How's The Air Up There?

As you know, I rarely blog these days. I’m not sure why. I think Instagram has replaced blogging for me. A picture really is worth a thousand words sometimes.

It’s Instagram that’s led me to write this today. I kind of have little themes going when I post photos on there e.g. Mondays are #MonkeyMonday and Saturdays are #SunnySaturday. 

Now given my passions, it’s almost impossible for Tuesdays to not be #TigerTuesday, where I post photos of my visits to assorted tiger sanctuaries I’ve visited in Thailand. For the most part these are well received. Recently however, I’ve had a couple of people really harangue me for my photographs of these amazing creatures.

The first time I visited the Tiger Temple in Kanchanaburi, Thailand I met one of the vets who was volunteering there. He was an English guy who’d chosen to give up six months of his life to work with the monks in tending to the tigers. I’d read up on the place before I went and the internet is filled with horror stories of how atrociously these animals are treated. The biggest claim (unsubstantiated) is that they’re drugged and that’s why we humans can get so close to them. 

So I got chatting to this guy and asked him outright - but away from anyone else’s earshot - if they were given a ‘little something’ to stop them eating the visitors. He laughed and said not at all. He repeated the fact that these tigers are very well fed and that in the midday heat when us humans come in, they really only wanna get some shut eye. 

The fact that recently someone was attacked by a tiger there is yet more proof that they’re not drugged I reckon. I know I’m a soppy old mare but I choose to believe the monks’ story that these are re-incarnated monks and if your karma is good, you’ve nothing to fear.

The second time I visited there, I was lucky enough to play with pretty much full-grown tigers as they cooled off in the water, I also got to hand feed one of them some cooked chicken, after I’d given him a bath. Those guys were definitely not drugged as they somehow managed to round up all the humans in the water and then lined up on land just looking at us and licking their lips!

The Tiger Temple is the oldest of these places in Thailand. A much newer way to interact with them is at Tiger Kingdom. I’ve visited the one in Chiang Mai twice now, and I believe they’ve opened another on Phuket recently. Why wouldn’t they? They’re a license to print money! Both occasions I’ve been there it’s been pretty full of humans.

It’s run very differently to the Tiger Temple, in that they actively breed tigers here. There’s a seemingly endless supply of babies to feed, cuddle and marvel at. Cynical old witch that I am - I’ve wandered away from the crowds on both visits to try and catch some sign of these mythical abuses I’ve read about on the net. I’ve never seen the keepers treat them with anything less than love and respect. Rightly so, these tigers are their bread and butter.

Now I will be the first to hold my hand up and say that there’s a part of me that’s unhappy that these places exist, but I’m pragmatic enough to realise that while they’re far from ideal, they are no worse than the majority of zoos I’ve visited around the world. The success of their breeding programmes eclipses most zoos’ ones.

One of the haters made a huge deal about how once the tigers are fully-grown they’re shipped off to China where they’re killed and parts of them used in traditional Chinese medicine. She could offer no proof at all of this, but swore it was true - in much the same way I can swear that Ryan Gosling loves me with all his heart. 

Now, let’s just say she’s right. It’s abhorrent and disgusting and all of those provocative words, but if we close down all these tiger sanctuaries does anyone really believe that the use of tigers in traditional Chinese medicine will stop? Of course it won’t, what will happen is the very few tigers left in the wild will be hunted to extinction and that’ll be the end of that. Man is the most dangerous and selfish of animals, if he believes taking a pill made of fermented tiger penis will give him a hard on, he’ll keep demanding access to it. 

Look at these medicines, a huge percentage are to cure erectile disfunction. Someone should inform the sick fuckers who demand dead animals bits as a cure that we now have Viagra.

What shocks me the most is zoo workers who attack me. Even the best of zoos is a far from ideal way for animals to live. Singapore Zoo is considered one of the best in the world and when I visited it was was very impressed with the way it’s run. But a tiger in an enclosure vs one living in the wild? Wild is best every time of course. The thing that depressed me more than anything was the way the animals at Singapore Zoo were made to turn tricks for the paying humans. A “show” telling the story of how mankind has destroyed their habitat employed several animals. 

If these Tiger Temples and Kingdoms are exploiting animals, what the hell are zoos with their “shows” doing? Both of them are whoring them out, only the whorehouse changes.

In an ideal world there would be enough space for every living creature to exist in peace with plenty to eat, room to roam and breed, and no fear of us. But when you consider how dreadful we treat each other, it’s pretty obvious that animals haven’t got a bloody chance! 

These people in their ivory towers who berate me for being evil personified because I post a few photos should really take a look at themselves before they start on me. I don’t drive a car, I don’t have kids, I’m really not using up too much of the earth’s resources. My job entails bringing laughter to my fellow man. I’m not the enemy here, I’m just someone who sees the world as it is, not as it should be.

Get your head out of the clouds and check yourself.

The F Word...The R Word Too While We're At It

In the last year or two the F word has become a huge talking point. At the grand old age of I’m from a time when you didn’t have to say you were a Feminist, you just were one.

Now there’s a whole bunch of young - well younger than me anyway - women telling us all how to be Feminist and what traitors we are to our vaginas if we’re not their kind of feminist. The problem as far as I see it, is that there’s not a ‘one size fits all’ version of Feminism. 

Katie Price says she’s a feminist, women who pole and lap-dance consider themselves feminist. Who am I to deny their claims? If you’re living life on your own terms and you’re happy with where you are, then nobody has the right to tell you what you are (or aren’t).

I have to say this whole eruption of ‘new feminism’ took me by surprise. I thought we were ‘there’, the work of the women who came the generation before me was done. As I look around me I see that’s far from the case. 

My male peers are earning far more than me and my fellow women for espousing similar opinions. They get bookings we don’t because corporate bookers deem the same words coming out of our mouths as ‘unsuitable’ or ‘outrageous’ or even ‘offensive’. 

Of course the plight of the female comedian is well documented and until recently I avoided discussing it like the plague. Starting out I had as many breaks as my male counterparts, if not more, because in those days people paid lip service to the notion of political correctness, and a ‘bird on the bill’ ticked an important box. 

That was 20 years ago though, now it’s gone full circle, men can make jokes about mingers, rape, ugly birds - stuff that would’ve got them drummed out of the ‘Alternative Comedy’ fraternity even a decade ago. Now it gets them on the various topical tv shows. They’re ‘edgy’ and ‘provocative’. 

These days I'm sad to say I consider the notion of 'sisterhood' to be a bit of a pipe dream.  In my time as a comedian the biggest blocks to my career have been placed there by my 'sisters'. I still get surprised by the random acts of sabotage at the hands of other vagina people. I do think its part of a bigger picture, while the women are busy infighting, the men can carry on eroding the freedoms our predecessors fought for (and won). This is happening everywhere in life, not just comedy. 

Newspapers love to fuel this divide, to turn women against each other, because let’s face it while we’re slagging off Kim Kardashian or Jordan, our eyes are off the ball. I get sucked in, reading the sidebar of shame, judging the way KK wears a frock or Katie Price’s latest media outburst.

