Janey Godley's Blog

(Please be aware that this Podcast Contains strong language)

In episode 135 of Janey Godley's podcast, the comedy mother and daughter talk about their recent stand up gigs and Ashley gives us her version of  The Carpenter's and how aliens would react to the song.

Janey discusses the recent Pope revelations and tells us a story from the 70s about her mammy's singing parties. The BIG NEWS about the podcast is REVEALED!

Mother and Daughter comedy team get to natter and the world gets to hear it on Janey Godley’s podcasts, expect some bawdy language and home truths, as Janey Godley and Ashley Storrie lead you down the roads less taken in their fantastic weekly podcast. Listen as mother and daughter banter, bait and burst with laughter.

Janey Godley Podcast at: Episode 135

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“Ma, can I get a Bay City Roller Jumper - they are selling them at the Co-op for £1.99?” I shouted through the toilet door to my mammy. "Everybody has one" I added.

My dog Major was at my feet begging to be taken out for a pee, his toe nails were scratching and clicking on the cold lino. Maybe he heard my Ma peeing and this set him off.

“Where will I get two quid from? is that thon tartan bastards that cannae sing?” my Ma shouted back over the noise of the loo flushing. I peeled some woodchip wall paper off as I waited...I put it in my mouth and quickly spat it out.

Major lifted a black claw and scratched my leg, his brown eyes pleading with me. This was useless.

“I am taking the dog out,” I whined back and grabbed the thick metal dog leash off the door handle in the lobby and clipped Major’s collar, only to be dragged off at speed and clattered down all the stairs in the close and yanked outside. My Jesus sandal buckle came undone and I hobbled about on the grass clods.

I needed to think of a plan to get two pounds to buy a tartan Bay City Rollers' jumper; everyone at school had one except me. I needed one, why can't adults just know I need one as well?

Major stood like a statue in the back yard and peed for about ten minutes (he never got out much and had a bladder this size of a scatter cushion). He kept one leg cocked whilst scanning the back court for pigeons or cats to attack the minute he was done pissing. He was always on the lookout for a victim was Major. He was an angry dog with long memories of being beaten by a floor brush as a puppy by previous owners, he was in luck in our house, my mammy rarely cleaned the place. I was getting bored.

“Hurry up, Major, I need to figure out how to get two quid!” I hissed at him.

Even my dog looked at me pitifully. He knew there was no chance of me getting that Bay City Roller jumper before the shops shut at 5pm. He finished his pee, scratched the ground with his back legs, flicking up pee-soaked soil over my jeans and tried to pull off the leash to chase imaginary cats. I couldn’t let him free; he would bite the first living thing he spotted and I couldn’t bear to get into a dog dispute today.

Our back yards were a square set of twenty blocks of flats with open closes which led through to the front streets; all the individual closes had penned-off back yards which were segregated by green painted railings. Major loved getting into other people’s yards.

I ran around the back court holding his leash letting him sniff bins, scratch at the ground and snuffle through the long grass near the railings. He looked up at me pleading to be let free. He wanted to run about but, every time I had let him go in the past, he slipped his bony body through the metal railings and shot off on a bite fest and, although I was wiry and fast, I couldn’t climb over those spiky fences and catch up with him. He was an expert escapist. Before I knew it he would be on the main road attacking pensioners and babies. He was mental and very scary looking.

“No, Major, you will run off and bite people!” I answered as he stared at me.

He sat on the cold ground and lifted a paw at me and gave me his best cute look. So I let the leash snap off his neck. He started walking slowly around our confined fenced yard lulling me into a false sense of security and then he suddenly shot off and leaped over the first fence in a flash. “Oh God!” I shouted and started after him. I climbed over three sets of metal railings as he slipped through or jumped over them and made off through the opened close of flats across the backyard. I saw his tail disappear through the close into the front street.

I panicked and kept climbing over the four foot high railings till I reached the close he had run through. I could hear screams from the front street. My heart was pounding. I was exhausted and sweating. Why did I let him go? On entering Vesalius Street, I saw one old woman with a steamie pram pinned up against a front garden fence with Major barking at her feet.

The dog spotted me and ran off in the direction of the big main road that ran through our wee scheme.

He had a go at the local priest and that wee man who isn't the priest but always hangs about the chapel and has a club foot.

He slid past big lorries that trundled down the busy road; he sped through the traffic and made it to the opposite side of the road. It took me ages to let the traffic past before I could run across and chase after him. He barked and snarled at passers by. “Get that dog on a leash!” a man shouted. The leash was wrapped around my hand as I panted and gasped my way up the road. His pointy tail was visible and the barking kept me on his track.

