Janey Godley's Blog

I HAD cause to be in the Western Infirmary's accident and emergency unit in Glasgow recently. A huge fat teenager in his best sports wear (maybe he was in training for the forthcoming Commonwealth Games, in the running-with-a-knife event?) came in behind me. He obviously wasn't getting the immediate attention he deserved, what with his swagger (maybe he had a dislocated hip?) anyway....I disliked him because he sneered at me.

His fist clenched he banged on the counter and demanded that someone look at him. The woman on the reception was busy writing something down and carried on with her work.

He let rip a foul tirade of abuse at the wee woman.  I would like to call her sassy Susan, she was wearing a tall bee hive blonde hair do and that amazing bright pink lip liner that you just know she can do with one hand and no mirror.

She merely bent down and pressed a button under the counter, then she smiled at him and slammed the glass window shut.

Three seconds later, five policemen came out and hustled him to the door.

"My da' is fucking  dying!" he yelled. The cops ignored him "I will you tube tis you bastards"

The cops laughed and said "hey YOU tube....move it".

 I love that in Glasgow we use the word TUBE as an insult....

Just then, the double doors to the exit banged open and there stood an old man with a cigarette hanging from his mouth. He had bare, mottled legs and was wearing a dirty old towelling robe and jangling enough gold bracelets to justify being Glasgow's oldest white rapper.

 "Son," he spoke quietly, "give yer da' a light for his fag and stop annoying the polis."

Might not be pretty representation of Glasgow- but these are my people and this is my Scotland.

There is the other side as well, head to the West End and the nice mung bean cous-cous side of town and meet the folk who like to knit yoga mats....but people despite appearances can all be pains in the ass. Yet am proud of Scotland, you know why?

That irritating closet racist and homophobe and UKIP leader Nigel Farage (weird name for a man who hates all things European) came to Edinburgh recently to rally some troops for his 'party' and was promptly run out of town. Yes an angry mob gave him short shift, they may have been loud, raucous and sweary....but they did it.

The UKIP can maintain their 'we aren't racist' stance but it doesn't wash in Scotland - we have a saying "don't piss on my back and tell me it's raining" and that Mr Farage is what we hate about liars....the fact you assume we don't know you.

So life goes on, am looking forward to June firstly me and Ashley (my comedy daughter) are performing at Rock Ness festival....I can't tell you how much this worries me, am scared of moths, but it will be immense fun.

I still hate camping though and then on June 22nd I will be recording my one woman show at The Comedy Cafe Theatre in Rivington street East London.

I can't wait to do this, as so many people have asked me can they buy recordings of shows and I had none. I had done a few shaky video's of my shows but nothing that could be sold.

Producing and selling without a BIG MAJOR distributor is the way forward for comics and this way, we can support a small indie company AND get my show on CD

So now the awesome people at The Comedy Cafe Theatre are going to get this done. If you want to see it live, check out the gigs list on my website and buy tickets and come along.  

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

Seems to be a theme this week of attacking comedians, what with Scottish comic Susan Calman getting bullied for her non- opinion on Independence and Reggie Hunter getting booted for being himself at a corporate gig- the papers raged on with accusations of 'fees to be returned' in Reggie's case and 'Bullying from the Nats' in Susan's case.

Either way it was a bad week for comedy, especially as the Scotsman and various other newspapers emblazoned their headline "death threats for comedian" never since Salman Rushdie have we seen adverse reaction to an art form. Though I still don't know who threatened death to Susan as it hasn't in itself been publicised (maybe due to a police investigation) and can only imagine the horror that it rang- having been threatened online two years ago myself for talking about Old Firm Sectarianism....it's scary stuff.

I took screen shots and reported the website and death threaten-ers to the police and made an official complaint. So what is this special new Scottish force  Police Scotland doing about this onslaught of abuse towards female comics?