The Daily Mail - that "bastion of all evil" - is particularly brilliant at this. They have a roster of self-hating females ready to sell their souls for the (admittedly huge) fees the Mail pays. For a long time it was just poor, disturbed Liz Jones who was held up as an example of the ‘silly spoilt bitch’ but she’s got a whole gang over there in Derry Street now. Samantha Brick and her astonishing beauty, Katie Hopkins and her frankly disturbing views on everything, some woman bragging about how she never cooks for her family and doesn’t fuck her husband, Shona Sibarry who every week seems to pen a piece about how revolting she is. It’s like the demons of Kensington High Street have built a ‘harpy factory’ in the basement to churn these creatures out. The women I know don’t behave, think or speak the same language as the Mail’s ‘Witches of Fleet St’. 

It’s working too, at this year’s Edinburgh Festival, some women who should know better debated the ‘varying degrees of rape’. It’s bad enough when some crusty old male judge derides a rape victim as ‘asking for it’ because she had the audacity to leave the house in a mini-skirt. That bullshit phrase rears it's ugly head with depressing regularity. 

‘Asking for it’. Let’s take a look at that shall we?

When I was 17 I was raped by two men.  Before that night I was a virgin. Afterwards I was as abused by their words as their actions. They told me not to bother going to the police as I'd been seen earlier in the company of one of them. Drinking and flirting. In their words I was 'asking for it'. I wasn't. I was a young woman on holiday in a foreign country, enjoying all that life had to offer. I wasn't asking to be held at knifepoint for over 8 hours, and raped repeatedly as I cried, screamed and begged to be let go. 

When I hear women say those words it breaks my heart. 

The women who say that a young girl in a short skirt is asking for it (btw I was wearing bondage trousers when it happened to me - don't judge me it was 1978) are the same ones screaming from the rooftops about the horror of Muslim women being 'forced' to wear niqabs. Don't they see the flaws in their diatribes?

There's a clear enough fucking line from berating a gal in a pussy pelmet when she gets attacked to demand she cover all but her eyes in a black shroud because her sexuality is so overwhelming men can't resist her wiles. What about men being taught to keep it in their fucking pants until we ask them to take it out?

Reflections

So one of the things travel is supposed to do for you is broaden your mind, that’s what “they” say. Well I’ve certainly learned a lot about the way the world works. More importantly I’ve learned so much more about myself.

I’m learning that I’m pretty resilient, that I’m capable of way more than I ever though possible - like a seven day fast! - and that in the scheme of things I’m a pretty cool person.

This all sounds so big headed I know, but in spite of the character I portray in my day to day life, I’m pretty damn hard on myself. Having been raised to feel I was never good enough, I then sought out relationships with others that reinforced those negative feelings. I don’t just mean sexual relationships, although I was once dumped for being ‘only close to perfect’. But even a number of friendships over the years, I constantly felt as though I had to run to keep up with the people in my life. They were all cleverer than me, more talented, more attractive, more successful, slimmer, the list is endless. In the last few years I’ve found myself being less willing to put up with that kind of b/s from others and I’ve consciously withdrawn myself from people I felt to be toxic. 

This has been really scary, there’s been times when I’ve felt incredibly isolated from the world, especially as the last of my family members have passed on. I’ve grieved hard for people I didn’t much like when they were alive because it was better to have the toxic relationships than it was to be alone. This belief appears to have run it’s course now, and I am starting to finally accept that I’m pretty ok. I’m not the dumbest, fattest, ugliest person I know, nor am I anywhere ‘close to perfect’ but I am ok. And while my career may not have soared to the heights of some of my peers, I’m proud of the work I do and I love that I enjoy every minute of my life; be it time spent onstage or time as now spent on a beautiful tropical island with not much more than sunshine, a hammock and time to think and reflect. 

The Deal Or No Deal One

So, the day before I turned 51 I was laid up in bed with one of those mystery ‘viruses’ doctors diagnose when they haven’t a bleeding clue what’s wrong with you, and I happened to check my junk mail box on my email account. 

A new mail had gone there directly, and when I opened it, it claimed to be from Endemol, the TV production behemoth. In the subject line was Celebrity Deal or No Deal Jimmy Carr  Special.

I read through and apparently Jimmy had nominated me as one of the 22 ‘celebrity box openers’ for a charity special he was filming on Good Friday (6 April). If I accepted the offer, myself and 21 other comedians from the circuit would get to appear on the cult C4 show hosted by one of my childhood icons Noel Edmonds.

I was giddy and intrigued. It was such an out-of-the-blue offer. As someone who’s been part-time on the circuit for the last couple of years due to a prolonged period of self-discovery and tan enhancement, I was amazed that any TV company was interested in using me onscreen for anything. 

I was intrigued because while I know Jimmy and worked with him a few times when he was on the circuit, I seriously doubted I was in his top 22 comedy chums of all time. It had to be a scam or a mate taking the piss. 

I know this makes me sound incredibly paranoid but it wouldn’t be the first time a ‘friend’ had done this to me. I was once on a quiz show with Jonathan Ross back when I was a journalist, I should’ve won a car but instead I got some of Elton John’s old platform shoes. The next day, my phone at work rang and a ‘producer’ from a TV company was offering me all kinds of televisual opportunities. Said ‘friend’ waited until I had told every single person I’d ever known before coming clean that it was a prank. Needless to say, that person is no longer a friend.

But I digress. How was I gonna work out if this was kosher? I replied to the email saying I would love to do the show, but it was dependent on me being able to get to my gig that evening. Within seconds, the researcher came back with train times from Bristol to Sheffield where the show was. If this was a hoax they were on the ball. 

I wanted to get on Twitter and ask my comedy pals if any of them had been asked, but if it was a genuine offer, then I risked pissing off those who hadn’t been approached, all of whom would suddenly have a better claim to being one of Jimmy’s pals than me. I asked one of my closest mates and he’d not been asked but he is secure enough for it not to matter. His advice was say nowt to no-one until you’re sure.

After a few days of exchanging emails and phone calls with the production company, I saw my mate Mark Olver online. I tweeted him asking if I’d be seeing him on Good Friday and got the response that I would. I should explain that Mark is the warm-up man for the show as well as a comedian, therefore bound to know if it was legit. 

I had my confirmation, now I could relax and plan what to wear. The rules were pretty comprehensive - no black, no white, no stripes, no sparkles, and of course no red as the boxes are red and you’d look like you just had the number on your belly. 

It was suggested that I wear what I might wear to go out to dinner on a Saturday night, but after almost 20 years of working every Saturday night, dinner for me was a sandwich back at the hotel or a selection of fried animal in a basket at the venues. In the end, my last choice of an old hippy-ish jacket was their first choice and everyone was happy. Me especially cos I didn’t even have to change the bottom half as it’s not seen onscreen.

I was asked my age, and when I responded that I was 51, the lovely girl on the phone came back with ‘can you stand unaided for two hours?’. ‘Of course I can’ I said, only mildly insulted, and of course the next day my raddled, arthritic hips began to play up making a mockery of my indignation.