Finally, he came to a stop. He watched me over his shoulder; he sat on the pavement quietly as I approached him stealthily. I fully expected him to bolt off again as I got closer, but he didn’t move. “Major, you bad dog!” I shouted as I clipped the leash on him. He just stared at me and padded off quietly.

My clothes were sticking to me with the sweat of running and jumping so fast. He merely hung his tongue out and happily jaunted off as if he was the happiest dog in Shettleston. We got stuck at the main road, the traffic was heavy, buses were speeding past and I was nervous crossing that road, as I had been knocked down by a car two years previously near the spot where we stood. It had taken me almost a year to walk again and, at twelve, I still had a slight limp.

I heard a familiar voice shout “Janey!” from one of the buses as it drove past. The bus stopped near me and loads of people spilled out of the back opening. There was my old favourite uncle John. “What are you doing out with that mad dog on the main road?” he asked.

“He ran away from me,” I explained.

Uncle John was my pal. He was a lot older than most of my uncles and had neither kids, nor a wife and was often ‘away’ though we were never told where. He never had a home of his own and usually stayed with family members and I loved him. He was quirky and had funny ways of explaining stuff. I once asked him why he never fought in the Second World War and he told me: “Well, you see, with all the men away, the women of Shettleston needed someone to replace their light bulbs in their lobbies and I didn’t have a fight with the Germans; they never personally upset me, so I don’t see why I should be a paid killer of someone else’s son.”

Turns out my old Uncle John was a bit of a ‘Lad’ and traded guns with crooks and never fought with anyone unless he had a personal gripe with them. He was occasionally in prison and never really settled with anyone anywhere.

“Look, here’s some money for you. Now don’t tell your Ma that I have cash. Say you found it," he said and pulled a TEN POUND note from his pocket. Ten pounds was a fortune to me at twelve. I stared at the note; I don’t think I had seen a ten pound note close up in my own hand. Major sat quietly and wagged his tail at Uncle John; he was about the only visitor to our house that Major didn’t bite.

“That’s a lot of money, thanks Uncle John but I can’t say I found it. Are you sure you can give me this? I will need to say something,” I stuttered at Uncle John.

“Well, learn to lie and hide it, Janey,” he laughed and walked off.

I stared at the money in my hand. It felt so… wonderful and rich; the texture of the paper had me stroking it constantly - the swirly writing and just the overwhelming fact that I had ten pounds to myself made me feel giddy.

I immediately set off to the Co-op and dragged Major with me; I now had the dilemma of how to get into the shop with my dog. Major could not be tied up outside, he would bite folk.

The big glass door to the Co-op jangled as I entered. Major growled low in his throat. He hated new places. My dog was rather autistic and anal for a domesticated animal. Things set him off, like a door bell, a floor brush and he despised goldfish and fish tanks - he attacked them viciously - he tried to bite the glass fish bowl in my bedroom. He was like a drunk Oliver Reed.


“That dog can’t come in here!” the woman with a pinched face behind the counter shouted.

“I have ten pounds!” I shouted back and showed her my cash. “I just want a white Bay City Roller tartan jumper for my size,” I added and stood at the door.

She relented and I tied Major to the big pillar at the side of the counter. I begged him not to bite anyone or bark. The woman held out the acrylic top for me to see, I nodded and guessed it would fit me. She wrapped it up in brown paper, sellotaped the edges and held it to me. I tucked it under my arm and carefully wrapped the change into a small bundle and bent down to tuck it into my sock. Major licked my face as I bent down. “Stop that, Major, your breath stinks,” I giggled.

I ran for home with my parcel, Major trotting beside me and all the while thinking up a good lie to tell my Ma about the jumper. She could smell a lie and money in seconds and possessed the ability to get the truth out of anyone; I was surprised that she wasn’t an interrogator for the government.

I spotted the butcher's shop on the way and decided to treat Major to some scraps, as he really did get me the jumper I reckoned. Major was barred from the local butcher's as he would run in and try to drag a side of beef off the butcher’s hooks and was known for his daring raids, so I tied him to the lamppost outside. He wouldn’t bite anyone as he could smell the meat and that occupied him.

“Can I have a soup bone and a wee bit of liver please?” I asked. The butcher checked the door for Major. “He is tied up, Mr. Cross” I explained. “He is sorry about the dead cow he pulled down.”

The butcher smiled and wrapped up some liver and a big bloodied bone in greaseproof paper. “It’s OK, Janey, no charge for the scraps and keep that crazy dog back from my shop.”

Major wolfed down the wee bits of liver and chomped down on the bone and we both marched home, happily. I realised that, if Major had a bone in his mouth, he would never bite anyone, so maybe we had to keep him supplied with bones forever?

