So here I am back in Glasgow, my blogs have been very sporadic due to the nature of my life and laptop, so here we are then…the full story. I had a really mental week to be coping with and after the car crash, the early flight where BA totally screwed me around at 5am, to the dash to the BBC in Television centre to do an audition with a script that I had only been given the day before, I was stunned that I actually managed to speak English and got through the audition no problem! Trust me my brain was fried.
To make matters worse the cab driver who took me to my flat turns out to be the ex husband of a TV star, he is Italian and around 50 years of age and spent the whole journey telling me what a slut his actress ex wife was. This man was obnoxious and I sat there as he told me how many men she fucked, how she drank too much and what a bitch she was until I finally snapped and said “Maybe you drove her to all that with your constant whingeing, I personally feel like fucking strangers just to get away from you, please drive the car and stop disrespecting women and keep your opinions to yourself”
Getting to the flat was a relief.
The flat is great as always, I love the people at Crown Lawn who always look after me and they are the one solid thing and security I have in London! The internet connection is spot on, and the place is always immaculately clean.
Going to the After show party at the Brits was exciting, though as explained before the amount of near naked girls was slightly disturbing. At least the BAFTA’s are always guaranteed to be classy.
I have to add that my nights at the Groucho club were just spectacular; I took a couple of copies of my autobiography for the staff there who had requested them. Meeting Jude Law (who I had met previously) and the charming Ben Chaplin was a nice experience. They were both really nice guys to have a chat with.
The night of the BAFTA’s was such a trauma; firstly I was so excited about seeing the article in the Sunday Times
I was very happy with the way the magazine dealt with Ashley and I, the Sunday Times are very good at their job.
So there I was all hyper and I laid out all my clothes to get prepared for my big night. I decided to do a new hairdo, I decided I would blow dry my hair straight and then put in a collection of rollers around the ends of my hair to give it a wee wavy look…well that was the idea, turns out that half the fucking nasty wee evil rollers got tangled into my wiry bushy hair and had to be physically ripped out, taking half my scalp with it! I looked like an owl that had been through 40 minutes in a dry cycle of a tumble dryer and I only had 20 minutes to go before the taxi picked us up!
So I had to stand naked in front of the mirror ( I cant blow dry fully clothed it would make me sweat to death) and fix the ends of my hair and then rush back on all of my clothes. Just then I realised I couldn’t find my sexy necklace…so in a blind panic I ripped everything out of the wardrobe, scattered all my stuff out of my case and finally found the damn thing. I stood up, all sweaty, hair all bushy (again) and finally put on my necklace, the taxi arrived and Monica and I were off.
London was dark and very rainy, I envisioned squelching down the red carpet with brolly ends poked into my skull…well my scalp was already numb from the roller ripping event.
The taxi was caught in heavy traffic, we started to panic as we approached Leicester Square and encountered traffic works that prevented us from getting into the square. Time was crucially ticking away, we had to be in by 6pm or they close the doors.
All the big stars had already been down the red carpet, I know this as Ashley was keeping me updated by phone. Finally the car made it into the square after the police showed the driver where to go and we were literally the last to get there, we found out later.
We got out of the car, a huge guy offered us a brolly and off we went. The sides of the red carpet were rammed with hundreds of photographers all screaming and shouting at the few stars who were still promenading down the entrance to the cinema that was the venue for the awards.
The rain squelched as I predicted beneath my leather stiletto’s, the ground was slippy and I realised with horror that we have to actually climb a set of Perspex stairs and get up onto a huge transparent platform made of illuminated glass and walk to the other side down more steps taking us into the main door. This arrangement was daunting, more so as every step of the way had hundreds of photographers and fans all watching ever move.
My heart almost stopped as the minute I put foot onto the glass walkway my feet skated….fuck- I was going to fall on my well dressed, bushy haired ass in front of the world’s media.
I felt the brolly being carried by Monica jag into my head; I walked slowly and yet elegantly all the while breathing slowly, as I managed to get to the other side I saw Heath Ledger being interviewed on the carpet down the five ominous steps now facing me.
I took the first step and managed it, the second step and gained confidence, the third and fourth step were slippy and the final step caught me out. It was shorter than the rest and wetter, my heart lurched, I stumbled, I saw the bank of photographers at a slightly skewed angle as my body fell forward, my knee buckled and my body weight was heaving forward and then by some amazing luck and skill I actually recovered….I never hit the floor and landed in a puddle behind Heath Ledger…I heard a few of the photographers laugh loudly, some gasped… but I made it.
I saw the smartly dressed staff in front of me, egging me on to get to the door without falling over, like parents encouraging their wee kids to the final line of the egg and spoon race.
I was upright and marching home to the big glass doors and safety. They practically hugged me as I got there! A big man in a dinner suit reached out his arms and helped me get over a wet patch on the carpet and led me in from the rain and horror of that near ass fall!
I was home and dry…thank God. We rushed up to our seats and found the show actually starting! Fucking how late were we? I was staggered at the amount of people and the seats were the furthest away up the back and right against the side, it was like sitting on a cheap airline seat in a posh frock! What crap seats…we could not even see the stage! Monica and I were crushed and damp and annoyed at the horrid seating.
I decided it would be easier to just get back out of the seat and stand in aisle up the back and watch the show. So I did.
The show was long and I missed some of it as I went outside into the foyer and sat on a big comfy chair and watched it on a monitor, which was all I was doing inside the auditorium, but in a tiny chair.
The show finally finished and we got a car to take us to the ball at the Grosvenor Hotel. As we were walking down the stairs, Jake Gyllenhall was standing alongside us, clutching his gloriously gold BAFTA award.
A lady beside me asked him “Can I touch it?”
Jake smiled and held it to her to touch; we all slowly kept making our way slowly on the stairs.
He smiled at me and I said “Can I stroke it?”
He politely held it to me and I added quickly “No…not that!” and he laughed out loudly and people around us laughed. He then opened his expensive black jacket and said “Help yourself”
So I stood there and giggled as I stroked his very toned chest! He then lifted up the back of his jacket and grabbed my hand and put it on his ass and added “You want some of this!” I kept laughing, his smile was huge and he obviously has a good sense of humour.
I told him I was a stand up comic and he answered “I love stand up, wow what’s your name?” We chatted a bit more and then reached the ground floor entrance to the ball.
What a guy, we then posed for a picture. I was well happy!
You can see the photo’s on
As you can see I also managed to have a good chat and photo with George Clooney…albeit in the gents toilets…well that’s another story!_