Because the show was being filmed relatively early on Friday morning, we were asked if we’d like to come down the night before and stay in a hotel in Bristol. The majority of us jumped at the chance and those of us who didn’t have gigs on Thursday night met early and went for dinner. Afterwards, as we sat in the hotel bar drinking, bullshitting and catching up there was a steady stream of arrivals as comics who did have gigs began to arrive. None of us knew for sure who was taking part so it was quite exciting as one by one  the ‘cream of the circuit’ made their way to reception. It’s very rare that you get more than two or three comics in one place except the festivals, so for a gang this size to be together, was a real treat. 

We gossiped, laughed, bitched and traded gags and insults far later than we should have given the early call time. Truth be told we were all a bit excited, no matter how blase we pretended to be. A few of us were regular viewers of the show, and you can be as cynical as you like, when they get someone on who you connect with or care about, you get involved. Yes, it’s a game of chance, but that doesn’t stop you wanting someone who’s had a few bad breaks in life to win a decent amount of cash. I’d even been considering applying to be a contestant on it, though of course now I am ineligible.

After breakfast we were ferried by coach to the studios - on an anonymous Bristol industrial estate, and guided through the pre-show procedure. Wardrobe examined our three outfit choices, we were taken through the rules - you mustn’t touch the box till Noel tells you to, etc., and given a dummy run at opening the boxes. 

Now in reality it’s all very simple, all we had to do was not swear too much, be supportive of Jimmy, get involved in the game and open the box when he picked our number. Sounds easy doesn’t it?

Jimmy arrived and he seemed as excited/nervous as us. The pressure was on him to win big for his charity, the excellent Helen and Douglas House. They run hospices for children and here’s a link so that you can give them some dosh as well:

 http://www.helenanddouglas.org.uk/

As we were dressed and made up - a huge thanks to the make-up artists on the show, they made us all look bright eyed and bushy tailed - it was like an episode of Extreme Makeover as one by one sallow skinned and saggy eyed comedians emerged looking faaaaabulous darling!

Then we were led into the studio. The ‘pilgrims’ were already seated and Mark was doing a great job of warming them up. They were all wearing black and were far younger than I expected. You could tell the recognised one or two of us (not me) from telly, but they were as supportive of those of us they didn’t know too. 

A man came round with a bag of balls and we all had to choose one. This is how you get your box. Mine was 5 and said box was placed in front of me. As instructed, I didn’t touch it, but placed my hands either side and as I did, I noticed that the veneer of the wooden desk had disappeared completely in two hand-shaped spots. The sweat of hundreds of players had eroded the varnish!

Suddenly Noel Edmonds came out and it was very odd to see him in the flesh. As a child of the 70’s he was the voice I heard before I went to school in the mornings and the face I watched on Saturdays (well before Tiswas started). He almost didn’t seem real. He was though and off we went.

My box was chosen early on and in an only slightly mocking way I made comments about how my box felt full (phnar phnar) and how I was convinced that I had a huge amount of cash in there. Of course I didn’t have a bloody clue, but if there was 50p it would be funny and if I had the £250,000 I’d look psychic, win/win. Turns out I had the next one down - £100,000 and this prompted Jimmy to call me a witch. All good telly.

Once we got halfway through the game, the atmosphere changed, a lot of the big money was gone, taking with it the flippancy from most of us hard-bitten, cynical comedians. His charity is an amazing one and we all got gripped by the cult of DOND, even the most level headed of my comedy pals were starting to give a shit! We booed and hissed at the Banker’s derisory offers as well as his generous ones. Our boy Jimmy was going all the way and he was gonna take a bucket load of cash with him.

The whole crew

It’s really hard to describe why or how it happens but you do get totally sucked in, you forget that it is a series of numbers chosen at random, and that the outcome is one that’s purely down to chance. You begin to believe. You start to think that if you really want it bad enough the biggest box will the be the one the player has, and as blue after blue appeared we were all convinced that £35,000 was on it’s way to the charity.

In the end it was down to two numbers £35,000 and £750. Jimmy had turned his game around from a disaster to a potential success, surely the gods would be with him as Noel opened box 22? 

Sadly not, he didn’t have the big money Roger Monkhouse did, and I can’t begin to tell you how heartbreaking it felt. Seconds before the entire studio was infected with an elation I’d not felt in years, then bang! With the tearing of a bit of tape it was gone. 

There was talk of ‘we can do a benefit and make the money back’ and another suggestion after the show ends all 23 of us would post the link to Helen and Douglas House’s website so that everyone who watched the show or just gives a shit about children would click and donate. I’m going one further and putting it here too, again. Do it. You know it makes sense.

http://www.helenanddouglas.org.uk/

A Crying Shame...

So then in the midst of packing and sorting out my life both home and away I took a couple of hours out today to go and see the new Steve McQueen (not that one, the artist bloke who makes films now) movie “Shame”.

It stars Carey Mulligan who got to snog Ryan Gosling in Drive so I’m already jealous of her, and Michael Fassbender who to my knowledge hasn’t be that close to Mr Gosling so he’s ok.

There was a really mixed bunch in the cinema (Odeon Camden). A few young couples, one or two older women making use of Pensioner’s Monday discounts, a couple of random guys and me. I’d read up on the movie and was surprised at the couples, it’s not what I’d consider a ‘date’ movie! The single men didn’t surprise me at all, I guess they were expecting a shagfest - boy were they gonna be let down.

I was a bit apprehensive about going alone to see it cos I’d heard there were a few full frontal shots of Mr Fassbender nekkid and I didn’t wanna look like an ‘old spinster wankmonkey’ as I put it on Twitter. 

Sadly an early menopause put paid to my wanking days and indeed my sex drive completely and this was driven home to me today when practically the opening shot is him wandering about with his todger flapping about. 

He’s an attractive man, he has an ‘attractive’ knob - inasmuch as any knob can be attractive and even flaccid it’s a decent size - but all I could think was ‘nice apartment’.

I did have a good look at it though, and even if I wasn’t a dried up old wretch, his bush would’ve put me off. He had so much hair around his cock it looked like Angela Davis. If you gave him a blow job you’d be coughing up hairballs like a cat for weeks!

In case you weren’t aware, he’s meant to be this soulless sex addict, but from what I could see, he didn’t seem a whole lot different to most of the guys I’ve known in my time! It was a really bleak, depressing movie - beautifully shot mind you, you can tell the director is an artist - but not one to see if you’re already on a downer.

By the way, any men reading this, if you see it and don’t think he has too much pubic hair, then your bush needs trimming too!

The Biggest Tits of All...

So for the last week or so I've kept my trap shut as assorted "reactionaries" have kicked off in the media and on the social networks about PIP breast implants. The gist of their arguments seems to be that if women are vain enough to get implants then they should not expect to have them removed on the NHS. Today I could bite my tongue no longer, as the latest fuckwit blethered on about women wanting big tits to get a man or a career and therefore it's their own fault if the implants explode and kill them.

Several of these people have been saying that if women had better self esteem they wouldn't feel the need to have ginormous tits and that we should all be happy with the way we were born. What I find both fascinating and repulsive is that most of the people making these comments are women.

