Last year he fell off a ladder trying to put up Christmas decorations and knocked himself out, other than that he is dapper and fine.

He does sometimes forget he is old and attempts to lift concrete slabs into his garden, or thinks he can trim the hedges with a big fuck-off electrical gadget and has to be stopped. His favourite game is the when the next door’s cat comes in and he torments it with a laser pen light. The poor cat gets exhausted running up and down the walls, dad laughs his head off as the thing looks insane trying to trap a small red dot.

His other favourite thing is to tell me who has recently died in his long list of old pals that I vaguely recall. It usually begins with.

“Do you remember old Jack who ran the pub at the end of the street?”

Me- “yes, he had a club feet didn’t he?”

Dad- “Yes he did …well he is dead”

This is a regular phone conversation for dad and after he takes great pains for me to recall some old bloke, he then tells me how and when and why that person died. It’s rather odd, but I suppose when you get old the roll call seems to be getting bigger.

He has a wicked sense of humour and when I embark on a big trip abroad I say to him “Dad, don’t die when I go away as it will haunt me forever”

He replies “No don’t worry, I will hang on till you get back then die in accordance to your busy comedy schedule, don’t you worry, I won’t screw up your life”

Dad has a better social life than me; he is rarely in when I call him. He goes out meeting his mates and often pops into town on the bus and cruises the pound shops for bargains. My wee lovely step mum says he buys bags of tat that he has to hide in his garden shed, as she is fed up with the nonsense he brings home and that makes me laugh.

He is addicted to McDonald’s ice creams (which he is NOT allowed and eats them quickly in case he is spotted), he drinks too much coffee and eats chocolate in the middle of the night and stashes his sweets around the house. Mum keeps finding them and gives him hell for it.

Dad doesn’t swear around mum as she quite rightly hates it but occasionally on the phone to me he will swear as he is telling me an anecdote and I laugh loudly because I know my step mum is near and she will nip his head off for the language!

He is a great story teller. I recall one tale about when he was a little boy during the Second World War. He was evacuated to some place up in the North of Scotland; he was about 6 years old. Apparently the people mis treated him and he was covered in sores. His mum was worried and she instinctively travelled to the farm and found him all skinny and ill. She wrapped him up and bundled him on the train and then onto a tram, she stuffed him under the seat to get back into the Glasgow city centre.

It was illegal to bring your kid back into the city during the war but she hid him under her coat as she got off the tram and that saved his life. She was incensed with anger at the farmer and refused to send him away again. Though he was finally settled in the Scottish Highlands with a good family till the end of the war and came home all fattened up and healthy.

When I was a kid he told me a scary story about a man with a wee black Scottish terrier who went into a tunnel under my school. Dad even pointed out a drain that led to this tunnel in the middle of the grass sports park so I knew exactly where the frightening place was.

He told me that as the man went deeper into the tunnel he heard a noise and went to investigate. A big dark clawing spectre appeared and chased the big man and he dropped dead with fear, but the wee dog came running out and it was now a WHITE haired Scotty dog. I was terrified from white Scotty dogs as a kid, and would scream when I saw one. I couldn’t even bear to go near the grassy sports park at school and I still have nightmares about it.

Years later, I told him how scary that tale was. “The story wasn’t set in your school park, it was a tunnel near the dirty burn, and I was trying to stop you going into the filthy water, how the hell did you get that mixed up with your school sports park? Is that why you were rubbish at sport? Did I ruin your chance to win an Olympic medal? You never did listen to me properly” he laughed.

Dad is funny.

We got in the car at 7am (I hate mornings) and drove for about five minutes when his brand new car started making horrible ‘thudaa thudda’ noises which let us know his front tyre was flat. Fucking genius…all I need is to be stood in the freezing cold morning in Southampton with a flat tyre and a plane to catch.

We stopped outside a building and I stomped about swearing and getting stressed, I was so tired and it’s nobody’s fault that a flat tyre happened but I was mental. Then I noticed the building we were outside was The Samaritans and a homeless man was curled up asleep in the doorway. My problems seemed insignificant now.

