My nose looks like someone took a blow torch to it and the
back of my neck is looks basically like a burn that occurred when a chip pan
was thrown at me. I won’t ever sit near a burning ball of fire called the sun
The good news is I love LA and have met loads of awesome
people, even the couple who had a big screaming domestic fight on our street
(how dare they- we are posh) – but anyway this man and woman had a bust up.
How, I don’t really know as she owned a car and he was on a
silver scooter, not an electric one, the kind you push with your feet and
should give up doing when you hit puberty. She was a feisty big black lady and
he was a skinny dreadlocked black man, they screamed at each other.
At first I thought she had hit him accidentally with the car
but that’s wasn’t what happened- anyway they were on our street, him on his
scooter and her in the car. I had to stand on a brick fireplace and put my ear
to window and shoosh the kids to hear them, I wasn’t really interested but it
was a slow blog day.
There is only so much sunburn you can write about.
She got out of her car and shouted at him, he grabbed her
car keys and scooted off, she stomped about angrily and then the car sat on the
road with its emergency lights flashing, then they both came back, made up, he
put his scooter in the boot and the drove off with ‘All the Single ladies’
blasting out the stereo. I love Beyonce; she makes people love each other
So other than that I found a cracking sports bar near us and
ate a hotdog, drank a beer and sat with big burly redneck looking men and
screamed for The Dodgers. I pretended I was American and made wild gestures
when things happened at the baseball game on the big screen. I didn’t know what
was going on, but it’s easy to copy people when you are with them, you can
become them and think like them. That’s probably how Bush got elected so many
times; people just drank beer and copied each other.
It was great fun, I kinda want to grow a ponytail and own a
flat back truck and swear at baseball on a regular basis, it may help when my
menopause kicks in. You know how some women change when they go through their
change of life; you know how some women take to knitting jumpers with fluffy
tabby cats on the front and grow a small beard? Well I am going to start
drinking beer and wearing plaid shirts and punching walls when am full of beer!
Other than that I met up with Gina Yashere who is a
wonderful black female comic from London and we know each other from the UK
comedy circuit. She is doing awesome in LA she has a regular slot on Jay Leno
show and has had a Showtime comedy special, she is amazing. We had a cracking
vegetarian lunch, that’s about as LA that I get…eating vegetables.
So I am off to have big adventures this weekend before I go
home….watch this space.
My favourite thing in Los Angeles is to take a bus, for
those of you who saw my show last year you will know what I am talking about.
Me and the loonies get on just fine and dandy and the buses are chockfull of
On the 702 bus there was big fight between a wee man with a
walking stick and a driver who wouldn’t ask young Japanese students to get off
the disabled seats.
The lame man screamed at the driver “I hate communicating
with strangers, you tell the fucking gooks to get off the seats meant for
The Japanese students sat en masse passively, they didn’t
even blink when the disabled man screamed again at the driver “Tell those
impolite fuckers to give me a seat I fought in Vietnam and these fuckers remind
me of the gooks”
I sat there gobsmacked.
The driver tried to pacify him “Sir, you have to stop that
racist screaming, just ask the kids to move, it’s not my job to tell people to
give up their seats”
The disabled man with the stick fell onto the floor of the bus;
the Japanese students took pictures of him on their phones. That made him much
screamier than ever. Finally an older man who was with the load of Japanese
students came down and told them to move, but they wouldn’t move off the seats,
they clutched their Hello Kitty purses and big bags tightly refusing to budge.
I got up (of course I did) and helped up the shouty Vietnam
Vet (if he was that) I gave him his stick and got him to his feet. I grabbed
the tee shirt of one big student on the disabled seat and pulled him off, he
didn’t resist, and he glared at me and took a photo of my angry face close up.
I stood on his ultra white sneaker. At this point you may ask ‘how did you know
they were Japanese?’ which is suggesting am racist, but they had a big tourist
banner with them which said ‘Japanese Student Group’ and that cut out the
guessing for me.
The students then all moved as one big group and trundled up
to the back of the bus, their impoliteness annoyed me and most the girls were
wearing mini kilts…why? I don’t know is the answer.
The Vietnam man with one eye and a penchant for casual
racism shouted ‘Gooks’ at them. “Hey man stop that” I said to him. He looked at
me and screamed “lesbian Scottish bitch”…apparently all Scottish women were
lesbians and if I didn’t believe him he said “just look at Martha Stewart!”
I didn’t know she was Scottish or a lesbian but I know she’s
been in jail, so what the hell do I know?