Women who regularly bleach their hair, wear make-up (often way more than necessary), women - one of whom I know for a fact had a pretty extreme eating disorder in her youth - who spend a fortune on clothes, handbags, shoes etc etc to look the best they can. And yet they have the audacity to tell me that I was a vain, stupid bimbo because I had breast implants? Fuck right off Missus!

I didn't have them to get onto Page 3 or Stringfellow's pole, I had them because when I lost weight I lost all of my tits, so I had the smallest implants known to man inserted and paid a fortune for them. Luckily for me they are not the ones that are making headlines, but they just as easily could be and I too would be at the mercy of these sanctimonious bitches who claim sisterhood but hate all women.

When I was 14 I discovered a lump in my right breast. I was scared and terrified of having cancer so I stupidly said nothing to anyone for close to a year. My silly schoolgirl thinking was that I would rather be dead than walk around with one breast. In those days if you had a mastectomy there was no reconstructive surgery. Eventually I told my mum and the next morning we were at the Doctors and within minutes I was told it was a lymph node. Luckily for me it went away of its own accord so I had no surgery. My GP at the time said something that turned out to be really prophetic, he said 'you're one of those girls who will always have lumpy breasts'.

When I was 17 and living in London I got another lump, this time in the left breast. It was right behind the nipple and the size of a pea, again I was stupid and kept it quiet for longer than I should've done for the fear of it being cancer. My other thought was it that was just another lymph node and therefore no need to be making a big old fuss. I eventually saw a doctor who referred me to a breast specialist. This one wasn't a lymph node, and so the tests began. I must have the luck of the Irish cause it was a benign cyst and it was removed immediately. I was in hospital only a few hours and that was that for me. On that ward were several women who weren't so lucky, and the fear of breast cancer grew in me.

Around 10 years ago another lump came in my left breast, this one was different to all of the others, it was sore, it was deep inside the breast and it was making the whole breast hot and red. It seemed to flare up overnight almost, so there was no hanging about this time. I took a cab to St Mary's hospital and went straight to A&E. It turned out to be an abscess that was on the verge of rupturing.

Luckily for me I'd caught it in time to avoid any major repercussions. I was kept in hospital and the abscess was monitored and eventually drained of the most disgusting looking pus I've ever seen. I'd been given a huge shot of yummy morphine and I remember lying on the bed watching the doctor drain this thing using ultrasound. On the monitor I could see the abscess and looking down at my boob I could see the green yucky poison coming out.

Because I was off my tits (almost literally) I felt no pain and was just fascinated by the whole thing. For several weeks and months afterwards I was kept under observation by the breast specialist at St Mary's to make sure that it wasn't cancerous and that it didn't return. I can still remember how scared I felt as I went in to be told whether it was cancerous or not. At the back of my mind though was the thought that even if I had to have a mastectomy, I could have the breast rebuilt and this was a great comfort to me.

Everytime I went to that clinic I sat there with women who had all kinds of breast problems, but it was easy to spot the ones who had the biggest problem. They were the women sitting there with headscarves on, they were the ones who seemed to be on first name terms with the nurses, they were the ones who had this 'look' in their eyes, a look I couldn't begin to explain. Brave, amazing women.

To hear these self-righteous bitches on Twitter and Facebook, as well as in the media, banging on about vain women getting implants when there are women out there with implants for a multitude of reasons makes me so angry! So five years ago I had my implants done. My surgeon - Mr Jan Stanek - was made fully aware of my history of 'lumpy tits' and he assured me it was fine to put these implants in. My GP also said there was no problem with having this work done. Touch wood, there never has been a problem with them - so far.

But that left breast, the one where the abscess was? Well that has been a problem. The abscess has returned twice and now, because I paid privately to have my boobs done, I am no longer eligible to have any treatment whatsoever on the NHS. As regards to the "taxpayer" footing the bill for our "vanity", well here's my take on that... The first time I got a lump - post boob job - I went to the breast clinic, the same one that had treated me 10 years ago, and they refused to even look at it because I'd had work done. They had the notes there, they knew this was something that was pre-boob job, but they still sent me away.

I ended up having to pay £2000 to get it removed privately. Mr Stanek did the surgery for free but the anaesthetist and the hospital wanted paying! The second time was while I was travelling last year and again I had to turn to the private sector. So anyone who says that women who get implants are vain, stupid, a drain on the nation's purse etc, think first you have no idea who you are judging.

The whole point of these PIP implants is that the Medicines and Healthcare products Regulatory Agency (http://www.mhra.gov.uk/) passed them as fit for purpose in the UK. So here's a thought, how about all the women who were mis-sold these impure implants pay to get them removed themselves then sue the government to fuck for not doing their job in the first place.

Would that make you feel better? Or should these"bimbos" just leave them in their bodies and wait for them to explode? Shame on every single woman who has taken the stance that those with implants are 'getting what they deserve'.

2011 What A Year!!!!!!!!

So then I’m fully aware that I have a ton of posts to add to my blog, and I will get around to it. I’ll be honest there’s a couple that I’m waiting for the dust to settle before I post all about my experiences with incompetent promoters, and the rest, well I’ve just been too damn busy doing Xmas shows! Thinking back to this time last year, I wouldn’t have thought I’d have written that last sentence. I was facing what I genuinely believed was my last ever gig - NYE 2010 - and looking forward to finding (or losing) myself in India. I was excited and fearful at the same time. Mentally I wasn’t in a great place at all, the deaths of my Dad and Jason Wood in February 2010 were still making it difficult for me to find joy in anything, and what I really wanted was to join them. So the trip to India was really about finding a reason to carry on. Of course I do depression in style, so I arrived in a sweltering Mumbai mid-January and proceeded to the Taj Palace hotel for a couple of nights before heading down to Goa. One of the best surprises was bumping into Camilla who 20 years earlier had sold me assorted bags, beads and god knows what else. She recognised me after all this time and I her. We both had tears in our eyes as we caught up on what’d been going on in the previous two decades.

From Goa it was onto Delhi for a fabulous trip spent with Rames, my driver and guide as I explored the delights of Delhi, Jaipur and Agra. I was speechless at the beauty of the Taj Mahal. I remember the last time I was in India saying that I would come back one day and see this place, now here I was achieving that. It was a really emotional moment.

