I was in Aberdeen last week doing a show at the Lemon Tree, a storm lashed the Granite City, and sideways rain like a giant fire hose was drenching each street at a specific annoying angle. The new shopping centre was lovely but unfinished and the cash machines gobbled up cards and refused to spit them out, like a greedy plastic swallowing hooker.

The hotel had a wee single bed which slid along the floor when you sat on it and to top it all the fire alarm screamed us all awake and made us all stand in the sideways rain in our pyjamas, I wanted to burn to death instead.

Touring is so sexy.

I was tired when I hit Aberdeen station to get the train home. There was a big fat steely haired woman in a rail workers jacket at the ticket gate. “What ticket do I put through the machine to get onto the platform? There are nine tickets printed for this journey, I don’t know which one to slide through the machine!”

She sneered and shouted “the one that says journey ticket, why don’t you check?”

The tickets have tiny writing and there are so many of them it really is hard to figure out which one is the valid ticket.

“Listen up fatty, NINE tickets here now tell me which one? They all look alike. What is your job? Staring at pigeons?” I shouted at her.

Just then two really old people came behind me with a deck of tickets (why is there so many wee orange tickets printed out for A JOURNEY?)

“What ticket do we use to get through there are so many?” the wee old stooped man asked fatty fuckwit.

“What do you think? The one that says journey…” she started to yell.

“Ok, you annoying pedantic fat pain in the butt, I will stand here and I will show people which ticket as the TRAIN is LATE I will do your job and help elderly people with the tickets” I screamed. Pigeons flew away in fear.




So I stood there at the gate and pointed out to people who were staring at a fist full of tickets and who asked fatty sarcastic arse for help.
Every time she attempted to use her nasty sneering attitude, I butted in and helped the people. It wasn’t altruistic I was just annoyed at her and bored to be honest.

She then told me to stand back from the gates and I refused.

She got the station master bloke who came over, listened to her moan about me standing at the gate and then came over and told me to move.

I explained that she was ignoring people’s pleas for help and explained the whole situation and the elderly man and wife came over to back me up. Fatty was told off and made to go back to the hut where I hope the chained her to a radiator and let her piss her own fat legs. What a cow.

They put a young Polish bloke on the gate and he politely explained to people who were struggling to figure out which ticket to slide through the machine. Screw you Aberdeen station ticket woman.

The journey home was pleasant except I had a screaming kid on the seat opposite. I didn’t get angry I merely got off my seat and went into first class where the ticket checker let me sit the whole journey for no extra charge, see some people on trains are nice.

I went up to Easterhouse to do my one woman comedy show on Saturday and it was awesome. Lovely to see so many people turn up for comedy and the show went well; Ashley sold 25 of my books for me, what a lovely child!

This week I am off to London, I have some gigs, some meetings and another big audition. Scary stuff but contrary to the rumours, I am not going into the jungle…don’t believe everything you read on the internet.

Dear Janey, you are probably sitting listening to a Donny Osmond LP on your big record player and dreaming of becoming a Mormon, flying off to Utah and marrying the toothy singer…it won’t happen, stop crying and dreaming of Salt lake City and swoony Osmond kisses, he marries his teenage sweetheart and she has all her teeth, you have nine missing.

Oh, by the way, buy a toothbrush, I know you have hardly any cash but seriously that stuff they say about decay is right, a toothbrush is important. By the time you are 40 years old you will have paid £2,000 in veneers and bridge work at a private dentist.

Yes, you will have private health care; I know it’s hard to believe right now.

So, get the record player turned off and start staring at school books. Try harder to understand maths and don’t give up on art or English, you will be good at both in future, just try to understand me when I say you will write, paint and you really need to understand percentages when you get older.

I know it’s the 70s but please don’t wear a plaid shirt tied at the waist with your curly fringe hanging over your eyes, and if you do have to look like that please don’t get a Polaroid photo taken in Mr Woods garden, I have seen the picture and it made my eyes water. It is even on the internet, something I can’t quite explain right now, but will be really big in the future.

The 1980s are just around the corner and hair perms get really fashionable. Please DO NOT get a perm, you have really curly hair and it will result in you being housebound for three days, and a hair-do that makes Gladys Knight and the Pips jealous, no white girl should have hair bigger than Diana Ross.