Either way I made it to Venice Beach after a 2 hour
train/bus trip and then sat on the beach sweated off my factor 30 sun block and
managed to burn my face and the back of my neck. I look like a chip pan melted
I spent a whole night swathed in Aloe Vera and that stuff is
magical, then I swapped to Sudocreme and now look less toasted and more
I have the most awesome room with a private loo…things are
good. I went out for a walk on day two round the neighbourhood, here in Valley
Village and basically there are no pavements or since am in the USA ‘sidewalks’
you are either treading on someone’s manicured lawn or walking on the road. The
place is very white picket fence, I imagine there are wives in sticky out
skirts making cookies and planning their own suicide in the midday heat.
Apparently the ‘Valley’ is the porn making capital of Los Angeles…so who knows
what is going on.
I passed a beautiful house and outside they had a yard sale,
I have never seen one and decided to dive right in and pick through some nice
stuff and believe me the dresses were cute. Just then a young skinny woman in a
tight tee shirt and tiny denim skirt came rushing over shouting “What the hell
are you doing lady?”
“Er…I thought it was a yard sale?” I said slowly replacing a
white dress onto the coat rack.
“This is a film set and those are props, didn’t you see the
big van and the lighting crew?” She screeched.
“No, am sorry I didn’t” I sloped off.
So, I presume some white picket porn was taking place and as
usual I get in the way of some good sex.
The next day we headed down to Big Boy’s Diner which is a
traditional burger joint that has an event every Friday, where classic cars and
old fashioned vehicles line up to show off their ‘classic-ness’.
It was amazing, and there were rows and rows of proper old
Americana blokes, with fat stomachs, grey pony tails and yard chairs watching
people watching their cars.
It seems to be a whole community of folk who turn up to kick
wheels, check out old cars and show each other what’s under their bonnets. I
have never seen such clean engines, they are all impeccably smart.
One bloke watched me taking some photos and said “You like
“Yes, they are pretty amazing eh?” I replied.
“This has been going on since 1958 round here and you know
this is the place to pick up guys” he smiled. He was about sixty odd years old
with a dyed quiff and a small Chihuahua on a lead.
“Really, this is a hot pick up joint?” I smiled trying to be
“Yeah baby look” he said and with a flourish of his hand he
showed me a bunch of really old men in giant denim dungarees with bad hips
leaning on walking frames, propped beside cars that were vintage but not as old
“Yeah….but the buffet is hardly fresh is it” I laughed and
moved on taking more pictures.
Soon I am going to Venice Beach, my favourite place. It
takes almost 2 hours on public transport but I don’t mind as a taxi cab is
about $100 from the Valley and that’s just one way! You would think we were
miles away from the coast but we aren’t – its just the traffic is so heavy.
Los Angeles has a crap transport system- the problem is
there are no dedicated bus lanes to enable the buses through the city. The
Metro trains which are awesome and cheap only go downtown (basically half way
into the city) they trains don’t go down to the beach or anywhere near the
coast. Which means you need to get the bus and it drags slowly through the city
behind all the traffic and takes forever.
That’s my fault for not driving is all I can say but why
does the city encourage everyone to drive? They don’t make it easy NOT TO!
The other night I went out to see Paul Provenza do his
podcast at a small theatre, he is a cracking comic and has a book out called
Satiristas! You must check it out. The same night I bumped into my old mate
Rick Shapiro, I haven’t seen Rick in ages and he has good news about getting
some acting work, in fact its awesome news and I will leave it to him to
Either way I am enjoying my time and still have adventures
London was awesome and I am now home. I stayed in the
Groucho club which has rooms and they are awesome. It really isn’t as noisy as
it used to be since they redecorated, and the beds are just…dreamy!
Staying right in the heart of Soho has its plusses and
negatives, for one you are so central your name could just be called LONDON the
down side is the madness that you witness going for a midnight stroll.
When you live in Soho you have to accept the place and not
be too snooty about what you see with your own eyeballs.
For one, the homeless who beg on your doorstep will engage,
harass and bug you and blame you for being ON THEIR PATCH…and I fully accept
that. They were there before you. They need money and you clearly have it…so
come on fat lady pay up! I don’t give cash anymore to the people who beg, not
because I am some snooty up my own ass capitalist, but because there is a
credit crunch on and they don’t like pennies being foisted on them. They look
at your petty change the way Prince Phillip looks at Chinese people but without
the casual racism.
“Can you give me £4 to get into a hostel?” one man asked.
“No, sorry I can’t give you four pounds, would you like
fifteen pence?” I replied.