So I shut my big privileged mouth and helped John drag out the spare.

It was a different tyre altogether, we were astounded…this was a brand new car for fucksake.

John called RAC who did come up quickly and the bloke explained that although the tyre looks like it came off a motorcycle, it is the spare and that’s what car dealers do nowadays, to save cash they give you a wee ‘baby’ tyre to get you home till you can replace it. The downside of this is- the big tyre doesn’t fit in the space provided! And you can only drive 50 miles an hour with a baby tyre…? What the fuck is that about?

Anyway, we did manage to get to Gatwick on time and I arrived safely in Barcelona. It had been raining but the weather was nice. The comedy bloke who had arranged for me to come over picked me up at the airport and took me to the hotel. I got in and decided to go straight out a walk. I pulled on a pair of flip-flops that I had packed and strolled out. I never took the name or address of the hotel and yes…you got it…I got LOST.

My toes started bleeding, as the flip-flops hated me and I wandered round tiny streets taking photographs, and then had to look at the photos to try to work out where I started my journey. I ended up a back alley that leads under a big parapet where homeless people hung out. They shouted stuff at me and I hobbled on, they sneered at me, and I hobbled on and then one man threw a big shoe and it smacked me on the neck. I now have a sore neck and bleeding toes and I am lost in Barcelona.

Finally I texted the comedy man who gave me the address and I found my way back to the hotel. So here I sit, I am hoping the gig goes better than

they day I have had.

I was happy and then I bumped into a woman I know who is a dressmaker she was dressed for a cocktail party or a Sex and The City tribute night, I wasn’t sure which but she looked pale with the freezing wind biting her bare legs. She was with a dark haired hip bloke who was wearing a velvet jacket with nothing underneath and skinny scarf. He was chittering with the cold but looked very fashionable.

“Holy Fuck Janey you look like you are homeless dressed like that” the woman giggled. The skinny bloke’s frosty breathe pumped out as he guffawed at her comment.

“Really?” I sniped back “I am snug as a bug”

“Are you actually a homeless person?” the annoying bloke tried to see if the joke was worth repeating. I don’t know him, therefore it wasn’t funny and I wanted to kick his cold shrivelled balls.

The dressmaker laughed loudly and hugged him, throwing her arms up as if he just cracked the best joke in the world. Both of them fell about holding each other yelling their cocaine laughter louder as the cold air puffed from their gaping mouths.

The word vacuous never did fit a situation more than it did in this moment.

“Oh this is Tom, he is famous” the woman shouted at me as shouting is so in just now.

“Famous for what? Being a fuckwit?” I then laughed.

“No, he is famous for designing wallpaper” she nodded seriously.

He stared and waited for me to be amazed.

“Wasn’t that designed years ago?” I said.

“Yes, but he does amazing patterns on it” she added with a tone of seriousness usually reserved when announcing a Nobel Prize winner.

“Does he get a potato out and stamp on it?” I was now getting nippy and I knew it, I wasn’t letting the homeless jibe go.

“You should get Tessa to design a dress for you and you would look amazing, men would fall over you” he tried to get back to slagging me off.

“Actually I get laid a lot mate, yes even dressed like this, I get cock and you look like you do too, despite the shoddy 80’s velvet jacket, so thanks for the fashion tips, but I am happy in my woolly homeless gear”

I marched off.

Husband was standing looking in a shop window and missed the whole exchange.

“Do I look homeless to you?” I asked him.

“No, but that skinny hooker and the gay man looked drug fucked and freezing, did they say something to you?” he asked.

“Yes, they said I looked homeless” I spoke as pulled my scarf closer.

Husband pulled me closer and kissed my frozen cheeks “Janey, people are jealous because they know you are beautiful and talented, ignore them….though the hat is rather freaky, but you suit it, you are my wee freak”

We crunched through the frost happily, on the way back home we saw the skinny woman lifting up her designer dress and peeing behind a skip and the gay man screaming at her. Classy!