Rames was concerned that I was heading off to the Osho Commune in Pune. Needless to say Osho doesn’t have a great reputation in his own country, even 20 years after his death. I wasn’t sure what to expect at all, every Indian person I mentioned it to referred to the old reputation he had as the ‘Sex Guru’ and seemed to think it was still a shagfest. If they were right, it was gonna be a dull old three months for me! I won’t go into all of the details of my time there (I’m sure if you scroll back it’s all here somewhere) but things did change, not least of all I turned 50 in March! Not in the way I wanted or even expected them to of course - life doesn’t work like that. Suffice to say that after 10 weeks in there I was reminded that I love doing comedy, and that I’m nowhere near as fucked up as I thought I was! Once that realisation had dawned I fired off a few emails to my favourite promoters and booked up a summer of gigs. My first one back was MC’ing Up The Creek - a perfect place to re-start. As I waited to walk up onto the stage, it suddenly hit me that it’d been more than five months since I’d done this and I got a frisson of nerves I’d not had for years. Within 30 seconds of being onstage it was like I’d never been away and I loved it! Sadly offstage I was dealt a pretty massive blow health-wise. It turned out that my aching and swollen joints are slowly succumbing to both osteo and rheumatoid arthritis. I cannot begin to tell you how much this has devastated me. Five years ago when I had the gastric bypass and lost half my body weight, the main incentive was so that I wouldn’t have too many health problems in my old age. Likewise I gave up smoking for the same reasons. Now here I am at 50 with Lupus and rotting bones and it really stinks. I’m on medication that is making me gain weight and most days my knees are too sore to do much to stem that. In what was an otherwise pretty crap summer for me there was one huge highlight. I was incredibly lucky enough to be able to go to Wembley and see Take That - all five of them for the first time since the 90's! It was a terrific experience.

Take That aside, it’s no wonder that I quickly booked a ticket to bugger off again in October. I decided to fund part of this trip by booking myself in for some gigs in Singapore and Indonesia during November and my return was planned for next summer. After a few weeks of doing gigs I was made an offer that was too good to refuse which resulted in me changing my flight to allow a six week trip back to the UK in December. It was 18 months since I was last in Bangkok and I’d really missed the place. I love the energy, the dirt and the gloss and the craziness. The first thing I did when I landed was head down to my favourite travel guy on the Khao San Road and book a return trip to the Tiger Temple. My goodness! If it was magical the first time round it was moreso this time! I handed over the extra cash and got to play with fully grown tigers in their swimming area, followed by giving one of them a shower and some dinner. Yep I hand fed a grown-ass tiger and felt no fear. How freaky is that?

From there I flew to Ho Chi Minh City and began my love affair with Vietnam and their delicious Pho Bo. I hadn’t planned it, but what with the floods in Thailand and the fact that it’s such a brilliant place I spent almost a month there. I did have a little side trip to Cambodia, a place I definitely want to see more of in the not too distant future. Angkor Wat was mindblowing!

Singapore was pretty much as I expected it to be, clean and shiny and the gigs were great fun, as was spending time with my pal Johnny Candon. Bali was a delight, so much so that I ended up spending longer there than I’d originally planned. It was also the place where different parts of my world came together - I was so lucky to be able to meet up with Aussie Tridzia whom I’d met in Kuala Lumpur the year before and also with my best pal from the ashram Danielle. It really meant a lot to see both of these amazing women and it brought home to me just how small this planet is.

On what would’ve been my Dad’s 85th birthday I flew back to the UK and hit the ground running as far as gigs were concerned spending most of December at Birmingham Highlight in the company of the fabulous Jackie Frost and a roster of some of my favourite comedy chums - and I got paid for all that fun. Christmas was what it was, I spent it in Hamburg in a very nice hotel that had a spa that was open on Christmas Day which meant I could experience my very first hot stone massage - it felt good but nowhere near as amazing as the Wat Pho massages I had in Bangkok - that’s a proper Thai massage! Now here I am on the day before New Year’s Eve and unlike this time last year, there’s no big life or death decisions to be made. What I have learned this year more than anything is that life isn’t Black or White, or Right or Wrong. Sometimes life just is and 2012 is gonna be full of all kinds of things I have no control over or even stuff I’ve not yet thought about, and that’s what keeps me going. Happy New Year!

My Christmas Present To You All....

Don't worry all the sordid details of my experiences in Singapore, Bali and Jakarta will be posted before long, but in the season of goodwill to all men I give you this... http://fuckyeahryangosling.tumblr.com Enjoy xx

Shantaram

When I went on my pre-trip book buying spree at Daunt Books in Marylebone, I kinda went for things I’d vaguely heard of but had no real idea what they might be about. I got One Day and The Corrections and my third choice was Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts.

In the days leading up to my departure at least two people whose opinions I respect mightily when it comes to books asked me if I’d read it, and said I must do so.

As it was the thickest of the books I brought with me, and of course it’s set in India, I figured I’d read that first. That way even if it wasn’t as good as people said, I’d be lowering the weight in my carry-on bag and at least I’d get some tips on India.

Well, I started reading it last Thursday night and finished it yesterday (Thursday) morning. What a cracker! I’m sure being here and having gone to one of the places he writes about quite frequently (Leopold’s in Mumbai) made it more real for me, but his insights into the Indian mindset and his descriptions of the people really hit home to me.

I don’t know how much I would’ve loved it had I not been in India when I read it, but I’m willing to bet it would still make a huge impression. It’s billed as a novel but from what I can work out, there’s a helluva lot of autobiography in there too - he wrote the book in an Australian Prison, so that much at least must be real life - and it struck me that it’s the perfect way to write about times in your life when you weren’t perhaps the most law-abiding of citizens. Put it all in there, change a few names and call it fiction! Perfect.

Lashings of Lashes!

I may have that weird little location specific ad at the top of my posts (mainly cos there is no facility to remove it once you click the box) but I don't really do ads or product placements in my posts.

Regular readers will know that I am on an endless and eternal quest to try every beauty treatment ever invented from Creme de la Mere to sheep's placenta hair conditioner. Most of them don't work at all or if they do, no better than if I smeared half a pound of lard on my chops at night.

One product I've been trying out for the last few months that does work though, is RapidLash. I saw a plug for it in Grazia or somewhere and next time I was in Boots - which seems to be the only stockist - I picked up a box and gave it a go.

It's not cheap, £40 for a tube, but it is the cheapest of the serious lash serums out there. I've been using it every night for about five months on both my lashes and eyebrows, so far I've used two tubes so actually it's not that expensive.

Initially I didn't see a difference, but then I noticed an eyelash growing where I'd had a tiny bald spot for years, then about two months in people started complementing me on my lashes, even when I wasn't wearing mascara.

Last month in Kuala Lumpur three different strangers asked me if I was wearing those eyelash extentions. Now I don't know about you, but I rarely even notice someone's eyelashes. I'd notice if they weren't there, but I don't look at someone and go 'Ooooh they've got lovely lashes!', so for someone to notice mine and comment, there must be something going on!

And there is, to the point where now I just get them tinted and the only time I wear mascara is onstage and even then only one coat, compared to the two or three coats I used to use!

It's a watered down version of a product that was developed to help people who've lost hair due to chemotherapy grow lashes and brows, and you need to follow the instructions, but of all the over the counter beauty stuff I've ever bought, this is the only one that actually works!

Speaking of the eyelash tints, I've got a new place to get that done after my local "expert" tore my skin off waxing my brows before I went away. Last weekend I went to Blink in Selfridges and got my brows threaded, plus a lash and brow tint (the joy of ageing, my eyebrow hairs are coming in white now!). The girl who did it was fast, the procedure was pain-free, and the results amazing! Give them a go.

I'm learning that if you get the grooming bit right, you don't really need a lot of make-up. Only taken me to get to nearly 50!

Kulcha Innit?

So far this week I've seen a movie, listened to some excellent poetry and watched a 'serious' play in the West End. Check me out!