In my case they took all the details and assured me to watch out for more abuse, but they basically told me not to be contentious on Twitter....I explained "I am a comedian, I am allowed to make jokes and contentious remarks without being threatened by death" But I was happy I reported it and made sure the cops were aware of the people who being abusive for future reference.

So many politicians came out to support Susan and quite rightly so, but it's just lip service....we want to be protected for our freedom of speech without being threatened by death....what's next a Scolds Bridle for 'cheeky women'?

I would like a Police Scotland and Chief Constable Stephen House to have a full investigation into the death threats given to comedians and am appalled that Susan had to turn to a newspaper to highlight this issue as clearly the cops are so far doing nothing.

Having been a victim of online bullying and name calling, and threats of 'getting my house burnt down' I know how this feels and the police did reassure me they would help me, but by telling me 'not to be contentious' on twitter? what the hell is that about? I will quite happily face criticism and tell me you hate my comedy, explain how much you think am a fat ugly woman...fair play...but to THREATEN ME WITH DEATH? It's not on.

On a side issue I speak about this situation in my recent show, how famous people get the press to highlight their online abuse and how the cops will kick doors in at 6am if some Olympiad is abused, but if you are wee Betty McDade from a housing scheme and someone is threatening you on Facebook....you are on your own. I know this to be true as some of my Facebook followers have testified to such....there shouldn't be a law for one and separate law for others. This isn't Victorian times, where the Middle classes are protected and the lower classes are left to defend themselves. All online abuse should be treated seriously, whether you are an Olympic swimmer, a comedian or someone who is living on benefits trying to use social networking sites.

I want the death threats to stop and the only way they will stop is if we constantly report them, screen shot the tweets and facebook threats and remember there is always a way to trace them. Everything every written on the web can be traced. Stay safe and lets all work together to stop death threats online.

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

So there I was finally on a train to London with my happy daughter Ashley. We travel well together, she has tour managed me in Australia and NZ so she knows when to shut up and when to make me tea. We sat in the first class bit of the Virgin train, listening to music and then I checked my twitter feed to find out Thatcher had died and I announce it loudly to the elderly people surrounding us as they don't have twitter and might want to know, plus I like being a death announcer.

"That's Thatcher dead!" I said as everyone stared at me.

An elderly man wearing a cardigan with elbow patched leaned over and said "What age was she?" as if there was a cut off point for all old people. "I don't know" I answered and went back to reading the words 'DING DONG' 'miners' 'witch' 'Pinochet' repeatedly on Twitter. Not for me, I will never celebrate anyone's death, and to be honest if the whole country hated her so much why do we have a Tory in power now?

So me and Ashley finally get into London and headed straight to Groucho club, as we had a meeting and were just desperate to get off the train.

London is my favourite city of all time, I love the mad hustle and bustle. In Soho there are just people screaming into their phones and pushing the homeless to the kerb as they have 'important business', I don't like those people to be honest. The city itself I adore.

Me and Ashley got to spend some quality time with mates, try on each other's make up, flick through someone else's DVD collection and eat someone else's food...awesome stuff.

On the Saturday night after a heap of meetings, parties and a few wee gins, I finally fell into bed at 1am.

I was awakened at 4am with Ashley bursting in my door, I thought the flat was on fire but no it was merely the news that William Shatner (her ALL TIME HERO) had finally tweeted her. Many listeners of our podcast (Janey Godley's Podcast) knew how much Ashley loves the man and have been repeatedly tweeting the Star Man for ages and finally he got in touch. Not only did he get in touch he chatted for ages with her (and me, I always get in on the act) and Ashley had to scream into a cushion as my mate Monica was fast asleep and it would be rude to wake her up at 4am with Shatner news! Can you believe he said he listened to our podcast and LOVED IT!

Suffice to say Ashley got a birthday wish from the great man himself and is still on cloud nine....

So back to Glasgow...but not without a drunk Glaswegian causing that much offence to the surrounding passengers on the train, he was taken off at Wigan by the cops. I had taken video footage and tweeted about him as everyone knows how much I like a good train fight on twitter....anyway upshot is, the cops have the video and shouty stupid man had to catch another train and am now a witness.