“You Scottish tight fisted fuckwit” he snapped at me, his
dog even sneered.
I was insulted, spat at and harangued by a fake poet who
claims to be the ‘Bard of Soho’ I have to give him cash for his really shit
poems, apparently he couldn’t make a rhyme out of my suggestion of ‘I am paying
ten grand for a fringe show why don’t you give me cash for my art’.
He kicked me on the back…yes…he lifted his heroin abscessed
leg and booted my back, leaving my white linen shit filthy. I accepted the mark
gracefully and wore the boot stain with pride. I felt accepted.
Now before you think am giving Soho a bad name, there is the
amazing side to it. The sheer buzz, the noise, the lights, the fabulous west
end shows, the gay men who promenade, the children who play footie in the
street, the ‘models’ who ply their wares with gusto and the total London vibe
with of all manners of life sitting cheek by jowl with the fancy restaurants,
private clubs and sex shops. I love it.
I love watching the black cabs trying to run down the
‘illegal unlicensed uninsured’ rickshaws that peddle their business in central
London. Taxi cabs HATE them and if you ever want to hear a taxi driver swear
talk about them….they go MENTAL…its fun.
The Groucho club itself is awesome, but you are not allowed
to talk about what happens inside it; finally I feel like I am a mason and have
a secretive code to abide by. You can’t take photos or mention famous people or
twitter about them or give information about what happens inside, to be honest
nothing bad happens, its not Sodom and Gomorra…its just famous people having
drinks with non famous people like me sitting about.
Suffice to say I met a musical hero and called him by the
wrong name, I am crap at being amongst very famous people. Two things happen, I
either think I know them personally because I have seen them on telly or I
don’t know them at all and get them mixed up with someone I went to school
with. I am no Perez Hilton. I am more ‘Magrit the over friendly cleaner’.
The worst thing is-when you pop out for a ciggie and chat to
some anonymous bloke and the paparazzi turn up and flash into his face,
blinding you and leave you wondering who the hell you just spoke to!
But all in all Soho is an amazing place and if I ever wanted
to live somewhere it would be right there, so I can understand why the homeless
like it so much. Like the late Robert Palmer once sang ‘It takes every kind of
I think am not a bad daughter, I try hard to make sure I get
to see my dad and talk to him most days. He has been widowed for over a year
now and he is a bit lost. Last week I popped into town, I had called dad but he
wasn’t in, he goes out most days. Just as I walked down Buchanan Street, I
spotted him on a street bench and he was talking to a wee old woman.
They were nodding and chatting, they looked like strangers
talking but still they were at ease with each other. As I approached him, my
heart thudded as I thought “My God, he is so lonely he is talking to a strange
wee lady, it’s my fault he has no one to speak to, I never visited him enough”
“Hi dad” I said and he got up laughing and said “this is my
beautiful daughter, what a surprise, I didn’t know you were in the country”
My dad is used me not always being in Scotland, despite me
telling him constantly my movements, he still gets surprised even when I land
on his doorstep.
The wee woman smiled and got up saying goodbye, she made
room for me to sit with him.
“You ok Da?” I asked him.
“Yes, I needed a wee rest, I was meeting up with my buddies
earlier and fancied a wee coffee and sit down, the weather is good eh?” he
“You are not terribly lonely are you?” I asked him nodding
towards the wee lady who trotted off down the street.
He looked at me and said “I did speak to people before you
were born, I know how to chat to folk, and no I am not that lonely I have taken
to harassing pensioners”
I laughed and he laughed and we sat there in the street
catching up with each other. I miss him and worry terrible that I am not with
him enough or doing enough. He has an adorable step daughter who visits him and
looks after his shopping needs. I am grateful to her beyond belief.
“Are you still a comedian?” he asked me, (he does this all
the time, it’s our private joke)
“Yes, I am and are you still an old man obsessed with
wheelie bins?” I replied.
“Aye I am” he sniggered.
Today I called him and we chatted again. I thought what it
would be like not to be able to see him in the street of be able to call him
up. I think about him all alone in his house or sitting in the dark missing my
step mum and I get so upset. I hope I am a good daughter, I hope he doesn’t
think I have no time for him in my busy life.
I was once told that the best thing you can give an elderly
relative is your time, they just want some of your time to spend it with you.