On Monday I'd just about recovered from the gastric flu that caused me to cancel my gigs last weekend, and so I made my way back to yoga. It's been an eternity since I was last there, my CELTA course and surgery on my stomach and my hand over the summer meant that any kind of exercise was out of the question and so it was with some trepidation that I went into the class. My god! It really doesn't take long to get out of shape does it?

Ninety minutes later, I was a bit sweaty, quite achy, but feeling more vibrant than I have done in a long time. It's good to be back.

Yoga was followed by a trip to the cinema. I'd decided to ignore the critics and go and see Eat, Pray, Love for myself. After all, this is going to be my story too I hope! I'd made my plans long before I was aware of the book, and when I read Liz Gilbert's account of her year travelling and 'reconnecting' with the world a part of me was pissed off because I realised my plans to write about my experiences were a little less original now! Loved the book though.

Now, while the makers of the movie have 'tinkered' with some of the facts, I have to say I loved the movie too. It made me very excited for my travels to come, especially if there's a Javier Bardem-alike waiting for me at the end of the rainbow!

That night saw me at Kensington Town Hall with my pal for the launch of Black History Month. The Royal Borough decided to launch it with an audience with Linton Kwesi Johnson. Back in the punk days I was a huge fan of his and had quite a few of his albums.

This time there were no musicians backing him, just this rather stately looking man in a fairly posh room reciting his poems and talking about his experiences. It was spell-binding. So much so that I paid a visit to iTunes the next morning and downloaded BassCulture and Forces of Victory. You should too.

Then last night saw me meeting up with my old pal Stephen K Amos who is enjoying a rare couple of days off (the man never stops working!). We went to the Novello Theatre to see Onassis. It starred Robert Lindsay, who was fabulous, though as this is still the preview stage his accent veered from Greek to Mancunian at times - sometimes within the one sentence! Jackie O had similar problems nailing the Boston accent too. Maria Callas was fantastic, but I was sad they didn't recall the tapeworm story. The staging was terrific and the ensemble did a cracking job. It's a trifle wordy, but then Aristotle Onassis led a helluva life, probably too much of a life to condense into a couple of hours. It was a great night at the theatre though.

School's Out!

Soooo the more eagle-eyed amongst you will have noticed that I didn't blog much (at all!) during the course. One simply reason, no blimmin' time! In future, when somebody tells me something is intensive I will totally believe them, not just half-believe them!

Looking back on it all now, it's a bit of a blur. Week one was comparatively simple, though at the time it felt pretty darn tough going. As I got to know my fellow-classmates I realised that we really were a mixed bunch! I was the oldest of course; just call me Ms Mid-Life Crisis!

The majority had university degrees and weren't long away from those universities. I calculated it's been 32 years since I was last in any form of education! This became obvious when I had to write the assignments. There's a formula to these things and I don't know what it is! The only creative writing I've done in the last couple of decades has been the odd knob gag and a few telly treatments that never got further than the commissioning editors' desks!

Fortunately we were allowed to resubmit, and as in each of the four I certainly had the right idea, with a bit of tweaking I passed them all. Yay me!

It's a very practical course and on Day 2 we were thrown in the deep end teaching-wise. From that point onwards we taught around three times a week. As nerve-wracking and stressful as that was, it's so the right way to do it! Earlier in the year I'd had a go at an online TEFL course, which I had to drop out of because of my Dad, but I see now that even if I had passed that, I would never have been fit to teach in the real world. After the 6 hours of practical experience I got with the IH CELTA, I feel able to actually apply for teaching posts knowing that I can do the job.

Week three was the most intense seven days of my life! Ever! Even week two's tube strike couldn't hold a candle to the sheer volume of work involved in writing two huge assignments, teaching four out of five days, the hours and hours of lesson planning needed for that, plus the four hours spent observing professional teachers, and the 10 hours of lessons we had! Even now, I couldn't tell you how I got through it!

I did though, and week four was comparatively easy. I only had one, one-hour lesson to teach, I'd passed Assignment 3 straight out so there was no re-write to do on that one, and by then I was becoming used to working at this level. When I finished my hour lesson and got my grade I knew the result of my labours, even though the written confirmation has yet to arrive in the post.

I've learned quite a lot about myself this last month, I've learned that I can be a team player (as long as I am on the winning team - Go Team Tanc!). I've learned something really special too. I first thought about obtaining an ELT qualification purely as a means to make a few bob on my travels, but I've come out of this experience with a new revelation - I genuinely love teaching! I love the sense of satisfaction you get when someone learns something new because you've explained it properly. There's a few ex-teachers amongst my comedy chums, but I'm not aware of any other comics who've gone the opposite way. Maybe I'll be the first.

I've learned that no matter how old you are, you can always learn something new, and I don't just mean the teaching skills. I've learned all kinds of things about people from the people on my course. I gained a new BFF who is almost 30 years younger than me, and I've met and been lucky to spend time with a really terrific and interesting bunch of human beings who are all now going out into the world and will be teaching so much more than past participles to anyone lucky enough to study with them.

I learned that my Mum was right about me too, that if I apply myself to something I can achieve. This is the first time in my life I have ever given 100% to something. School, journalism, stand-up, relationships, I've always only ever done 'just enough' to get by. But this last four weeks I did everything I possibly could to get the right result. I stuck my neck out and actually it was more about the doing it, than the end result. I know there are a few people out there who never thought I'd last the course let alone get a good result, but I dug in and gave my all.

And guess what, dear reader? I passed!

Back To School...

... in the morning!

After a fab weekend in Sheffield where apart from gigging I mainly slept it must be said, I now have four weeks off from performing.

In the morning I begin my four-week CELTA course. I've been warned that it's really intense, and just getting up and commuting every day Monday to Friday after 17 years of working at night is going to be a challenge.

The beauty of this is that I'm doing it because I want to, I don't have to pass in order to get on with my future plans, but I want this qualification under my belt. I can volunteer with the VSO if I have something like this to offer.

I'm really looking forward to using my brain, to mixing with my other classmates and the students I'll be teaching from day two of the course.

Here's to new beginnings.

A New Chapter

Soooooo this is the blog post where I tell all. A few of my pals on Twitter and Facebook have been wondering what I’m up to as I hinted at changes - big ones - that I was making in my life. Well here’s what’s happening.

On New Year’s Eve I will be doing my last circuit gig for the foreseeable future at Leicester Highlight. After 17 years on the circuit I’ve decided its time for a sabbatical.

This year has been pretty rotten in all kinds of ways - the deaths of both my Dad and my good friend Jason Wood - and my own ill health have focussed me in a way I’ve not been in a very long time. The simple fact is I’m ready for a change. I still love my time onstage, but all the “stuff” that surrounds it, well that’s the bit I’ve had enough of.

Next week I begin my month long CELTA course and please god I will emerge at the end of September with a certificate, recognised by Cambridge University, that will enable me to teach English almost anywhere in the world.