Ma was never told about the jumper or the cash, she never saw what I wore to school and it eventually turned up in the washing bag. I had duped her!

The change from the ten pounds was stuffed up the disused chimney shaft in my bedroom and I managed to eke it out for months, buying myself sweets and a chicken supper at the local chippy - all, of course, eaten outside in the back court with Major at my side.  

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

PS

Hello Podcast fans, Janey and Ashley here, as you probably know award season is coming around and it’s not just the movies that are in the running. “The village voice” is running the internet awards and we were both hoping that you’d vote for us as your best podcast!

Follow the link below and in the podcast section write Janey Godley’s Podcast then simply click submit – NO FORM FILLING -  we hope you vote for us and we hope you continue to enjoy the podcast (No 34. Best Podcast): http://tinyurl.com/ct47rxu

Many years ago I used to hang out in a wee Italian Café in Shettleston where I was born.

It’s a small place Shettleston; it’s the kinda place where if the full moon gets reflected in the local pond, people threw in dead cats to see if they will be resurrected in its magical waters. I am exaggerating, it’s not that mental. But the locals were ‘special’ in some ways.

This café I want to tell you about was a small affair and was owned by an Italian family called the Matteo’s.

There were two middle aged sisters, one called Anna and the other called Ella.

Anna wore a tall white pompadour curly wig which sat tall on her head like one of those profiterole towers often fashionable at cheap weddings.

Ella wore a tall dark one in much the same unusual style. Both were pencil thin and wore heavy black eye make up and big dark beauty spot stabbed on their top lip. Both in skin tight leopard skin clothing.

I adored both these sultry sexy women, like a duo of Glasgow Sophia Loren’s, they brightened up my wee world.

Across from the cafe was the local steamie wash house, most of the women went there with lank hair, tired faces and clumping in big flat shoes like Cornish pasties, so Ella and Anna were somehow exotic in comparison, with their clicky kitten heels and coquettish wiggle and smell of chip fat and pizza’s wafting off them.

I knew Ella more than Anna; as she ran the café with her side kick Terry the Poof and the ever present wee yappy dog, a tiny ginger tufty miniature lion.

Terry the Poof, was the first openly gay man I ever knew.

In Glasgow you are usually named after your character, for instance there was also a man called ‘Bobby the Kiddie Fiddler’ because he was a paedophile and a bloke called Tommy the Elephant because he had big ears...you get what I am saying?

Strangely no one called her -‘Ella the Black haired Pompadour’ but I suppose being gay ear-marked Terry out for his unique name and solitary status in small town Shettleston. There weren’t many gay may ‘out’ back then in the 70s.

Terry was also middle aged and lived in a caravan out at the back of the café, like some exotic gypsy where a collection of unseen dogs that barked a cacophony of sound, were tied to a fence post.

He had a face that sagged around the eyes as he had been beaten too often and the black eyes that had just faded eventually sat like deflated poached eggs on his weather beaten cheeks. He was never without a bruise, which seemed normal to me at time, am ashamed to admit.

He usually had a black eye that was in several shades of fading, the colours ranged from a deep scuddy purple to a pale yellowish green. It somehow oddly, sadly suited him.

He drank too much booze as well, he would often drag a wee flask of whisky out of his back pocket and take a slug at it between serving up soggy chips and black edged crispy looking fried eggs.

He wore skin tight black jeans, a baggy bright shirt on his scrawny frame and always had a bright pink chiffon scarf tied around his neck in a big fancy bow.

It was the kind of fashion statement that made drunk and angry men hit him often, and I admired his tenacity and the sheer force of will that made him continue to wear it in the face of fear and aggression.

Shettleston was not ready for a man who wore a pink pussy-cat bow tied scarf and flaunted his love of Shirley Bassey by camping around dancing and impersonating her at the top of his husky voice.

On his head he wore a tight black beret at a jaunty angle.

I was seventeen. I shared his love of music and the café had a great juke box, it was at the height of the ‘Grease’ and ‘Saturday Night Fever’ era and the songs of both top box office films would blare out of that old 10 pence a song silver coloured juke box.

Terry and I would dance in the tiny space between the booths and sing along to the music. The dogs out back would bark and Ella would scream for more chips.

The café seating area was based around a corner shape with a few boxed-in Formica bench seats that you slid into with fixed Formica yellow tables with aluminium trim.

In the window there was a big ‘Terry’s All Gold Chocolate’ advertisement display made of cardboard that pulled out into a two dimensional image that looked like a big balcony overlooking some Mediterranean lake.

It was dreamy and exotic to me, the cardboard image was of a young beautiful couple dressed in elegant evening wear.

