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Mon, Feb 18th - 2:56PM

First Class Godley

I love the train, it gets busy at half term time, like it did when I came home from London recently. I got my ticket ready, this time it was easy to find.

The new system is you get to print out your own ticket which is an A4 sheet with a scan code on it, much better than 58 wee orange tickets we normally get, so am happy about this. Anyway, I got into the first class carriage and sat at a four to a table seat and promptly stuck my case underneath, as I have short legs and it means I can raise my legs up and nap. If the train is busy and people need to sit with me, I move it. Am not a twat.So, a big posh man, with elbow patches and mustard cords (what the fuck is that about?) kicked my case and asked me to move it so he could join me.

"listen there are heap of seats in the next carriage, it's all unreserved, if you don't mind, we won't have to share" I explained and pointed to the next first class carriage which was indeed empty. I didn't want to sit beside someone in a near empty carriage, there were plenty seats around me and next door.

"This is actually first class, are you meant to be here" he sneered and kicked my case again. Yes, he actually asked me that. 

I looked at him, smiled and said "No, I have skipped in, please don't tell anyone, but I get free food and wifi and I take all the sandwiches home"  

He looked horrified, pressed the door button and walked into the next carriage. 

Seconds later, before the train had even moved, the ticket guy train manager came through shouting "Tickets and passes please?" looking at me with mustard cords behind him, pointing and twitching and waiting to see me get ejected. Who does that? 

"Do I really need to get my ticket out?" I pleaded...I could see mustard cords stand still behind the ticket guy staring at me, still smirking. So I pulled out my first class A4 self printed ticket and presented this to the guard, who smiled thanked me and moved on.  

Of course I had a first class ticket! Mustard cords was raging angry he sputtered "You said you didn't have a first class ticket, you are a filthy liar" he hissed at me, his face was red and angry and I could see a purple vein pulse on his temple.  

At that the train manager stopped.... and watched our exchange. 

"I can say anything the fuck I want to you, you are a member of the public and have no right to ask me questions, so shut it Cunty Mc Wunty! I have to be honest with him (I pointed to the train manager), you are an insulting dick, I can say whatever I want to you now move on mustard cords, you are ruining my first class experience" I plugged in my IPod and let Bob Seger take me away to his Hollywood Nights. 

Mustard cords stood his ground, staring at me, hands on plump hips, the ticket man had moved off and I mouthed to mustard cords "I photocopied this ticket" and giggled.  

He was about to explode when the catering guy appeared , I unplugged my ears, he poured me a coffee and said "Hiya Janey, how you- fancy a bacon sandwich?" I know most of the catering crew on trains by the sheer amount of travel that I do, I smiled and said "yes".  

Mustard cords tried to beat a hasty retreat, this is difficult with doors that you need to press and wait to open, he could hear me laughing as the door whooshed closed behind him.  

That awful repugnant wee prick of a man got off at Preston and as the train pulled away I smiled and waved. He sneered and spat at the window...coz he thinks he is upper class and that's how that works sometimes.  

Not all anti social behaviour is from working class commoners with track suits tucked into their socks, swigging beer and being obnoxious in public, sometimes it comes from people who regardless of their assumed standing in public....and they can be utter bastards. 

So thanks for reading, if you want follow me on twitter @JaneyGodley for updates.

 


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Tue, Feb 12th - 5:13PM

Taxing Times

“A make-up brush costs £30? Is it made of gold?” my husband shouted and threw up both his hands when he was observing me logging my tax return.

 

 

 

He rolls his eyes and makes that huffing noise and shakes his head at me. I have boxes of receipts, so you can imagine how many theatrical displays he has been through. 
His physical theatre and dance routine has to be seen to be believed. The Ballet Rambert would take note of his expressive routines.

 

 

 

The man practically does a Gangnam style exasperated jig every twenty seconds.

 

 

 

“£40 for a bra? Is it made of gold?” Yes he mentioned gold again.

 

 

 

“Salon haircut £80?” he screeched. “Did they cut your hair with gold scissors?”

 

 

 

I thought to myself: If he makes one more gold reference I may have to strap a canoe onto my back and fake my own death.

 

 

 

Husband does not understand the costs of make up and female maintenance. This is the man who audibly squealed like a girl at the cost of a supermarket’s own-brand moisturiser:

 

 

 

“How can they charge £7 for a wee bottle that size? What is in it? GOLD?”

 

 

 

Other female shoppers looked at me with pitying glances, probably thankful their own annoying husbands didn’t bother to come with them to buy face cream.

 

 

 

“Look - That pot is only £1 and it’s twice the size!”

 

 

 

He grabbed a tub of Vaseline and tried to tempt me with its moisturising properties. A frantic man shoving Vaseline into your face in a supermarket aisle does tend to draw a crowd.

 

 

 

I looked warily at the tub and suggested where he could shove it and I pointed out to him that it would go up there surprisingly easy. The crowd smiled and followed us slowly, surely there would be more purchase hilarity to follow?

 

 

 

He is such a tight-fisted scrooge when it comes to shopping.

 

 

 

He buys giant packs of cheap razors that leave my legs with more cuts and rashes than a bramble picker who has just survived an air crash that nose-dived into a nettle field.