I love to travel and in particular love being in SE Asia. I’ve said before that I always feel like I’ve come home when I touch down in that part of the world, be it Bangkok or Shanghai or Kuala Lumpur and with this certificate I can hopefully spend longer periods of time in those cities and other places in the area.

I’m not starting off there though. In January I fly off to India for five whole months, three of which are going to be spent doing “working meditation” on an ashram in Pune. I’ve been told I could be doing anything from mopping floors to making cappuccinos so it’s gonna be interesting to say the least!

From there my plan is to spend next summer in Barcelona both teaching English and learning Spanish, before heading off to Laos, Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand and wherever my fancy takes me.

I cannot tell you how excited I am at the thought of this mahoooosive lifestyle change. I’ve been dreaming of it for a long time and finally I am in a position financially to make it happen. One lesson I am taking from this year is that life really is too short to put off living your dreams.

I’ll still be writing about my adventures and in due course I’ll be letting you know where you can read about them.

I’m not turning my back on performing either. I rather suspect that I might just finally come up with something I wanna talk about for an hour every night in Edinburgh after this!

The Godlike Genius of Kathy Burke

http://beta.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/console/b00tcz90/Desert_Island_Discs_Kathy_Burke

click and listen to the most amazing bit of radio for ages!

I'm In The Future!!!!!!!

Kind of.

Wednesday night saw me off to my favourite place in London - Westfield - to see Toy Story 3 in the Vue cinema there. Me and my mate were off to an evening showing, in 3D no less!

I am old enough to remember the last time they tried to bring back 3D (not the first time tho, I think that was in the 50's) and it was shit back then. Jaws 3-D anyone?

This time round I'd not really seen the point in it, Avatar held no appeal whatsoever. I'm one of those old fashioned girls who needs a story as well as shiny things to stare at on the screen, so blue people flying about was never gonna have me high-tailing it to the local multiplex.

Toy Story, however, is a very different matter. I saw and loved the first one, but for some reason totally missed the second one. Anyway when Tracy suggested seeing TS3 I said yeah and booked these tickets.

The glasses have improved, they're more like a Primark version of Ray Ban, than the flimsy cardboard with one red and one green lens of my youth. The seats in the cinema were fabulous and great position. I have to admit I was excited!

The trailers began and all of them were in 3D. It was magnificent! All kinds of stuff flying towards my face, incredibly "real".

By the time Toy Story started, I was used to the glasses and it didn't seem strange anymore that things were bouncing off the screen. Another reason for this might well have been the story. Hats off to the writers, it was funny, poignant, insightful and just a celebration of childhood!

I'd expected to sob my heart out from start to finish, but miraculously I didn't! I did cry quite hard at the end but they were positive tears.

Its been out for a few weeks, but if you haven't seen it, do.

The End Of An Era

I’m writing this blog on the train back to London. I’ve spent three pretty bleak days up in Preston.

“Nowt new about that” I hear you say, “Preston’s always bleak” and of course you’re right, but this trip was especially bleak. It was my first time back since my Dad’s funeral at the beginning of March.
I’d put off going up to clear out the flat because I couldn’t bear the thought of staying there while I did it, then one of my friends suggested I just stay in a hotel and suddenly it was all ‘do-able’.

So Monday I got the train up, and first of all I did some legal stuff like sign my will. I think my lawyer thinks I’m crackers, two of my beneficiaries are the Dalai Lama and Monkey World! Then I went to visit my aunt where I sat reminiscing for a good few hours, before going off to see my cousin’s daughter’s new baby! Anything to avoid going to the flat.

I didn’t make it there Monday at all, I went to the hotel and caught up on the sleep I lost the night before.

On Tuesday I couldn’t delay, so off I went. I walked in expecting my Dad to be sat in his chair. He wasn’t of course, but I could smell him in there. Not that he stunk of piss or anything, but just his scent was still lingering. The curse of being a non-smoker I guess. If I was still on the fags I’d not have noticed.

In the kitchen the calendar was on March it was like time had frozen. So it would appear had my emotions cos it all came spilling out. Tears for my Dad, tears for my Mum who died four and a half years ago, and selfishly, tears for me as I accepted I truly am alone now in the world. The only two people who had to love me no matter what are buried across the road under a bush in the church grounds (well their ashes are).

I allowed myself the sobs, then got stuck in. At first it was easy enough, slinging out old toiletries, packing up clothes for the charity shops - all the while checking every single pocket cos my Dad was a bugger for squirreling away money - then came the photographs.

I’d decided that I wasn’t going to keep many of them because when I die, someone from the council will be doing for me what I’m doing for them and everything will go in the bin, but some evoked such memories I had no choice but to keep them.

My childhood what what you might call ‘dysfunctional’ - if you were prone to understatement - but as I looked at some of my baby photos, and saw the look of love in my Mum and my Dad’s eyes as they held me, all the old shit just melted away. My childhood was what it was, and its a long way behind me now. They did their best, and that’s all anyone can do.

I am so glad I made this trip because getting to that point is a huge thing for me. I’ve been caught up in the blame game for a long time, and now I’m free of it.

This morning the nice man I booked to clear the place came and took everything away, then the estate agent came and told me it was worth more than I expected (only I could decide to sell a property the week the news breaks of a double dip recession!).

As I turned out the lights and closed the door for the last time, I felt a real sadness. By the time I got to the bottom of the stairs I realised that I’ve turned another corner. Its the end of one chapter, time for the next one to begin!

A Couple of Plugs

I've got all kinds of other stuff to tell you about and once life slows down a bit I'll post it, but in the meantime I have a couple of things I wanna tell you about.

First up is my mate Ray Roughler-Jones' autobiography "Drowning On Dry Land" which is published by Tangent Books. Their website is www.tangentbooks.co.uk. Ray's a really dear, old mate of mine from my Ladbroke Grove days, and for me the book was a brilliant race down memory lane, even tho his memory aint what it was! Even if you've never heard of his mag The Roughler, or seen any of the Roughler TV stuff on YouTube, or heard of Swansea where he was born, his tales of swanning about the Chanel HQ with his milliner girlfriend, or getting caught nicking a suit from an Oxford Street design emporium, will have you in stitches.

Its brutally honest - he's most brutal about himself - and reading it was just like listening to Ray speak. Here's a little link to him discussing the book with his publisher Class War mainman Ian Bone

http://ianbone.wordpress.com/2010/05/10/ray-roughler-jonesdrowning-on-dry-land/

Its a cracking read and a bargain at a mere £10.

Plug number two is for thishttp://filmlondon.org.uk/best_of_boroughs/the_tunnel/

A documentary made by Jody Vandenburg and Naomi de Pear about the infamous Tunnel Palladium. This was the club that Malcolm Hardee used to run before he started Up The Creek and if you ask any comic from that era they'll tell you it was the toughest club in the world. Thank god I missed it by a few years, tho of course I had my own pasting at the Creek the first time I played it.

Anyway there's the likes of Harry Enfield and Simon Munnery reminiscing about their times on that stage along with members of the legendary audience. Well worth a look if you like your comedy, and give em a vote too!

The One Thing Nobody Tells You...

when you lose your second parent is just how incredibly alone you feel.