Life is ok, am sick to my stomach though as last night my beloved Boston was bombed during a marathon. I love Boston, me and my wee pal Shirley were there last year when I took part in their comedy festival, it was shocking to watch. People are utter bastards to bomb any city...but you know what there are good people in the world and we have to focus on that as well.

Here's hoping there is peace in the world.

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

Me and my stand up comedy daughter Ashley Storrie are doing the comedy stage at RockNess, despite the press releases mistakenly calling her Ashley Godley and me Janey Godle....yes I know sounds like 'coddle', ok typos aside....am worried.

Glastonbury was amazing when I performed there a few times, but the flooding and extreme cold and the day Ashley jumped into a bloated stream to save someone, hasn't quite left me. I am scared of biblical flooding, especially when we are far from home and the nearest thing surviving better than you is a gnarly cow-makes me feel jittery. We used a rowing boat to get to the comedy tent, it was that deep under water, where is Kevin Costner when you need him?

Now I know RockNess isn't as isolated than Glastonbury and it may or may not have better facilities for artists, I don't know yet. Am now planning my 3 day stay the way some people get ready for an apocalyptic survival situation.

"We must have water tablets, heat packs, freezer pack, dried apricots, solar panels, sausages and packs of bacon" I explain shrilly to Ashley who is questioning my sudden desire for survival food and weird shit pork based products.

"Mum, we don't need all those fancy perishables, just some cans of tuna, dried pasta and teabags for the 67 pints of tea you down daily" she added. I stared at her. Ashley is so excited about Rockness, in her head there are sexy men, sunshine, nights round a camp fire, days filled with camping camaraderie and hours spent making daisy chain in the long grass as music fills our ears.

I see a nuclear wipe out and cholera.

Ashley looked at my food packing list.

"Are you having a Nigella type dinner party, with a Campari fountain, some home baked cheese quiche and sorbet served on fresh mint leaves? No, mum you will eating beans from a can and sitting near a tent in the rain" she laughed at me.

Am now thinking of getting a pop up tent with a big gazebo over that, some waterproof curtains round the gazebo, a gas fire, a fitted carpet, a three piece suite, some Egyptian cotton sheets a few occasional tables and a full cooker and microwave....basically I want a bungalow in a campsite. I am a twat.

Ashley is horrified at my panicking and my planning for Armageddon and not a happy three day camping trip with performing in between. I suppose I have to shut up and just accept it will rain, I will get close to a beetle or worm, I will get cold, I will want to kill people who talk too loud when I am trying to sleep, I will cry and want to go home....am such a feeble minded shit bag.

So if you are going to RockNess and you have a luxury campervan and you will parked near the comedy tent where we are...can I be your best pal?

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

I was in a supermarket in London last month.

I watched three young children, around five or six years old, sliding up and down the store squealing and pulling stuff off the shelves. They were like chattering, screaming meerkats on a hunt through the Kalahari Desert.

I looked for the parents and spotted three women chatting to two men. Every now and then, the kids would huddle round them and then bound off screaming again. The parents were pushing those extremely expensive three wheeled prams and feeding organic seaweed sheets to a baby who was spitting it all back out. One child had one of those wooden bikes with no pedals, let's be honest pedalling is SOoooo last year.

That wee munchkin was crashing into giant displays of organic cereal. One child ran up and kicked it's mum right on the shin, she merely rubbed her leg and limped off.

It made me recall childhood shopping trips with my mammy in Shettleston. She would frequent the King-Co shop, the nearest thing we got to a supermarket in Glasgow’s East End. It contained about seven aisles of food, a few shelves containing bleach, carbolic soap and some household goods, with maybe four till points. There was a cold meat counter and usually two women in men's socks wearing slippers, pushing a steamie pram full of washing tied in a tight bundle.