If you are still not convinced of this advice, go to the local library and look up a boxing promoter called Don King and never ever forget that that’s what you will look like if you get a cheap perm in a Parkhead hair salon called ‘Hair Flair’ in 1981.

Also just to save you a lot of time, money and energy, you CANNOT skateboard, play the violin, do yoga, cook soufflé, wear strapless bras, pink eye shadow and you will never enjoy ballet performances.

Oh, by the way, that dream you had about a TV being made into a wrist watch? That actually gets invented. You were a visionary!

So Janey, don’t go into school tomorrow and declare that you are leaving, I know you have a shoe issue, but take up your mums offer to wear her slip on sandals and get through the week. Having no shoes is not good enough excuse to screw up your life.

Your dad will buy you shoes next week. Go there in your bare feet if needs be as you really need to go get an education, get into university and leave with a degree, if you do that, me getting into jobs later in life will be a hell of a lot easier, people are snobs and TV companies prefer folk with a Uni degree, even if they are shit at the job, it helps on paper.

Just on another note, your breasts will grow, I know they look like two moles poking their noses through pizza dough, but they really get big, seriously big and it is amazing how much they get big, have I emphasised that enough? Big boobs Janey will be a nickname.

Don’t throw a medicine ball at a guy called Craig Armstrong on your hockey pitches, he is a wee bit older, geeky and likes music. He really becomes the most famous person from your school and is an amazing composer. You will love his stuff and download it (don’t ask what that means suffice to say you will never use vinyl records forever, but do keep them safe anyway). Just avoid hurting him, especially his fingers, they are his life and don’t call him a tweedy fuckwit, its makes him never want to speak to you again. He has a really long memory.

Tonight when you watch Sale of the Century on the telly, don’t let your mum slag off Nicholas Parsons, when you get older he will become a nice friend and you will feel bad about your mum shouting at the TV and calling him an ‘English

Yes, Christmas has a particular scent, its cinnamon and spices and supermarkets pump it out discreetly in case we forget what the spending season smells like.

I hate being manipulated like that don’t you?

Christmas or winter to me smells like wood burning and the frosty bright mornings remind me of the seasons changing, I don’t know anyone who boils cinnamon, makes spiced oranges or who mull wine not from present day nor my past, because I wasn’t alive in Victorian times when Christmas came into its own.

It seems we modern folk can’t have our own Christmas identity; we have to hark back to the olden days to get one. Cards and TV adverts show small Victorian dressed children with rosy cheeks and furry muffs staring through bevelled shop windows as their ankle boots are deep in crisp snow. Is there anyone alive who can recall that? NO!

To me childhood Christmas memories are of musty socks hanging over our old coal fire in the front room and my brothers fighting each other with tangerines in socks as weapons. So keep your cinnamon scented wafts, it means nothing to me Mr Supermarket psychological manipulator!

We will be having a quiet Christmas as always, just me husband and Ashley. I might go see my dad on Christmas day as this will be his first as a widower and I would hate that he was lonely. We don’t do family at Christmas, to be honest I don’t really have much contact with my family and the less said about husband’s family the better!

My own brothers and sister are just busy with their own lives, they have kids and husbands/partners of their own and I rarely see them, which is fine with us all. But when I hear of people who all get together and have dinners etc, it makes me hanker for a big family of love. Which is probably nonsense as I am sure that those big families all fight like hell, and are just being nice to each other, at least my brothers and sister don’t fight amongst themselves ( as we don’t get together!).



Went to the docs today and explained about my colon pain and stuff you really don’t need to know which involves my bowels. He told me I would be referred to a specialist called Dr Dover to which I replied “is his first name Ben?” To which my doctor said “No, Why?”

“It was a joke…Ben Dover...the bum doctor…its funny when you say it all together” I quipped.

“Ah, you are a comedian, I forgot” said my doctor with a sardonic look.

So, maybe I am not a comedian after all, Dr Shaw has exposed my lack of humour right there in the surgery at 10am

So life at Godley’s World is ticking along fine, been busy -had an ear infection, went deaf had loads of work and writing hard and this Saturday I am doing my one woman show at Easterhouse Platform The Bridge at 8pm. Do come along if you want, it will be fun!