NEVER MIND ET, I CAN'T PHONE HOME EITHER NOW I'VE GOT THIS NEW MOBILE

THE billboard that I passed yesterday screamed: Imagine a phone that was image conscious! I tried to imagine such a phone, but I just can't believe an inanimate object can conjure up emotions.

It's like trying to imagine a shoe that suffers from bi-polar disorder, which hates being next to its partner and believes the sandals next to it in the bottom of the wardrobe are plotting its murder daily. Or try to imagine a fork that is racist.

Yes, exactly: poppycock!

Who are these cocky advertising executives that suppose we are stupid enough to assume phones can insist on their own designer look?

Have we gone so far that we can be convinced that the image of a gadget will be decided by the product itself?

What if the phone doesn't like my image and decides not to answer calls from my scummy mates? What if it won't work for me because it knows I am calling from the Pound Shop?

I am not image conscious and I don't need my possessions to be ashamed of me. (I was once mistaken for a homeless person outside the BBC in London as I sat down on the pavement for a ciggie. A man gave me 50p.)

The latest trend for shiny bright objects is horrifying to me.

I just need things that work, I don't care if my phone is chipped, scraped and doesn't have the latest download tools; I want to call home and hear my daughter Ashley's voice. I would happily use two tin cans and string if need be.

My greatest fear is getting my mobile upgraded. It takes me nigh on a year to figure out how to store a number on my phone; don't even ask me to send a text. Logarithm problems written in hieroglyphics would be a comparative cinch.

The phone company tell me they are doing me a big favour and send me out the latest model every year. It arrives at my door, handed over by a mysterious masked biker who demands that I write my name with an inkless pen on to a glass screen on a hand-held computer thing. I feel as though I have just signed a pact with Beelzebub and received my dark evil tool of the devil.

I panic as I try to understand the basic workings, pressing buttons that inadvertently hook me up to the web, download some game that I will never possess the intelligence to play and then it will charge me hundreds of pounds for not being able to co-ordinate my fingers properly.

I just wanted to call home. Why is that so hard? The phone tells me that "home" is no longer available. I check further contact details and discover I have no "Dad" and no "Ashley".

I now have no friends - but I do have the shiny phone that feels warm and lights up when I touch it. It will be my new friend. It will comfort me in the dark lonely nights - and probably suck out my soul as I sleep.

To make matters worse, I pay my monthly mobile bill by credit card. Last week, for some unknown reason, the computers at the phone company decided my credit card wasn't image conscious enough and they cut me off without even a warning.

When I called to complain, there was no apology: just a reassurance that the main computer will now accept my payment.

The mobile network I subscribe to works from a dark cave cut into the hills of an unknown bleak wasteland wherein reside loads of tiny half-robotic humans that live on dead swans and lost pens... and they are taking over the world on the command of an indestructible half-man, half-meerkat.

People on the outside of their society are being killed slowly with deadly radio waves that they emit if youdon't sign up for their latest service plan.

Well, that's what happens when I allow myself to use my imagination.

ADIE REVEALS THE ART OF WAR... AND SHOPPING

ONE of the highlights of my chat show at the Fringe was meeting the wonderful Kate Adie. This is the woman who has seen more front-line action than Field Marshal Montgomery; she has been shot at more times than 50 Cent, yet is the funniest woman I have ever met.

She told a story about the time she was in Beirut and bombs started to explode about her. She ran into a shop and the back-blast of a bomb threw her and a store manager into the basement.

Turns out it was a shoe shop and, during the bombing raid, Miss Adie managed to buy four pairs of exquisite sandals.

"They were lovely, with bright colours," she added.

Only Kate Adie could haggle with staff during a bombing raid and then walk out of war zone in pink shoes.

She is my hero!

DAUGHTER HAS DATE EXPECTATIONS

"ARE you Ashley Storrie's mum?" the young man asked me outside a café in Edinburgh last week.

"Yes, why?" I answered.

"You mentioned her in your comedy show. I was hoping to ask your daughter out on a date. Can you give me her number?" he replied.

"No, because I am not my daughter's pimp. She is 21 years old. Go ask her yourself," I snapped.

I told Ashley about this and she screamed at me: "Mum, if hot guys ask for my number, please pass it on! I never get asked out!"

I explained that we may have different opinions on what is "hot", as I think Donny Osmond is cute.

"Did he look like a big toothy Mormon?" she asked.

"No, he looked a bit like Justin Timberlake, actually," I answered.

She hit me with her shoe and is currently threatening to leave home.

Can I do nothing right?

HIGH HOPES OF NO STRIFE IN FIFE

ST ANDREWS has always been my favourite childhood holiday destination.

I recall many summers there with my family. As kids, we loved sitting on the sandy beaches, playing in the rock pools and climbing the ruins.

Now I am going back to play the famous Byre Theatre this coming Saturday, 8 September, with my comedy show, Good Godley!

I can remember the original Byre Theatre in the old cow barn before it was demolished in 1969 - my dad did a drawing of it as he often sketched on our holidays.

On one particular holiday, I recall, my brother, David, took a dive off the rocky cliffs around the Fife coastline and gashed his leg badly.

We spent hours in the local hospital, he got his knee stitched back together and he carries the scar to this day.

I am hoping my visit to St Andrews will be unforgettable for all the right reasons.