Before we entered the glass doors, my mammy would grab me by the neck of my damp duffel coat and read me the riot act: “If you touch anything, I will stamp on your neck”

I would walk the cool aisles of that store, scared to even look at stuff. If my mammy caught me making eye contact with the ice-cream freezer, she would hiss: “Don’t even think about it!” The rest of the shopping trip would be spent with me staring at the ground.

Then we would waddle down the road, struggling with our shopping, a string vegetable bag full of papery onions scratching my legs and plastic bags full of cans cracking my knees. Once we got home, she would take the bags off me.

“Go out and play!” she would yell. “Take your skate with you!”

Rain or shine, we all went out to play, even if it was with just one broken roller-skate tied to the ankle with a discarded brown nylon our mammy could no longer wear. That was how I spent my long summer holidays. You weren't allowed back in for ages or your mammy would shout "you are either out or you are in bastard face" It was illegal back in the 60s to open and shut a door too many times (obviously a joke).

I know I must be getting older, now that I start to tut at other mothers’ parenting skills.

Today’s kids even answer their mammy back! I don’t know anyone who was born in the 1960s who would have dared to mouth off at their mammy. We didn't come from mothers who tolerated a kick to their shins. I would still be in a coma ward to this day if I had.

I know better than most people that the old days weren’t as good as we think. I know there was a lot of poverty, abuse, robbery and murder, but I still believe that kids didn’t dare disrespect their parents the way they do in today’s society.

Then again, in our day we didn’t have shedloads of TV shows that explained how to make your child behave. We had The Golden Shot and The Avengers: two things my mammy was already good at. She could fire a sling-back shoe like a warrior and – trust me – she could avenge like no one I knew.

Ah …the good old days.

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

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.

“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.

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.

"Mum those shoes are on sale, let's have a look" My daughter Ashley, dragged me into USC shop on Buchanan street Glasgow.  Ashley is 26 and is still excited at high top trainers...could be worse, she could be taking bath salts, running naked and attacking rough sleepers with a toffee hammer. 

Am not a big shopper, to be honest USC confused me, it was just heaps of clothes on racks so tightly packed I felt like I was lost in a denim jumble sale.  The music blared and I felt like I was lost in a bright unfriendly disco.

 I even saw jeans that were destined to fit a man with bow legs as if he just leapt off a horse and of course my non fashion brain made me giggle at them.  'Who would buy them' I shouted over the music just as a young man bought them and glared at me.

Ashley went to the sports shoe bit, tried on a few trainers and liked the Adidas high tops, she handed me the one she tried and I went off to find out how to get the other shoe.  I did not know how to pay for stuff in USC; I have never been to university or took the class that shows how to do that.

There are no signs, but why would there be...it's like a really hip party and am the old woman who comes in and asks them if they have any Donny Osmond on their big music player.

I spotted an achingly hip bored guy with lovely sideways combed and gelled hair in bow legged jeans (that looked lovely on) and he made brief enough eye contact to assure me he was staff. I held out the shoe, went onto explain "my daughter likes these can we try the other one....."  He looked through me like I was already dead to him.  I was going to say I had heard Nirvana but I don't think he was alive when they were alive and I had no other musical reference point to bring up, he grabbed the shoe and turned on his heel.

He was off...not a word of explanation about anything, just up the escalator leaving me stranded near a couple of young French guys who liked the looked of the bandy legged jeans. The staff guy (let me call him Todd, he looks like a Todd who is into skateboarding and ironic ukulele parties) anyway Todd is now off with the shoe- upstairs as if he is in search  of a one legged Cinderella who was into sportswear,  she was hiding upstairs, she was making Todd work for her affections.

"Shall I wait here? Are you coming back down? Where do I go?" were many of the questions I whispered as Todd vanished.

I wandered about the store wondering how to approach the fact I gave a man a shoe and he vanished without trace. Was I a hex?

