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

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

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

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

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

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

http://www.steppingstonesnigeria.org/

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

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

Ashley and I went out for a meeting in Glasgow with a TV person, not much I can write about here as nothing is ever set in stone until the ‘cheque hits the mat’ (as they say in my family), but exciting none the less.

We had a great lunch at The Rogano, which is one of Glasgow’s oldest and most famous restaurants. It has original Art Deco fittings and Ashley has been eating there since she was two years old. It was where she tasted her first real champagne and where she gulped her first oyster (not aged two of course). The food is great and they do amazing seafood as a speciality.

My dad and mum are currently staying at our lodge up in Balmoral; it is just beautiful at this time of year. I know Princess Diana famously hated Balmoral and the surrounding area, but I adore the place. Our place has an onsite swimming pool, the lodge includes a sauna, Jacuzzi etc…but I can never get the week off at this time of year to go visit. My dad meanwhile has all the time in the world to go there and he and mum love the place. He called me to describe the beautiful leaves, the glowing sky, and the sharp bright sunlight and made me all jealous. Though I am happy he gets to see it all.

I am busy here at home; husband and I are trying to get all the paperwork sorted for the next tax year and accounts. It bores me to death and makes me want to drink bleach and needles just to get away from it all.

Life is nice today; it could all go wrong tomorrow though!

Hannah is aged 13 and had decided she wanted to die with dignity and fought for her right to do so, tooth and nail.

Hereford County Hospital child protection team contacted authorities and threatened to remove Hannah from her parents care if they failed to bring her to the hospital for the live saving operation.

Her parents were swamped by the might of the social services and hospital protection team, but the parents stood by their daughter’s decision and the case has been dropped. Hannah is now at home and preparing to die in her own time.

Meanwhile in the rather down market poor area of Haringey London, the social services, the child protection team and a paediatrician failed to recognise the systematic abuse of a 17 month old boy who was found dead in a blood splattered cot last year.

The wee boy named Baby P attended the hospital where a prominent paediatrician failed to notice his broken back and several broken ribs; he was allowed home to die at the hands of his mother and her abusive boyfriend. The doctor said the baby was ‘miserable and cranky’ two days before he died. I suspect his broken spine, ripped ear and numerous injuries might have made him rather upset.

Baby P had been the subject of many social services enquiries and was on the child protection register, and despite that, the social work team were at pains to keep the family together.

Haringey social services seem to have learnt no lessons from the Victoria Climbie case in 2000 when Victoria managed to slip through the social care net and died at the hands of her carers.

The court case surrounding Baby P has led Lord Laming to start an investigation into the issues surrounding his horrific death.

He said “It would be awful wherever it happened, but it seems particularly sad that is has happened in the same area where Victoria Climbie experienced this same awful cruelty and a terrible death and involved the very same services”

Social services do a sterling job when they get it right. Yet there are too many social protection workers who are determined to ‘keep families together’ and in the process manage to let real evil bastards slip through the net. Adults who are determined to torture kids will manage to dupe the authorities into believing everything is fine with their kid. Like the mother of Baby P, she smeared chocolate over his bruised face, yet the care worker couldn’t tell the difference between the dirt and the cuts. That’s appalling and worrisome.

I am sure Baby P would have said different if only he could have had a voice, he wasn’t allowed to speak, he couldn’t speak, he was battered and cowed like a small tortured animal.

The social services in Haringey need to account for what went wrong, yet again another ‘investigation’ will occur to please the government and the do-gooders will bleat their excuses. Someone somewhere let that wee boy down and that needs to be addressed.

Things won’t change unless you go live in Hereford, where it seems the social services are determined to get involved in the care and protection of your child.

The red haired girl sat stroking the blonde girl’s hair and a big daft young bloke was plaiting the red girl’s hair. They were the tableaux of annoyance.

Ashley and I were the only people sitting down, so it wasn’t as if they had much to do, but a fucking menu would have been welcome. We were too tired to fuck off elsewhere. So I eventually shouted “Hello” and then acted nice as those bastards can pee in your food.

The food arrived and it was not too bad, but the staff need bludgeoned to death with a blunt spoon.

Today started with a call from the man who is supposed to fix my laptop and he was late, the insurance I took out on my laptop gives me home visits if it is fucked and my keyboard was worn out and the click button on the internal mouse was broke.