We're only halfway through 2010 and the amount of life changing events that have happened for me is astonishing. This six months has had more loss in it than the previous six years!

When I was reading my yearly horoscopes at the end of 2009 it was all about the massive changes coming my way in the new year. Now like most people I only believe Mystic Meg et al if they're telling me what I want to hear, and bizarrely change is something that doesn't scare me at all these days.

It used to, I used to want to keep everything exactly the same and perfect and nobody leaves and nobody does anything unexpected, then I became aware of Buddhism and the teachings simply pointed out that that is not possible, that everything changes (just like Take That told us all those years ago), and that is just how it is. Once I came to believe that in my heart as well as my head, life got a lot easier.

So I was kinda buzzing about this year, not knowing that some of those changes were pretty momentous. I guess it started at the tail end of 2009 when Regent Inns went bust and I lost a load of work with Jongleurs. It took me a while to get into their roster of acts and once I did, I quickly got used to the great organisation, good money, decent accommodation, and comforting regularity of the whole thing. It didn't make me stagnate, as some acts claimed, cos I've never looked down on groups of stags or hens as something to be despised. They might be a bit drunker and rowdier than your average crowd, but for most clubs and not just Jongleurs, they are what makes a crowd! Without them, you'd be playing to half empty rooms!

The massive drop in earnings did scare me, not to mention the gaps that opened up in my diary as I lost shows at all the clubs that shut! Luckily that fear was soon turned around as I was able to fill every single gap with gigs at other clubs. The money wasn't as good, but I was working and seeing lots of new comics and keeping out of mischief. It has made me question my comedy "career" tho.

I think I'm doing some of my best work, but aside from the time onstage which I love more than anything, the rest of it, the politics, the industry, the petty squabbles and rivalry, the bullshit, are really getting to me.

These thoughts have only come to a head as 2010 and it's "changes" began to kick in. It started positively, I booked a little birthday trip to Thailand just before new year, which I was sooooooo looking forward to.

As February kicked in so did the rubbish stuff.

My Dad finally got a date for his heart valve operation, 8th February. I wasn't that keen for him to have the operation, but he was getting breathless performing the simplest of tasks, and when the surgeon mentioned this valve could give him another 5 years or so, he jumped at the chance. He wanted to be able to carry on living independently, to be able to go to the pub, do his shopping, nothing excessive, just not end up in a home or god forbid, with me taking care of him!

We used to joke about what it would be like if that happened. I likened myself to Nurse Ratchett from One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest, and promised him he wouldn't linger with me in charge! I was joking of course, but the grim reality of having to move back to Preston did terrify me. At the same time I knew I couldn't leave him in an old folks' home either.

Anyway he'd been fretting about getting his stuff together for the hospital stay and I promised I'd be up to sort everything out. I am so glad that I didn't break that promise. His admission date was 8/2/10 and I went up the weekend before and shopped and packed and kept his spirits up as by now the reality that he was about to have major heart surgery at the age of 83 was kicking in.

I told him he didn't have to have the op if he was that worried, but he wanted it. I told him to focus on how great he'd be feeling afterwards when he was all healed and able to spend the summer afternoons sitting at the bowling club with a beer in his hand. He kept talking about how he could 'die on the table' and I said that of course that could happen, but it could happen if you were having an ingrowing toenail removed!

To me, the idea of "dying on the table" didn't seem such a bad one really. You'd be unconscious, your last thoughts would be positive ones, it'd be pain free, and hey you'd never bloody know would you!

Things pretty quickly went wrong. The day after the op he was told the valve had slipped and as I've written before it was a pretty steep slope leading to his death 20 days after the operation.

My relationship with my parents was rocky to say the least, but I found my friendship and love for my Dad increased a million-fold as I was able to be with him for the last month of his life. I will never stop being grateful that I put aside history, and gave my attention to his well-being for that all too brief period.

In the midst of all those dramas of course, there was the sudden, senseless, death of my friend Jason Wood. He died eight days before my Dad, and his death is something I don't think I'll ever comprehend. I still walk into clubs expecting to see him in the dressing room.

In one month I lost two men from my life who were a pretty big part of my support system. Jason was so wise and such an excellent listener. My Dad, well he was my safety net. He may not have been the best Dad in the world, but he was my Dad, and now he was gone.

The other big change I guess, was the diagnosis late last year, of lupus. At the time it was simply a case of swollen fingers and achy knees, but the stress of these events has led to the symptoms increasing pretty rapidly.

What a selection of symptoms I have too! My hair is falling out in clumps, I collapse/faint on a fairly regular basis, there are days I can barely walk cos of the pain in my joints. I'm having trouble remembering that a year ago I was doing head and handstands in yoga. These days a downward dog damn near kills me!

The worst thing tho is the lack of healing. I've had two minor operations and both have ended with repeated hospital visits and infections and just hassles nobody wants or needs.

I'm writing this in my room on the 10th floor of a rather swish hotel in Barcelona, and while all the stuff above seems like I am feeling maudlin or sorry for myself, I'm not. The changes sure are coming, and they're coming thick and fast. Yesterday was my 17th anniversary of being a comedian. Will I have another 17 years on the circuit, I doubt it. What Jason's and my Dad's deaths have taught me is that life is too short to not make the most of every moment we're here.

The lupus has made me realise that my dream of travelling when I'm older might be a waste of time. If I don't improve, a trip to Sainsbury's might be a huge deal in 10 years' time! So here I am, making the most of the moments, taking trips, making plans while at the same time being in the now, and while I am completely "alone" I'm not lonely. I feel a connection to this world I've not felt ever before.

I'm not sure what the next phase of my life will bring, but I'm open to all offers and embracing whatever this life has in store. I owe it to those I love, their lives are a huge inspiration.

Hmmmm....

"May you live in interesting times" so the old Chinese curse goes.

This week its been both a blessing and a curse.

The curse has been health problems and general NHS incompetence, but then that's par for the course these days. The carpal tunnel wound was bound to get infected and when I asked for anti-biotics at the time of the surgery, the nurses looked at me like I was crazy.

Tuesday I turned up for the follow-up appointment for the hernia that never went away and is now twice the size it was before the initial op. I arrived at 8.45 and was told the clinic had been cancelled. It was claimed that a letter had been sent to me on 27 May cancelling the appointment, I didn't receive this letter , but then as my appointment was only made on 1 June, how could I have? Fucking incompetent fools!

The blessings have been manyfold tho too thank god! I spent some quality time with my oldest and dearest friend, and we even booked a Christmas trip to Moscow together. Looking forward to that one.

I queued up for and got the iPhone 4, sadly not everyone in the queue was as lucky. I haven't had a lot of time to find my way around it yet, but what I have seen I love!

The sunshine has arrived with a vengeance and that is a massive blessing, London really comes into itself when we get some sun.

I had a great time in Leicester last night with my old comedy chum Mike Gunn, who very kindly gave me a lift back to my door as well as showing me some of the tricks of the iPhone!

Biggest blessing of all this week, I'm off to Barcelona today! For five whole wonderful days! I so cannot wait. Its one of my favourite cities in the world, and its gonna be brilliant!