Last week I was incredibly busy. I had a guest part in River City, it's a Scottish drama and it was really hard work remembering a whole bunch of pages of dialogue but the cast were awesome. I take my hat off to the lot of them including the film crew, it is really hard work. I can't tell you what I play or the storyline for obvious reasons but my bit will be shown early January I think.

On Saturday past I was back in London as I performed at The Groucho Club Gang Show. I was pretty nervous as they were a real music crowd and doing comedy in the middle of a music night can be daunting, though the lovely Alex Zane and his mate did a wee sketch right before me, so the crowd were up for fun. I had an awesome gig and the talented John Culshaw went straight on after me. All in all a great time was had by all.

To top it all I met Daryl Hannah the famous US actress and she is a blessing to chat to. How amazing and warm a woman? Totally at ease and funny to boot.

This week I am at home, at the weekend I fly off to Southampton for Friday and Saturday and then onto Barcelona for a one night comedy show on Sunday. I will be living out of a suitcase yet again.

I have made some new wee videos and you check them out on YouTube, one is the 'Sarah Palin Parody' and the other is 'Abi Strikes Back' both are quite disturbing yet funny.

I am always slow with my blog lately as I am as busy as hell, but I do miss revealing my life here online and it hasn't been as personal lately, so I apologise in advance.

Anyway back to Saturday last week and the Camden prawns. After eating the said prawns I hopped on the 88 bus back to my flat in Westminster. My head really itched and my ears were burning and all the way on the journey I could feel lumps appear on my cleavage and upper body. I tried not to panic.

Just when I got off the bus at Marsham Street and entered the building, the concierge bloke looked at me and said “You ok Janey?”

I ignored him and ran to the flat getting the keys out quick, I looked in the mirror and there was Snippy the Lobster Woman staring straight back. I gulped down some anti histamines.

I ran back out to the concierge and he pointed the direction to St. Thomas’s hospital over the bridge.

Now emergency units are never fun on a Saturday night, I know this because I am from Glasgow and used to own a pub.

Nowadays the queuing system is high tech, you simply take a ticket from a machine like in the deli section of Tesco’s, watch for your number on the big digital board and you either get coleslaw or a doctor.

There was a wee box thing where a nurse sat and took the initial story from you. There was a big odd looking bloke sitting in it and he was quite well looking and happily swinging his feet and his relaxed manner indicated that he wasn’t sick, but wanted a woman in uniform to talk to. This was confirmed when I wandered near and heard him say “So, in 1987, I went to Australia”.

The nurse looked bored and I was getting red and lumpy so decided to indicate to her behind his back that he was a nutter and should be thrown out. But all she could see was a lumpy red blotchy woman making hand signals behind her patients back. Therefore I was the scary nutter and not him. After all he had been to Australia, he can’t be mad can he?

The other people in the waiting room sat patient (that’s why they are called patients I realised for the first time in my life). They were all too English to complain about the chatty fuckwit who was taking up far too much time. I got shouty is all I am saying.

“How long is his story?” I yelled.

The nutty man turned his head and stared at me, he looked angry and if he did have a mental condition and had a penchant for slicing people with a Samurai Sword (why is it always a Samurai?) then I was his next victim, at least in his head.

Finally the nutjob left the box and it was my turn to tell her a big story and I was excited and red. The waiting room got busier and I sat down in the plastic seat with my back to the crowd. I quickly explained to the bored nurse about the prawns and immediately pulled down my jumper to show her my boobs covered in red welts. She merely pointed above her head. I followed her finger and above her on the wall facing the waiting room was a big flat screen for security that had me on it showing off my lumpen tits to the people behind me.

I quickly turned round to the folk and shouted “I have a rash, I am not here to flash my tits, and I am not mental”

The nutjob who had been in before me tutted and pointed at me “She needs mental care” he said. I glared at him and he sliced a finger across his throat, just so I know he is going to kill me, because clearly my panicky rash wasn’t bad enough for me. I stuck two fingers up at him and the nurse stared at me. I needed to calm down she explained quietly.