I am lucky I have a good dad and am going to see him
Meanwhile life is consumed by all things Edinburgh
Fringe…getting posters made, hiring a flyering team and making sure all is well
with my to-do list. I dream about the to-do list as husband makes me add and
amend it constantly. His Aspergers makes him wake up at 5am and say “Did you write
down that thing I told you to” and I stare at him in the dark and say “What
thing?” and then he starts switching on lights and fumbling with a pen. Yes, my
life is truly awesome.
Am off to London this weekend to work and to catch up with
pals, if you fancy a peek at my show listings for Edinburgh here are the links.
Me and my daughter Ashley have decided to podcast, we have
all the info and equipment and will soon be off to a flying start. We will do
Meanwhile things are getting ready for Edinburgh Fringe, I
will be organising stuff all this week, don’t ask me which stuff, but husband
made me write a to-do list and I am trying to stick to it.
I love organising the fringe, most people get other people
called promoters to do it and that’s cool, just not for me. I am a control
freak and like doing it myself. Then I know it’s done the way I want it done.
It’s not a nice side to my personality and I am sure it
irritates the hell out of my family, but that’s who I am.
There are many ‘not nice’ sides to my personality – many of
them I keep deeply hidden, like my need to pick stray hairs off the carpet in
an almost obsession like fashion, the other is my need to chew my hair spit wee
bits out. I am basically mental.
I am sure my husband wishes he went for the tall skinny girl
in the floral dress that fancied him in 1979; she wouldn’t get up in the middle
of the night to sleepwalk and drink the last of the milk, would she?
I suspect that skinny girl with the untangled hair and sleek
body is right now working a good steady job and is good at making scones,
everything my husband likes in a woman. But he got me, the hair collecting
woman with dreadlocks and tugs in her scalp with a penchant for growing ear
infections better than anyone else.
I wonder what happened to my first boyfriend- George. He is
probably either in jail or dead I suspect, we went out with each other for a
few months in 1977. He never went to school and graduated to petty theft and
drug dealing in the 80s, and he was a crap kisser. But I bet you he would have
let me keep a cat AND a rabbit. But I bet he would have had a dangerous dog and
made me breed…not the dogs…I mean ME, he would have battered 6 kids out of me
and not cared for any of them…so I suppose I gave up an animal lover for a
Maybe I need to stop looking back and go brush my hair and
the collect the stray ones off the carpet as they fall out of my head.
So, I got back from my mental train journeys and my trip
around the country. I realised it was time for doctors catch up, which means
when am away from home, I write down all my symptoms and then get a last minute
docs appointment and barrage her with my list, occasionally checking her face
for ‘cancer sympathy’ looks. I am always convinced I have a deathly illness
that they have overlooked. Despite this deep paranoia I rarely get things
checked, so at least my doctor was surprised to see me. I sat down and pulled
out my piece of paper as she rolled her eyes, but tried to keep a straight
Here is my list.
shot pulsating painful eyes – her answer ‘I need glasses’
itchy ears – her answer ‘I have pus filled infected ears and need antibiotics
and a spray for them’
poo (yes that’s right) her answer – ‘I have had food poisoning and need to do a
sick poo test’
So I had to get my poo on a small stick and take it to the
doctors. Yes, people you read my blog deal with the consequences!
To top it all, Glasgow had another mini heat wave so I was
full of strong antibiotics and knackered; I had to fly to London as I was doing
a slot at Comedy Store. I actually felt like someone who was filled with green
poo and pus….great news eh?
To take my mind off all of my problems, I went over to take
wee great nieces Abi and Julia out a walk in the park.
Abi is seven soon and wee Julia is four.
The park was full of lovely middle class mummies all
gathering at benches chatting and watching over climbing kids. Except for one
mother, who ignored her wee blonde child who I like to call ‘mental’ as this
wee chubby thing was smaller than Julia was pushing and pulling all the wee
ones off swings and watching for their reaction.
Julia is so dainty and careful getting up the slide, whilst
Abi is a proverbial monkey who clearly has 20 toes and will climb anything with
skill and dexterity.
Julia finally got to the top of the stairs and ambled over
to crouch onto the slide, just then Mental open palmed PUSHED her forcibly, I
caught Julia’s arm, she was shocked and horrified and slid down slowly with
giant blue eyes agape.
Mental came hurtling down behind her, kicking her back, I
looked around for Mental’s mum but there were so many folk. Mental then grabbed
our pink stroller and tried to throw it on its side, whilst watching my face
for a reaction.
I knew it wasn’t the child’s fault, so kneeled down and took
her wee chubby hands off the buggy and said “No, don’t do that” Julia was still
staring petrified of Mental the Toddler Pusher.
