Why do we Hate?

I am off to London this weekend, just for a week of gigs down south. I am looking forward to it, I do love London.
There is a distinct anti- English feeling sometimes in Scotland; people can very rude about southern cousins. Some people say to me “That’s a shame you have to go to England to work, poor you, they are bastards” and I reply “You are a racist fucked up nutter now leave me alone!”

It can work both ways, especially with the likes of Kelvin MacKenzie the ex-editor on The Sun newspaper.

He relishes in his anti –Scottish speeches which he does in the press and TV.

Mr MacKenzie said on BBC show Question Time: "Scotland believes not in entrepreneurialism like in London and the South East, the reality is that the Scots enjoy spending it, they do not enjoy creating it, which is the opposite of down in the South."

It seems people in London shout out in the street to him “Go Kelvin, keep telling those Scots to fuck off”.

If people shouted out “Go on tell those Pakistani’s to Fuck off Kelvin” he would be charged for citing racial hatred, and quite rightly so! But it seems ok to hate the Scots; but not all English people treat us this way.

As I say it can work both ways and there is deep undercurrent of anti-Englishness even in comedy clubs in Scotland. I hate it when Scottish MC’s feel the need to tell an audience that the next act up is ‘English’…some people boo and that’s awful. There is no point to explaining their nationality in some disparaging way and offenders of this hate crime need to pulled off stage by the promoter, as far as I am concerned.

I have never had anti- Scottish feelings when I am performing in England, sometimes there are a few boo’s when there happens to be a significant football match concerning Scotland that day…football often brings hatred into a situation. There has never been anything really obnoxious hurled at me about my nationality.

Hating a country because they are not your country or because they are a country beside your country…its just mental especially as we are supposed to be British!

It’s the same with cities, Glaswegians are supposed to hate people from Edinburgh, and vice versa…I don’t really understand it, then it comes down to streets, people from one street being territorial about some other street next to it…what the fuck is that about?

Gangs all stabbing each other because their post code is slightly different, meanwhile the houses they live in are rented and at any minute they could get evicted and move to another street…then start all over again…wondering what to do with the tattoo that says ‘Smith Street Gang Rules’ on their arms!

I don’t have a conclusion to all of this as I am now slightly bewildered and am off to tattoo ‘I love Scotland and other countries, even ones in Communist run countries’ on my leg. That should take up some time.

Kill the PC

I stared at the blank screen on my laptop, it blinked and effectively died, right there in front of me. A tight pain went in my chest, but then it blinked back on and I quickly saved loads of my files and emailed them to myself. Then I killed the pc by turning it off, I knew it would never come back on.

Thank fuck all my emails and videos are stored online, no more shit OUTLOOK EXPRESS to make life feel like it ran down a drain, I love my BT Yahoo…whooo hooo!
I took the dead laptop back to the shop where after a fight about my ability to claim the insurance (which resembled that scene with Al Pacino in Scarface when he snorts too much coke and goes on a killing spree or that famous scene in Ben Hur when Charlton Heston races a chariot and horses amidst blood and death).

The whole store came to a stand still as I had what I suspect to be -my first ever hormonal menopausal flush, I sweated, screamed and even threw myself on the floor.

After a quiet lull the manager assured me it would be fixed within 24 hours for free.

I am beginning to like this menopausal thing, fuck I must have looked scary, husband (who was standing outside) said he could hear my incredibly funny insults come through the front doors as they swished open and shut as customers came in and out of the store.

He also added that when I left the place I looked like one of those women from the TV hit show TENKO, all dishevelled and traumatised.

Luckily the PC was restored and returned to me, I love it….it looks better and runs faster than a cute kid being chased by Michael Jackson.

Now all I have to deal with is menopausal things.

From the beginning of the year, I had a situation where if I coughed some pee came out, how awful is that? The last thing I need is to smell of piss.

You hit 46 and suddenly your pelvic floor muscles decide to go south. So to remedy the situation I have been doing a rigorous exercise plan of pelvic floor training. Now my muscles and pelvic floor are as strong and tight as a kettle drum. I even tried it out by coughing…nope no pee there! I may open beer bottles with my vag as a new party trick.

I think husband may be impressed…

Aberdeen & Wombles

I had a hectic weekend. I went up to Aberdeen as I was performing my one woman comedy show at The Lemon Tree club/theatre which is an awesome space to do comedy in. I got an early train up and checked into a hotel just on the outskirts of the main city centre as I figured that would be quiet. No it wasn’t quiet, as I checked in there was a huge big Cockney accented family form London all screaming and fighting with each other at 11 am in the morning.

There were kids, mums, dads, fat women, baldy fat men, skinny screeching young women, spiky haired drunk loud young men ... all having a big barney in the main reception.
They were running in and out of the hotels main bar, sloshing beer and vodka around in glasses as they took part in the debacle, (they didn’t dare leave their drinks unattended, incase someone else downed it).

“Nice!” I thought to myself as I now imagined my quiet Friday afternoon spent by the swimming pool will no longer exist.

I went into the main bar/restaurant to get lunch, the hotel was quiet secluded and I don’t drive, so I thought a swim then lunch should be a good set up for my show that night.

I managed to sit through eating fish and chips whilst the din of Cockney screamers went on, apparently they were all attending a family wedding at the hotel he next day.
I am sure it was lavish classy affair that I would have to miss as I left for Glasgow the next day.

Despite the noise and madness I made it to The Lemon Tree that night and the show went great, I did one hour and forty-five minutes onstage! I had great fun and the audience were lovely.

I slept well that night and travelled home the next day by train, watching the beautiful Scottish countryside show off its spectacular autumn display from the train window.

Saturday night in Glasgow I was lying in bed trying to sleep about 1am, but there was noise beneath the windows and I couldn’t quite work out what was going on. I leaned up and open my window and looked down and there was a young man pulling stuff out of my garbage bins, I am three floors up bit the noise was really loud as he pulled stuff onto the concrete. He leaned down and started picking stuff out of my refuse collection and was shoving it into a bag.

I know that people can steal your identity by collecting your paper bills and info, but we shred everything and recycle all our shredded paper, so that wasn’t concerning me. What did bother me was the sheer amount of noise and mess he was creating.

He moved on and started in the bin shelter across at the next flats. He was like a mad dog pulling rubbish out and throwing it over his shoulder and scurrying through all the discarded refuse that had been tied up in bags and was now scattered all over the car park.

I decided to call the police, either he was a mental patient who really needed help or he was the worst and most indiscreet identity thief in Scotland.

I sat at my window and watched the police car arrive. Now I don’t like the police and hate calling them on anyone, but I started to have real concerns about this young guy, he was manic in his search and the noise was getting the neighbours at their windows.

The police simply brought him out of the bin shelter and chatted to him; they then put him in the back of the police car and shut the door as they went into the bin shelter.

They searched the big bag he had full of stuff. I hung out of my window and shouted down “Is there any paperwork in that bag?”

The young police man shouted up “No, it’s just all rubbish to be honest, I think he has mental problems”

“Or maybe he is a Womble” I shouted back down and the policeman laughed and waved as he drove off with the poor guy.

Womble’s were animated characters on UK telly back in the 1970’s, they wore big furry suits, looked like bears and they collected rubbish from other people’s bins and from local parks to recycle. They were a big family of Wombles and the kids who watched it loved their nice wee moral stories about not throwing away good working stuff and that recycling was the way forward. The Wombles were very advanced for their time!

I think I just got a Womble put in a police cell…shame on me.
Joking aside, I hope the poor guy gets himself sorted; a mental illness where you are compelled to root through rubbish bins cannot be good for your health.