The nurse assured me that the anti histamines that I took would work, or I could wait two hours to see a GP, but if I was going to die in an anaphylactic shock thing it would probably happen in that two hours, so it wasn’t worth my while.

I ran out of there and belted it across the bridge back to the flat. I had a gig in an hour’s time up at The Hob in Foresthill and had to pull myself together.

All in all it was an unusual night, my rash calmed down and the gig went great.

This time I spoke about Jesus being embedded into my cellulite when I was in New York. Weird things happen when I eat seafood…didn’t I tell you?

It was 2am in Soho last week and I searched for a cab. I spotted two scantily dressed girls shouting at a group of young guys, all had their hoods pulled up and wore dark clothing. The girls seemed to have some grievance but I couldn’t understand exactly what they were saying, their mix of cultures and accent had me baffled. But they were really hacked off about something.

Every now and then the girls would stop shouting and quickly chat to passing men, veering from screaming banshee, to alluring lady in one swift breath. They were touting for business in between publicly complaining, it was rather odd to watch.

The boys were shifty and were trying hard to blend into the dull walls of Soho. Some of them were really young looking, some were black, some were rather older bedraggled looking homeless guys, but they moved in a pack throughout the busy street. They split up, dodged cars, side stepped the clubbers and then came back together. It was a fascinating dance to watch.

I spotted a big bloke near me; he was obviously the main drug dealer on the kerb. The hoodies approached him, grabbed small deals and melted back into the darkness. Some threw their packages into car windows that were cruising on the busy street in Soho.

The young girls were still kicking off when the big bloke signalled to the hoodies to shut them up. Meanwhile the paparazzi were snapping at the celebs coming out of a launch party for a new private club. The famous actor and his wife smiled, the flashes of the camera lit up the dark street. I could see their shimmering white teeth glitter as the flash-light smacked off their faces, brightness in a second and dense darkness the minute the cameras stopped and the slinky dark hoodies slipped past them again and carried on their business.

The gossip magazine will print that photo and young girls in Glasgow, Hull and Birmingham will stare at the amazing couple in their glamorous life on the sexy streets of London.

The homeless who were lying on the street hugged their dogs close and the girls continued screaming and pointing. There was an air of menace, the dogs barked and their owners pulled blankets over them to comfort and not draw attention to themselves.

The young guys finally decided to tackle the noisy girls. They approached the girls in the way small boys poke a fire with a long stick, hoping that the sparks won’t jump out and set alight their sleeves.

Those girls didn’t shut up until that big bloke finally walked over and palmed them a deal.

The girls immediately huddled together in silence.

 As they walked off, one of the girls lifted her skirt flashed her bare ass to the paparazzi that were leaning against the railings. “Photo me” she shouted laughing.

Photographers sneered at her, then lazily flicked cigarette buts into the gutter and waited on more celebs to appear, who wants to take a picture of a drug addled skinny girl flashing her wares?

Just then the photographers scrambled and pushed the girls out of the way, as Kate Moss came out of the new club. She ran to a waiting car as the camera’s flashed inches from her face and she almost fell. I saw that photo printed the next day and it looked nothing like it was in real life, Kate look amazingly awesome in a black and white dress and seemed to be smiling!

Life is strange through a lens, and even stranger in real life. I do love Soho.

To top it all off, I watched a documentary today about wee American kids who are Bible Thumping preachers. It was horrible! A wee blonde seven year old boy from the Mid-West whose parents took him to the streets of New York to stand there with a bible and shout at the Manhattan folks about Jesus! Oh and by the way he normally hangs about abortion clinics with his dumb ass father to scream “Don’t kill your baby” at women going in through the doors of the hospital. At one point of the documentary he was slightly prissy to his mother and the camera was averted whilst his mom slapped him as he screamed! You could hear her smack his flesh and you could hear him yell in pain. Yes…they are normal folks eh? These people need punched with a brick, leave them kids alone people!