Ashley turned up "mum, where are the shoes?" I replied "A teenager in skinny jeans took it and ran up stairs" we eventually realised that the best way to find out what happened to Todd and my shoe was to head to the counter...then I spotted Todd amongst the sweaters....that dirty bastard was seeing someone else...he was showing a Taylor Swift look-alike a burgundy hoodie, he was fingering the fabric...I never got one word from him. He was chatting and smiling. I got none of that. 

I headed down to the till, where a young angry/sad/unsure woman in a trendy top took ages to serve a man then eventually had to look at me. Her eyes were annoyed. "What?" she asked me. I wanted to tell her a story about the time I got a gynaecological smear and the doctor told me 'You have a surprisingly tight vagina for a woman who had a child' but I don't think that was what she was asking.

"Erm...I think we bought a shoe and we wanted the other one to try on" I was trying to say but she butted in "describe them" (as if I was lying and just wanted a chat with her happy face).

My daughter described high tops, Adidas logo, colour and size. The young woman must have had some exhaustive wasting illness as she sighed loudly and picked up the box and dropped it on the counter.

The whole experience in USC was weird, it wasn't like shopping, it was like a small but brief sexual affair that went wrong and ended in a rash with vows never to return or speak of it ever again...except for on here. Thanks USC for teaching me all about your trendy shop.

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

You know how you think back to things and with hindsight you wonder why you didn't react differently? Looking back I should have punched the man in the tweed suit.....here's what happened.

Back in 1996 I was flying to London to see my pals and do some open spot comedy gigs. I was super excited and chatty and couldn't wait to get there, it wasn't often I got such freedom and the thought of being in London filled me with a rush of excitement. I was giddy.

I sat beside a middle aged old fashioned looking man possibly in his late 50s but he was dressed the way I think men in 1960s British movies dressed. You know all tweed, brogues and rainmac over the arm, he had everything except a hat but was Scottish. We got chatting and he explained he flew to London for business, I never said what I was doing, just 'going to see friends' and we were engaged in a good old natter.

"I am down every month, my friends and I go to Soho, we visit a woman's flat, it's near an ice cream cafe which does a good coffee as well....and we see a woman, she isn't like a prostitute but a woman who likes a drink and we bring her some good vodka and she would 'see' to us fella's who like a good time" he told me with a twinkle in his eye. He added "do you like to party, my friends would like you?"

I don't wear wedding rings and don't start conversations with 'my husband and I" as I am not a member of the Royal Household nor am I living in 1953. So as this chat had progressed it dawned on me he assumed I was single and was going to London for some high jinkery or partying of some sort...am not sure. Maybe he thought there was a time portal at arrivals and this was 1960 and I had a pad and needed a 'man to help pay the rent'....I don't know!

I faced him squarely on the seat and looked right into his eyes and said "No I don't drink and don't fancy fucking strange men in wool suits in some Soho bedsit, in fact that sounds a rapey nightmare to me" I smiled and fiddled with my Sony Walkman.

"Oh no don't get me wrong, we would make sure you had fun" he touched my arms reassuringly.

Me being me, so blasé about prostitution (who should judge?) and creepy old men hitting on me on aeroplanes, I laughed and said "no, you probably won't make sure I had fun, I have a 34 year old husband at home and his skin still fits him, why would I want to screw some old dirty toffs for vodka, mate I owned a pub for 15 years, I don't even drink, I don't want to fuck you, but can you tell me where the good ice cream shop is?"

We sat in silence for the rest of the journey and I wondered about the woman in the flat above the cafe who lets middle class men fuck her for vodka...that made me feel sad.

Years now I have been visiting Soho, it's my favourite place on the planet. I have performed there, I have done live TV news from there, I did my one woman play there...I adore the place, the bricks, the cobbled streets, the paparazzi on motorbikes chasing people with flash cameras and the screaming girls when they spot a pop star. I love the Ramen cafe, the bars, the Groucho Club; the belligerent Italians who serve you bitter coffee in tiny cups....

Yet still every old cafe I see I stare above it and search the windows and look for the poor woman behind the dirty windows....and wonder if she is ok now.

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