 

 

 

His cheap, family sized bottles of gloopy green shampoo have literally blinded me in the shower, overwhelmed me with their apple scent and can make my hair look as if it’s been back-combed badly by an angry nun.

 

 

 

Oh – and, by the way - according to husband, I don’t need conditioner. This is a man who considers 'conditioner' a luxury item.

 

 

 

Has he seen my curly, tufty hair?

 

 

 

Without a decent conditioner, it takes three hours to brush after the astringent shampoo has left my locks so squeaky clean. It’s like trying to brush out a wet Shetland pony with a nit comb.

 

 

 

Hair maintenance isn’t the biggest issue with his cheap buying tactics.

 

 

 

When rifling through my receipts, he was astounded that I had managed to buy three jumpers in one shopping trip. Why would I need three new tops? He was agog at my outlandish, extravagant lifestyle.

 

 

 

“I have had the same jumper since 1987,” he proudly announced. “It’s still a good top and I wear it all the time.”

 

 

 

“Yes, I know,” I sniggered. “That’s why the local kids call you Catweazle.”

 

 

 

He will only buy one pair of jeans, wear them, wash them constantly and throw them away when they fall apart. Then he buys a new pair for £7 in one of those giant cheap discount stores in Sauchiehall Street.

 

 

 

To him, men who wear designer clothes are either incredibly vain or mentally challenged. No single item of his clothing costs more than £10 maximum and he will shop around until he gets the price he wants.

 

 

 

That’s being clever in his head.

 

 

 

Husband isn’t one of those men who wears ‘Moisturiser for Men’ or other male grooming products.

 

 

 

 

 

I am not sure I would like the idea of my man going for a facial or having a skin regime. Somehow that makes me feel queasy.

 

 

 

God forbid he took to stroking some clear mascara on his eyelashes for a special night out! His spending habits are near to minimal… unless you count his Pound Shop habit.

 

 

 

He adores the stores that do ‘Everything for a Pound’. He is stockpiling cheap cups, doormats and giant sets of screwdrivers.

 

 

 

At least this leaves surplus cash for me to buy all my mascara, clothes, shoes, hair brushes …all made of gold obviously.

 

 

 

So thanks for reading, if you want follow me on twitter @JaneyGodley for updates.

 

 

 


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Fri, Feb 8th - 2:38AM

Travels & Trivia

Kuala Lumpur is where I went for one nights work. That's normal for a comedian, what's not normal is trying to explain that you are a female comic to Muslim women from Saudi Arabia on the flight over to Malaysia.

 

 

 

I still get a slight shock at seeing women with black gloves, socks and every inch of flesh covered in black material. I find it fascinating and try not to stare and behave like an ignorant oaf, but part of my brain has so many questions...questions that I can't ask for fear of being racist at best and disrespectful at worst. People remind me that the Koran does not require women to be covered and that it’s cultural and oppressive and other people explain that it's a woman's choice and she likes to show respect by covering her flesh outside the house. Either way I find it interesting but can't speak about it without sounding creepy and offensive.

 

 

 

I was talking to these women on the flight and they asked me (through translation of the husband of one of them) what I did for a living and why I was going to Kuala Lumpur. When I said "stand up comedian" the man stared at me, shook his head....had a think and then spoke in Arabic to the women.

 

 

 

I think he must have said "this woman is half mermaid and has fins for arms" as the women all had shocked eyes and stared at me for ages. Then I stupidly mimed having a microphone at my mouth and wiggling my head about, miming stand up....which must have just resembled a mermaid giving head and they all looked away. They were disgusted/confused at me. I had hoped that man explained it properly, but he didn't understand why a woman would do comedy so how could I expect him to communicate it correctly. Then one of the women who I discovered could speak English said "you speak on stage and get paid for it?" I nodded and she smiled and then she explained it to the other women, who weirdly looked more horrified and sad.

 

 

 

So after scaring the Muslim women with my mermaid porn career, I finally got off the plane and landed in KL, which by the way is so hot it feels like being followed about by a blow torch.

 

 

 

I left a snowy cold Scotland and landed in a damp humid busy city. I have to say the food in KL is amazing, I love, love, love Asian food and couldn't wait to get a big bowl of noodles and some fish down my Glasgow throat.

 

 

 

I was doing a gig for the Selangor St Andrew's Society Burns Night and the people there are so welcoming. They made me feel so at home and looked after me. The society members had an awesome Toast and Reply to the Lassie's and their Pipe Band brought a tear to my eye and am not even patriotic.

 

 

 

It must be a weird life living as an Ex Pat, staying in a country and having to be part of a community of your own people or part of a society you don't totally belong to....but they seemed to have found the balance. I couldn't do it, I think it takes a certain person to adhere to certain social rules, whether it be in amongst the ex-pat community or in amongst the people of that country...either way it feels like a limbo life. I know what a limbo life is, as am always somewhere in the world looking in and yet never being a part of.

 

 

 

That's what comedians do, we turn up, we go onstage, we walk through your streets, get to know your railways and airports very well and leave without feeling we belonged there in the first place.

 

 

 

I am a permanent Ex Pat...everywhere I go.

 

 

 

But to a few Saudi women, I am also a mermaid who does porn.

 

 

 

 

 

So thanks for reading, if you want follow me on twitter @JaneyGodley for updates.

 

 

 

 

 

 


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