Jamey Claffey

A-list encounters in Anne Summers

Stuart McPherson and I are writing a comedy set in a sex shop, so we went on a reccie to Anne Summers last week. The shop in our sitcom is less of a shiny pink high-street chain, and more of a piss-stained back alley dive…but that reccie will be a whole new adventure (likely carried out with the aid of gin).

It was a successful trip. The Glaswegian lassies behind the counter were more than willing to divulge the day-to-day joys of being a retail assistant within the popular high-street store, i.e.:

The phone rings.

Susie: Good afternoon, Anne Summers Glasgow.

Heavy breathing down the phone.

Susie: Hello? Can I help you?

More heavy breathing

Man’s voice: Hello, yes, can you tell me what range of new toys you have in stock?

Susie: Yes okay, we have just got a new batch of clitoris allsorts, the ever popular double-trouble plug, the new 5 speed rampant rabbit…

Man’s voice: Ooh, yeah you dirty bitch.

There is sound of soft, fast clapping and a small wimper.

Susie looks grossed out and hangs up.

Susie: Geez-o, that’s my 5th wanker today. Bet they don’t have to deal with this shit at Dorothy Perkins.

But, actually, the best occurrence of the day was being approached by Ian, the big security guard. On overhearing we were writing a sitcom, he sidled over and said “Here, are youse looking for any actors for your show?” We explained we were just writing it, it’s not commissioned, we’re not a big deal. He was not to be deterred, he could see a chance to network and by God he was gona network his Glaswegian butt off. “A background artiste on Taggart for ten years”. “Got promoted to sergeant”. “Still didn’t get to speak but Mark said I had real talent, y’know”. “Make sure you write my name down, it’s Ian with one i”. After fifteen minutes of this, we thought we were rid of him, but then out came the showreel. Yes, he had cued up his SHOWREEL. How lucky we were to be blocking the entrance to Anne Summers watching an iPhone video of Ian, a marauding alien, chasing down James Nesbitt. 

Ian, you get an A for effort. You made my day! It’s a shame we’re not big wig producers, but in fairness we did try to tell you this about seven times…

“…so i set my sights on the battered sausage fest that is bonny Scotland”

Winnie Red here - Jamey’s more attractive, more sexually insatiable cousin. I’m feeling an urge to say thank you to all those who so enthusiastically voted my hymen off the island at the Admiral Bar last week. Yes, I’m talking about performing my first ever stand-up comedy gig and it was a bloody HOOT, believe-you-me. I phoned my son, Falcon, back home in Austraya, who told me he was as happy as a bastard on father’s day that I was using the intimate details of his life as material to entertain the comedy-going audiences of Glasgow. His choice of words were particularly ironic considering he is, in fact, the bastard child of a reckless love affair with Rupert Murdoch (well, I’m pretty sure his dad is Rupes, but let’s be honest, I was banging like a dunny door in a storm throughout most of the 90s). 

I’ll have more gigs coming up, so keep an eye on Jamey’s twitter feed (I myself have been banned from twitter for reasons that involve Eddie Van Halen, my left breast and a rampant rabbit…but you’ll have to come see my set for all the gory details). 

I’ll catch youse round like a rissole,

Winnie \m/

Sophie Jane & The Insulated Picnic Coolers

Ha! No, not really.

The logic:
Chilly Bin (New Zealand) = Esky (Australia) = type of insulated picnic cooler (Rest of World)

My wee sister has recruited a band of rollicking Kiwi lads and this is the first piece of artwork I’ve done for them. The hours of intricate layering were worth it for the super attractive Photoshop Furrow I’m now sporting; I’ve always wanted a face like a bulldog licking piss off a thistle.

The Finnieston Flasher

Photo from www.karenwillphotography.com

So, let me introduce myself. You’ve probably seen me around. You might have been that man in a van who tried to tell me my arse was on show. Sorry for scowling at you – you were shouting in Glaswegian and I presumed you were leering at me. So I confidently strode on ahead, flashing my fraying knickers to the entire G3 postcode. When I arrived at the Mitchell Library some blocks later, I was chased down by a security guard – “Stop right there!!” she bellowed. 143 people’s heads turned. Grannies gasped. Children cried. My face turned the colour of a baboon’s engorged butt as I felt a gentle draft caress my own rear. “Oh my…tha…er…haha..blibbidy blobb muh muh” I said to the security guard, which means “thank you for telling me” in Stupid Twat language, and I scurried off to an isolated corner of the 5th floor to quietly die.

Upon marginal recovery hours later, I left the library and stopped to thank the wee security woman for the earlier heads up. Tears streamed down her face as she hooted and howled at the memory, “Och, you’ve put a smile on the nation’s face today, hen.” All part of the service provided by The Finnieston Flasher.

It’s nice to meet you.

I’m trying to switch my default blog. Bare with.

Tumblr’s CMS is almost a fascist regime!

After much labour, my interactive project blog is now found at gamifyingjamey.tumblr.com