Then we switched to a wee black eight year old boy whose grandmother believes he is the new Messiah. They dress this wee boy up like Luther Vandros circa 1987 and he preaches to these people at big conventions. Then the camera followed him upstairs of this big hotel and you could hear the granny say “You must thank your grand mother for the blessings she brings at the end of your sermon, how dare you leave me out”

Child exploitation I believe is what is happening right there. I find it horrific when young children stand up and scream “Jesus will send you to hell if you are a homosexual” what seven year old knows that shit? Adults should be jailed for manipulation of young minds for that kind of behaviour.

So I stopped watching as I realised throwing things at the telly and shouting “Fuck OFF” really loudly wasn’t helping at all.

Loved the gigs over the weekend at Glasgow Jongleurs, they really are cool to do. Some comics dislike Jongleurs comedy clubs and slate them as too corporate etc…but I like them. Comics can get prissy about Jongleurs and say things like “They are full of stag and hen nights and they are a big corporation”. Well most independent clubs I have worked in have had rowdy crowds but NO crowd control in place as they don’t want to throw people out; also many comics have no bones about working for the BBC which is one of the biggest corporations, its even got corporation in its name!

There is an element of snobbery when it comes down to it and I dislike hypocrisy- so comics who turn their nose up at Jongleurs should also refuse to do gigs anywhere that hosts party nights and never work for any big media company.

Jongleurs pay well, they don’t inhibit you from working anywhere else in the same weekend, they make sure the gig is well run and loads of people turn up to enjoy the night. Occasionally too many big parties do turn up and try to ruin it for other people, but it’s down to the MC and the staff to prevent that from happening. I love the gigs!

Last weekend saw me in Dundee, St. Andrews and Stirling on my wee Scottish comedy tour. It was LOVELY and I love that people came out to see the show!

My great niece Baby Julia is my new BEST FRIEND, now that wee Abi has started school; I need a toddler side kick. Julia is as funny as Abi, though not as chatty, she acts quirkier. I went over to her house last week and their cat is all horny again. The cat is lying on the floor trying hard to look sexy and making those God awful noises that are basically cat language for “Touch my pussy please” but the scary thing is she does this to anyone.

Even the postman who was shocked as he handed me mail, as I opened my nieces door the cat squirmed out and showed the strange bloke her cat fanny.

She even showed it to the baby, who doesn’t touch her pussy but whacks her in the soft tummy with a big hairbrush and says “Bad cat”.

The cat shuts like a flick knife and runs off squealing more horny noises that make us shout “FUCK UP SQUEAK” but not baby Julia, she doesn’t shout that, she goes off in search of a new implement to whack it with. Don’t worry cat lovers, she isn’t really hurting the cat, mind you this is the cat that regularly attacks the baby and everyone else; because when this cat is not horny she hates everyone. She is Hitler/Courtney Love depending on the time of the month.

So I have been lazy with my blog, I know and I am sorry Life catches up with me at an alarming rate. Only yesterday I was 14 and desperate to find a way to get to Utah to marry Donny Osmond. I picked out a nice pair of Crimpolene flares and a Bay City Roller jumper to wear for our initial meeting. Then I woke up today and I am old, how did that happen?

I am in London next week and will performing at The Rainforest Gig at the Leicester Square Theatre. I will also be gigging around town at various venues.

Hopefully I will be sharper at updating the blog? I hope so…Janey

I asked how much a cab to the city centre was and she replied “£24” and then she added “do you want to share a cab?”

Now I am all for sharing cabs and reducing my carbon footprint so I said “Yes, how much will that be?”

“£18” she answered. I looked at her and said “So, two people pay £18 each to share a cab but one person pays £24?”

She nodded and said “That’s just how it is”

“Well, let me tell you how it is for me, I will take one cab and then invite someone here to get in the cab with me to the city centre and ask for them for £12 in the cab” I snapped.