Just then a skinny woman with a tight sports track suit came
dashing over. “Don’t touch my child” she shouted.
Julia clutched my leg, Abi scrambled down a tree and belted
over to see what was going on.
I continued prising the wee girls hands gently off the pram
in case she pulled it on herself. I ignored Mental’s mum as the kid then pulled
all the jumpers out of the pram and threw them on the ground. Mental stared at
me for reaction, I ignored her and spun on my heels at the mum and said “I will
not touch your poor wee child, but you get a grip on her or I will touch you
and not in good way”
“Excuse me?” she yelled.
“Don’t make me repeat it, keep an eye on your wee girl, she
clearly needs attention and so do you” I snapped.
Abi said “you’re wee girl is Mental”
Julia repeated ‘Mental” and pointed at the wee girl who was
now emptying a hand bag belonging to someone else and scattering its contents
on the ground.
“I am sorry if I offended you, I didn’t know she had some
problems and I apologise if I hurt your feelings” I explained as the wee girl
was now trying to wrestle a dog to the ground as its owner tried to drag it
The mother said “She is just expressing herself; maybe you
could learn a lesson from that”
“Ok, you are MENTAL not her, how’s that for expression?” I
said and took the kids out of the park and headed to the shops for an ice
As we passed the side of the park there was a sign that said
CIRCUS coming to Queen’s Park. Abi is now a very good reader and shouted “Look
Aunty Janey a circus is coming”
Julia clapped her hands and screamed “yes!”
To which Abi stood stock still, pointed to the sign and said
“No, Julia, not a good thing, do you want to see baby tigers being made to jump
through hoops of fire and wee monkeys in frilly skirts being made to dance?”
Julia stood there with huge eyes and said “yes, I do Abi”
Julia didn’t know Abi was a 7 year old circus protester, Abi
didn’t know she had Julia hooked on ‘Tigers jumping through hoops of flame’ both
of them stared at each other, finally Abi gasped “I need to teach you about bad
Then Abi went on a rant about how clowns have ‘bad make up’
and are actually scary and frighten kids. I couldn’t stop laughing all the way
home as Julia kept asking to be told about dancing monkeys!
I do love being with the kids.
The show at Comedy Store was awesome, a huge bunch of nice
comics and me trying to be funny, hopefully the audience liked me and it
sounded like they did. But as Ashley always says, a crowd of people baying for
blood and screaming with laughter is much of the same noise; it’s up to the
performer to know the difference!
They did sound like they were laughing.
The heat in London mixed with the strong doses of
antibiotics was making me slightly nauseous, but I had a good time.
Hopefully the green poo and ear gung are going to be a
distant memory, but not for you reading this, no doubt it will stick in your
mind much like evil clowns do in Abi’s head.
This weekend am at Glasgow Stand doing my thing, hopefully
will see you there.
So, the shows at Covent Garden Jongleurs are good and odd at
the same time, nice room but comprised of a big bunch of people who were
surprised that comedy was on, despite the fact they came to a comedy show. Life
is like that sometimes.
I spent the weekend in London, and am a bit tired.
I feel as though I have been round the world on a bus and
not a good bus either. My usual apartments that I rent in London were busy so I
stayed at The Groucho club rooms, the bed was AWESOME…seriously good bed and
wonderful linen. You wouldn’t know you were in Soho, it was really quiet and
serene, and mind you I did have a back bedroom.
Sunday I headed home on the train from Kings Cross to
Glasgow, as British Airways were on strike again. I enjoy the train actually.
As it’s a Sunday- I decided to upgrade to first class as
it’s cheap on a weekends.
I got a cracking seat, and was surrounded by lovely old
people all getting settled in. You need to check your ticket to see if you can
get it upgraded, so I searched out the train ticket bloke and showed him my
“You only have the one ticket here, you need the
reservations part of the tickets” he smugly said and waited for me to find
“I have the part that says I should be on the Kings Cross to
Glasgow train today…look” I answered and pointed at my ticket.
The train line people give you at least 6 tickets for a
return journey and God know I must have lost one ticket, the ticket that gives
my seat number and train time on it.
“Go look for it and I will come back to you” he snapped and
I searched my bag and I knew I didn’t have it, I waited
patiently for him to come back, but I couldn’t relax as I didn’t know what was
Meanwhile there was a really old lady with her husband
sitting at one of the table seats near me. She got up to go to the loo and the
train was trundling hard, so I offered to help her get to the toilet.