He eventually arrived as I was leaving. Husband was now in charge of the geek and I left the geek instructions. “Do not do anything that wipes out my memory, just fix the keys please?”

“I can’t guarantee that” he said smiling.

“No, you will guarantee that” I said not smiling.

“I can’t guarantee that your memory will be fine, but I will try. By the way I have parked my car in your private car park out the back will it be ok?” he added.

“Yes, it will be ok, but I can’t guarantee that, now fix my laptop with minimum damage to its well being” I said as I slammed the door leaving.

Husband gave me a hushed whispery telling off in the hallway. “Don’t be nasty to the bloke”

“Fuck off…and if he screws my laptop, you better go set fire to his car” I hissed back.

The rest of the day went fine. Had some meetings that went relatively well and hopefully will be fruitful as the year wears on.

Spent the night clearing out the hall cupboard which smells funny and none of us can figure out what the damn smell is. So every article was emptied out and washed down, but we still can’t figure out where the strange smell is coming from.

In the midst of the clear out Ashley found our old vinyl LP collection and demanded she get them. I told her “No” and she sulked. I have no idea why she wants them….probably because she thinks everything is really hers and can’t quite grasp why she can’t get everything she sees. I may bite her when she is sleeping and see how she likes that.

Had a rant about crap TV to my husband who sat there nodding. I mean seriously how can that much shite get commissioned? I can’t be the only person who screams at the telly. The thing is… everything I hate seems to be everything people on a UK comedy website forums LOVE… I know this because I googled the name of the show and screeds of adoration came up. I must be one of those people who hate things that everyone else just raves about! You know that feeling when you stare at a painting and everyone sees something that you just can’t? I see a big square red and brown box that a toddler with a squint may have painted with a potato stamper and other people see genius works of art and pay millions for it.

It’s all fucked. I hate that type of comedy TV sketch shit where a bunch of students have got together and created something that doesn’t have a punchline but has a ‘deeper meaning’ and annoying emotional-haired boys squeal with hysterics at it.

WHY? I don’t know….I am probably too old and dim to get it.

I also watched the Sarah Silverman sketch where she swims about like a mermaid then pees a bed and gets her friend and a policeman to come quick to her house because ‘There has been an accident” is the unbelievably bad punchline and I pulled a nose hair out to relieve my inner pain. Was that FUNNY…honestly? Really? People laugh at that?

It’s me that’s got it all wrong, I can feel people writing back as I type this telling me I am shit and a crap comic. They are probably right; I have no sense of humour.

Looking back I wish I had the wherewithal to scrape together a few hundred quid and had flown out to New York to hang out with musicians and artists. Imagine how different things would have been!

I could have palled it with Debbie Harry, witnessed the beginning of Rap music in the Bronx and maybe even became a famous artist for fifteen minutes. Instead I stayed in Glasgow and managed to buy shoes before the summer was out.

Life never works out the way you want it.

I really wanted to wear black eyeliner, ripped tee shirts and be a groupie for rock bands. Though I suppose breasts would have helped that issue, unless Gary Glitter was looking for young people to join his gang, then I would have been in with a big shout.

Being nearly 50 has made me realise all the ambitions and yearns have passed me by.

Debbie Harry now looks haggard and that’s probably how I look as well, but haven’t the guts to admit it to myself yet.

But she got to shake her booty in Studio 54 in New York, she watched Bianca Jagger turn up at the famous club on a white horse….a fucking horse….how rock and roll is that?

In 1977 I turned up at the community disco in a nylon top with cardboard in my shoes to stop the holes leaking rainwater into them.

Mind you I saw Bianca Jagger at an anti-war rally not long ago and she did look a bit old and tired….but she did get to live the life of a glam star, so she has earned the right to wear autumnal layers and ethnic beads, I don’t. I never got to be a rock chick or live the high life, it all sucks.

I wish I had headed off to California and got to visit the Troubadour club and listen to The Eagles, Jackson Browne and James Taylor sing live…way before they all became organic drug counsellors, fat and bald. I wanted to jump into Jacuzzis with them when they wore denim shirts and skinny jeans; I wanted them to dedicate a song to me, why didn’t I get to have mindless sex and a heroin habit with the groovy Americans?

I was too busy trying to avoid scurvy and head lice when ‘Hotel California’ was being immortalised to vinyl.

I am off to apply full strength expensive wrinkle cream and try on a dress that will never fit me again.

Youth is wasted on the young.

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?