Oh Fucking Hell…

I was at a special community event today. I do workshops and am writer in residence for the Drug forum people here in Glasgow. My play ‘The Point of Yes’ which is about heroin flooding Glasgow and I play the two characters involved.
Anyway, there are many other community group representatives sitting at their info booths along side me.
I had on behind me a DVD player and TV that was playing my comedy and play.
Sitting right beside me were the local police.
I went outside for a cup of tea and as I left I saw one of the organisers put up the volume on my TV set.
What I didn’t know was, the comedy DVD that was on had reached the part where I tell the audience several anecdotes on some old unsolved crimes, I have a few funny stories about some illegal stuff and one actually involves me.
When I came back into the room, the whole place was silent and all you could hear was me shouting ‘Fuck the police’ and a crowd cheering-and the two policemen were sitting watching the DVD with great attention!
It was a fun day. They gave me the strangest looks all afternoon, I did manage to convince them that the stories were all just ‘fun’.
Also here is some good news, I got my first journalistic piece printed in The Scotsman newspaper today, they gave me an hour to write it yesterday and I am very proud that it looks great and reads well!
I wrote an article about how the British Press are verbally slaughtering Heather Mills McCartney –estranged wife of Sir Paul McCartney. I felt they were being too harsh and as always coming down hard on the woman and giving the man all the sympathy.
So here I am tonight, getting ready to go to Manchester tomorrow. Husband has been an absolute arse fuck wit and deserves to die in hot oil as small pygmies poke his eyes with a hot needle.
I was under extreme pressure yesterday, trying to work and write an article last minute and he decided at that moment that I go find a cheque book. I literally came off the phone from the newspaper who had ordered the article. I sat at the PC and got ready to type and he started being a child demanding attention. I had to leave the deadline and go find a chequebook, which incidentally was lying beside HIS bed. Then I finished writing the piece, I sat down and finished writing my play, went off to write out my compensation forms for my lost luggage, designed a poster, went off to do a workshop and organised three radio interviews for next week AND wrote the diary piece for BBC Radio 4, all the while as he moaned in the background.
He sulked and told me he wouldn’t speak to me again (Hurrah)
He never even apologised, so I hate him and am going to find a Voodoo mama to have his cock fall off.
I will keep you posted. Divorce is looming as we speak.