They stood at the white stucco balcony and looked out at the still blue water and I often stared at it and wondered if I would ever find such a well dressed man in a dickie bow who would give me chocolates beside a moonlit lake.

Terry would watch me stare at it; he would scoot in beside me, cross his skinny legs and ask “Isn’t that scene gorgeous? I want to go there too, where do you think it is?”

I would shake my head and imagine myself in a big blue dress looking over the calm waters with a sexy man at my side. “How deep is your love” the Bee Gees played in the background and I was whisked away in my imagination again.

I would often joke with Terry and ask him if he was the chocolate man in the advert of the same name and he would laugh back at me “Yes, I am the chocolate man, I melt when you hold me tight” and then he would twirl around as he held aloft a plate of greasy chips, and then bend elegantly and kiss the cardboard man in the dickie bow and evening suit. I would giggle and clap my hands.

Ella would scream at the top of her voice and tell me to stop encouraging him.

The heart of the café lay with Ella’s wee dog Tootsie.

It was a tiny pom-pom orange haired dog, I don’t know the breed, but it was strange looking.

It had a reddish coat like a fluffy squirrel’s with a wee pointy blackish face and tiny wee skinny sleek ginger legs that peeked out of the fluffy body.

It yapped constantly and bit everyone it came within six inches of.

It was small enough to fit inside my mammy’s old shopping bag, and often I fantasised about shoving it there, to shut it up.

The wondrous and bizarre thing about the evil ginger fluff ball was….it often had a heart attack.

Now I don’t know if it was actually a heart attack, but it would yap furiously and then fall on its back, like the biggest drama queen alive, then it would gasp and Ella would scream “My baby, help my baby” and all hell would be let loose.

She would physically throw the hot chips and runny eggs at the wall, flap around hysterically, Terry would throw up his hands and scream like a banshee as his scarf got entangled in his face and Ella would demand anyone that was present to press on the chest of the wee upturned dog till it came back to life.

That role often fell to me, I would jump up…as if I had been trained in dog CPR, and then grab the orange smelly beast, clear the Formica table with my hand like you see professional doctors do in preparation for an emergency operation.

The dog would be put on the table, I would press onto its wee tufty orange haired chest a few times and then it would leap onto its scrawny legs and bite me, every time.

Terry and Ella would be running into the street screaming around each other as passers by would gawp at them, realise the dog was having an ‘attack’ and carry on as normal.

Customers would sit and wait till the drama passed and Ella would not come back in till the dog was standing at the door yapping again, she would scoop it up and kiss its horrible wee rat like mouth as Terry stroked it and whispered soft soothing words. They were joined in the elation of their baby still being alive.

Then the café would get back to normal.

One time when I was being ‘Janey the Dog Doctor’, a young tall boy who worked in the bar across the road from the café came in and watched me perform on the beast and quietly said to me “That dog pretends to die every day, you do know that don’t you?”

“Yes, I know but it scares Ella”

I could feel him smiling at me as I kept my eyes down on the dog, which was now back on its feet.

Its attack was not as life threatening that day; I think the young guy’s honesty shamed the wee animal.

He laughed and said “Ella and Terry are a couple of fucking drama queens, they love the attention”

I stared at him angrily, his deep brown eyes held my stare.

I snapped back “Some people need a wee drama to get through the day”.

He shrugged and walked away.

He left slamming the door behind him and it shook the fancy cardboard display that fell from its position and landed flat on the floor.

TheMediterranean was upside down and the happy couple landed in some cola that was spilt on the floor. I gasped at the sight of it – it was all collapsed and distorted looking.

Terry rushed to pick it up; he looked at me and wiped it down with a wee cloth and then he carefully put it back up at the window.

“All good Janey, nothing damaged” he spoke softly “The happy couple are fine”

Terry looked at me and patted the cardboard man on the head and came over to see how Tootsie was recovering.

“That boy fancies you” Terry said as the dog jumped back up and viscously bit my arm.

“I don’t like him, he is a dick” I snapped as I sucked at the bruise on my wrist.

Terry smiled and winked at me.

I wonder what happened to Terry, Ella and Tootsie; I hope they lived happily ever after, I grew up a lot that year and moved to Redcar in Yorkshire for a wee spell, just a change, it wasn’t the Mediterranean, but it was different from Shettleston.

And that tall boy who came into the cafe?

Well Terry was right, he did fancy me and a year after that first meeting, when I came home in 1979 to see my mammy, and we met up and started dating and got married in 1980.

To think we met over a dog that pretended to be dead in a café where a gay man with a bruised eye and jaunty cap worked with a woman who wore a huge black wig.

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