal. Things set him off, like a door bell, a floor brush and he despised goldfish and fish tanks, he attacked them viciously, he tried to bite the glass fish bowl in my bedroom. He was mad.

“That dog can’t come in here” a woman with the pinched face behind the counter shouted.

“I have ten pounds” I shouted back and showed her my cash “I just want a white Bay City Roller tartan jumper for my size” I added and stood at the door.

She relented and I tied Major to the big pillar at the side of the counter, I begged him not to bite anyone or bark. The woman held out the acrylic top for me to see, I nodded and guessed it would fit me. She wrapped it up in brown paper; sello-taped the edges and held it to me. I tucked it under my arm, and carefully wrapped the change into a small bundle and bent down to tuck it into my sock. Major licked my face as I bent down. “Stop that Major, your breath stinks” I giggled.

I ran for home with my parcel, Major trotting beside me and all the while thinking up a good lie to tell my Ma about the jumper. She could smell a lie and money in seconds and possessed the ability to get the truth out of anyone; I was surprised that she wasn’t an interrogator for the government.

I spotted the butchers shop on the way and decided to treat Major to some scraps, as he really did get me the jumper I reckoned. Major was barred from the local butchers as he would run in and try to drag a side of beef off the butcher’s hooks and was known for his daring raids, so I tied him to the lamppost outside, he wouldn’t bite anyone as he could smell the meat and that occupied him.

“Can I have a soup bone and a wee bit of liver please?” I asked. The butcher checked the door for Major. “He is tied up Mr Cross” I explained “He is sorry about the dead cow he pulled down”

The Butcher smiled and wrapped up some liver and a big bloodied bone in greaseproof paper. “It’s ok, Janey, no charge for the scraps and keep that crazy dog back from my shop”

Major wolfed down the wee bits of liver and chomped down on the bone and we both marched home, happily. I realised that if Major had a bone in his mouth he would never bite anyone, so maybe we have to keep him supplied with bones forever?

Ma was never told about the jumper or the cash, she never saw what I wore to school and it eventually turned up in the washing bag. I had duped her!

The change from the ten pounds was stuffed up the disused chimney shaft in my bedroom and I managed to eke it out for months, buying myself sweets and a chicken supper at the local chippy, all of course eaten outside in the back court with Major at my side.

To make matters worse, I just read an article on that talentless self-starver Victoria Beckham and her latest clothes line, (did you know she has just invented clothes, dresses and has put style on the world map…no? Well then you are stupid!)

She harps on about the perfect silhouette, that’s ok for her with her body of a nine year old boy that has had two small plastic cereal bowls implanted on the chest wall…my silhouette is reminiscent of Hitchcock’s.

Well at least my hair doesn’t look like it’s just been cut by a special person with safety scissors. Who allowed that to happen? Victoria, get real and grow your hair for fucksake, you are never going to be Audrey Hepburn, no matter how much you refuse to eat or wear giant sunglasses, and gamine isn’t even a real word as far as I am concerned.

So back to my REAL giant breasts and the problems they give me.

In the summer heat they weigh me down and almost kill me and you try sleeping comfortably with two giant airbags that seemed to be filled with cold lumpy porridge strapped to your chest. Yes, not funny or sexy eh?

So I have been staring at myself in bright mirrors and imagining how I would look with smaller perkier boobs and to be honest, it would be great.

So I looked up the web for ‘before and after’ photo’s of women who got a breast reduction and screamed in horror.

Fuck that! They look like some Frankenstein/ Tim Burton-esque-sewed up monster titty experiment.

I don’t want big red welted scars running from my nipple to under my boob. Apparently you lose nipple sensation as well? Who would want to never feel their nipples? Not me…that’s well fucked.

Then I made the huge mistake of watching a breast reduction operation on line…oh MY GOD! They basically slice an anchor style cut from your nipple down to under you boob, whip out the tissue, relocate the nipple and sew it all back up. The breast is left looking like a side of pork sewed up and not for suckling either…all grotesque and scary looking.

So I have decided that big fat boobs are fine, nothing a good bra cant sort or losing some weight and exercise. Husband would faint if I had small breasts as well, why do you think this marriage has lasted nearly 30 years? It isn’t because of my sunny disposition or reasonable nature…no, it’s my big tits!

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.