No one did comedy quite like Janie Godley. It was not just her background, which in turn became the currency of her living work – the poverty of her childhood (“a world of Dickensian misery,” as one Scottish newspaper described it), and her marriage to a notorious Glasgow gangster. family. Her career curve also stands out. Other comics build their online reputation, move into stand-up — and then do something else. Godley has done it in reverse, taking up live comedy in her 30s, as a departure from (or, she says, an extension of) her bar work. But she reserved her greatest success for her 50s, with a series of viral videos that established her – and her broad Glaswegian comedy – at the heart of Scottish public life.
My first experience of Godley’s work was on the outskirts of Edinburgh, where – as a middle-aged, working-class Glasgow woman – she legitimately claimed to be a vulnerable minority. Godley’s work always puts this life experience front and center—which is not surprising, given that he gives her material (on child abuse, gun caches, and organized crime, for example) that few other comedians have access to. There was a conscious bravura to her comedy, and for good reason: “If you stand up in a room of 600 people, talk for 15 minutes and no one laughs, it’s no worse than having a gun to your head. I’ve got that, really.” So it doesn’t really scare me.
Although she was a comedienne to be reckoned with—Godley knew her voice, enjoyed it, and could pull off a mean joke—she was never a darling of critics. Her position was more notable for the topics she addressed than how she approached them. It was fine by her: she wanted to please the crowds, not the comic snobs, and she performed on the Free Fringe in Edinburgh to keep her gigs accessible to the widest possible audience. However, in time, cultural cachet also came her way. Images of her lone protest against the US president’s visit to Turnberry Golf Course in 2017, armed with a banner reading “Donald Trump is an idiot”, won the hearts of progressives. Then came the online voice-over videos, which found dubbing footage of Nicola Sturgeon and others in their no-holds-barred Glasgow patois.
The resulting sketches, sometimes drawn with her comedic daughter Ashley Storey and intended to reveal what stodgy politicians were really thinking, were a startling foray by a working-class female voice into the traditional urban territory of UK satire. (Watch the clip replaying Theresa May’s resignation speech to the House of Commons, where the gap between tone and environment is so steep, it could make your nose bleed.) They were also credited with helping Scotland through the lockdown, elevating Godley to national treasure status. It was commissioned by the country’s National Theatre, and to front the Scottish Government’s public media campaigns. However, she lost out on the latter role, and was sacked from her position at Aberdeen in 2021, when a series of racist tweets came to light. A month later, in the midst of a political media firestorm, Godley was diagnosed with ovarian cancer.
There is no doubt that those ugly social media posts, for which she apologized, tarnished Godley’s egalitarian image. They tarnish her brilliant career in comedy, but they don’t overshadow it, let alone her work as a playwright, memoirist, and novelist. Firmly positioned in the great tradition (Billy Connolly, Frankie Boyle, Kevin Bridges and beyond) of Glasgow’s raw, hard-edged attitudes, she took the gallows humor required to survive the first half of her life, and used it to thrive – to make her way. In an industry not usually open to women of her background, and to the entertainment of thousands. Godley’s comedy career was built, as if she lived her life, on her own terms, and will be remembered fondly.