She was pretty infirm, and it was easy to help support her
and walk her slowly and surely, she was shaky on her feet and her husband was
happy to let me help. The lady was very posh, and at first she was pretty quiet
yet politely thanking me.
After the third loo visit, I had her laughing by saying that
we would soon be doing a double act dance show by the time we got to Scotland.
She said “My mother’s housekeeper was a dancer before she
went into service” Then she held her arms out for me to guide her back, I
realised she was used to working class women helping her about, not that she
was off with me, but just her attitude that she wasn’t surprised that I would
tend to her. Her very tall posh husband stood up to the side to let me get her
out and into the seat, not thanking or giving me a smile. That sounds like I
was expecting some kind of hero worship, but I wasn’t – but it just felt as
though it was somehow expected of me in a weird way.
I sat down and then the lady’s husband, who was dressed in
beige linen suit with a pale blue shirt and a fedora hat, leaned over to me and
said “Could you please go see what’s keeping the lunch trolley”
At that moment, a wee Scottish couple in their 70s who were
at the table beside me looked in my direction, the wee man had a big Korean War
tattoo on his arm that he chatted to me about earlier, he rolled his eyes and
gave me a mock salute, as if to say “Aye Aye sir” and I sniggered but got up
and duly did my working class duty.
The trolley for first class was being slow and the fedora
hat man gave me the list of complaints about the service, I finally stopped him
and said “I know but I don’t work here and I don’t even have an upgraded ticket
to be in first class”. He smiled and carried on moaning about the state of
first class service. I went off, found the lunch trolley, came back and gave
him an update on its movements.
Finally the ticket man came back, he stared at my tickets
again, gave a huge exasperated sigh, shifted about on his feet and said “You
don’t have the right ticket; you need the OTHER ticket that states which train
you are meant to be on”
I quietly held it together and said “Well technically I do
have A ticket but part of it is missing but I do have a ticket which states I
paid to be on the Kings Cross to Glasgow train today, I am just missing the
reservations part, but on my IPhone I have the confirmation email that
corresponds with that reference number on the ticket sir”
He rolled his eyes, let out a big huffy breath and said “I
don’t take emails or phone texts as a ticket, now you need to buy a new ticket
now or you will have to get off this train” He leaned back on his heels and
stared down at me, fingering his ticket machine.
The old people around me all stared and waited to see what I
I didn’t lose my temper; I quietly said “I am not buying a
“Don’t you have money or credit cards on you” he sniggered.
“Yes, I have credit cards coming out of my wazoo and wads of
cash in my bag but I’m still not buying a ticket, especially when you can clearly
see I have a ticket for this journey and I have confirmation on my IPhone to
prove I should be on this train, now what we are going to do is you are going
to get the police to remove me from this train and when they get on and wonder
why you called them out on a Bank Holiday Sunday, I will show them my PART
ticket and my confirmed email, you will have to explain to them why you went to
such lengths to screw me for cash, now lets do that. Go and call the cops and I
will wait patiently for that to happen, as you have been so lovely to me, I
would rather they removed me, I don’t want us falling out”
He immediately shouted “I am not falling out with anyone” he
lost his cool and got annoyed at himself.
“Please don’t shout sir, you are scaring the elderly people
sitting in here” I spoke firmly but quietly.
“I am not shouting, I am trying to make myself clear” he
flustered his words. I got him now, he was panicking and wondering why he
shouted and now needed to face getting the cops and standing his ground, he
knew my explanation would allow me to stay on the train and he would look like
“I am just telling you the rules, I don’t make them” He
“I know that sir, I accept you have rules, I am just saying
that if the police come on they can debate the rules and over rule you then you
wont be held responsible for me being on this train with a part of the ticket
missing” I smiled “I don’t want you getting into trouble with the rules do I?”
I added. The wee old man with the tattoo thumbed up to me behind the ticket
man’s back and mock saluted me.
I spoke slowly, quietly and clearly throughout the debate. Ticket
man stared at me. He fiddled with his ticket machine and tapped on it with his
pen. He then breathed out.
He said “Ok, I will let you off this time, but in future you
need to look after your tickets, when you get your tickets from the machine,
you should keep them safe…”
I put my hand up and forcibly spoke “Stop right there, I
will graciously accept your kindness for letting on stay on but I am NOT going
to stand here and get a big telling off and a lecture about losing tickets, I made
ONE mistake, I lost ONE ticket in fifteen years of travel and that is not bad
going, but we are done here”
He turned on his heel and left me in my first class seat,
which incidentally I didn’t have to pay the upgrade for either, he just left me