She asked me to leave the cab office. I dragged my ass and my luggage out, and headed for the city bus stop at the airport exit. There I met ass pain number two.

“No one better give me a twenty pound note as I don’t have change, I am warning you” the tiny faced arse bus driver shouted from his bus to the queue.

I only had a twenty pound note. I climbed on the bus and handed it to him. He shouted “I don’t have change, didn’t you hear my warning?”

“Well, here is an idea, why don’t you carry loads of change on you as you work with the public and you deal with cash, I am not getting off, so go get change” I sat down on the bus and made him get off and leave. Everyone behind me had twenty pound notes and the airport shop wouldn’t change their cash.

The wee fuckwit moaned and moaned but had to provide change for us all….as that’s his fucking JOB.

The good news is…the sun shone so brightly in Bristol. It was awesome and I love that city. Despite the eerie fact that most of the city was built on slavery money you can’t help but admire the architecture and the wonderful city buildings.

I had to leave Bristol on Saturday night straight after my comedy gigs and get driven to London in the wee small hours. That all went fine, I arrived at the Groucho Club in Soho at 2am and checked into my bedroom. I was staying at The Groucho for two nights and was doing a corporate gig the next day; I then get news that the gig was cancelled, so I looked forward to having two days off in London.

The bad news was that NO-ONE in the world can sleep in Soho as the noise is fucking unbearable. At 4am a truck drove up and then glass was tipped in and the crashing noise made me almost have a stroke!

Then the homeless people and drunks decided to have a big fight about a kebab they had found right under my window. You have no idea how long the kebab debate went on for, then a dog attacked them (I like to think I induced that to happen) and I presume the dog got the kebab and the drunks started screaming and ran off. Then two men of indiscernible race bickered on the special argument spot that was right under my window. It may be a special place that people come to fight, they all know where the spot is and wait their turn to scream their debate, despite the ungodly hours.

They left and two cats started hissing and screeching at each other, I would like to think they stood in a queue and waited for the ‘Argument Spot’ to become free so they could hiss loudly. I lay there awake the whole night. At 9am it went quiet for about an hour then the street became busy again. I never slept a wink.

As if the day could not get any worse, I got up and went to visit a mate, I got off a bus at Wandsworth Bridge and a woman threw herself to her death from the high flats and died in front of me.

A huddle of wee kids came round on bikes and one shouted “That white boy Steve’s mum has just killed herself” The teenagers stared and then one flipped open her phone, music blared out and some of them danced.

None of them seemed too affected by what they saw.

Why? Was it a weekly occurrence?

Seeing someone die in front of you is really awful. It made everything in my life seem fucking stupid and insignificant. Was this woman depressed? Was she pushed? Did she finally have too much shit in her life that she very publicly killed decided to end it all?

All of these thoughts rattled through my head until I reached my mates door and just hugged her for ages. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her what happened. Then I felt stupid for being so affected by it, it wasn’t me who died, I am ok, why am I so fucked up?

Life goes on – kids dance to music, buses keep running, people get their dinner ready, traffic speeds past and some white boy called Steve will be without a mother.

Last weekend I was in Leeds doing my comedy thing, it was all cool and I stayed at the new KSpace Apartments which were lovely and awesome. I really love staying in apartments as opposed to hotels. Husband and I end up fighting when we are stuck in one room.

Then on Sunday I was MC at The Scottish Comedian of The Year award in Glasgow. I just been driven home from Leeds, managed to get a shower and some slap on and went straight down the Glasgow Fruit market where the show was being held. My feet were sore and I was quite tired and fucking hell it was going to be a long long night.

All the comics were lovely but the winner is Scott Agnew, he is a bright young comic who features in ‘Make Me a Lady’ which is a big hit on YOUTUBE filmed by my daughter Ashley and features me in it as well. Just copy paste ‘Make Me a lady’ into YOUTUBE search and check him out.

I am so sorry this is a late blog, but I was so bloody knackered and busy.

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

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

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

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

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

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