A Woman Without a Career is Like a Man Without a Football Team

I hate the term ‘career woman’. Someone used it in reference to me the other day, and I had to correct his ass. I never hear anyone say ‘career man’, so why the need to make a distinction? If I didn’t work, what would I be called? Certainly not a housewife, nor a stay-at-home mum. I’d be a parasitical single mother who is a burden on the hardworking people of Great Britain.

I come from a working-class background. My gran worked, she was a bit of hustler, she understood the value of buying property, then she was a seamstress and a cook. She had four daughters, no husband I ever saw, owned her own house in Alperton and was always very hard-working. Now she lives in Florida. My mum stayed home for a few years when we were young, my Dad didn’t want her to work – he was a bit of a career gambler, but when their relationship fell apart when I was around nine, she got a job. Always worked her finger to bone, worked the shit shifts for years 3-11pm all the way through my secondary school education.

I didn’t go off the rails, get high, bring boys round (couldn’t because Big Sis was there – so I went to their house) I was already pretty scared of The Wrath of Mum, so didn’t push the boundaries too far.

So working is not a new thing for the women in my family. Hence I do not see the need for the tag ‘career woman’. I have benefited from the labour and toil of my mother and grandmother. My grandmother came here for a better life for herself and kids, and she achieved that, my mother wanted me to have the education she never had, and she achieved that. Now I want my daughter to do better than me, I want her to be entrepreneurial, not just to work a job but to create jobs. To me, that’s not being a ‘career woman’, that’s being a brilliant woman.

Christmas starts here...

Christmas is coming, and the only thing getting fat is moi. At the moment my exercise regime consists mainly of lifting lots of edible objects to the cake-sized gap in my face. Yum. Even a bout of party dress shopping (one must get one’s priorities right) only made me temporarily stay the tendency to eat chocolate and apple crumble with cream, as I breathed a sigh of relief at ‘squozing’ myself into a size 14 Kazza Mill strapless dress. Oh well, I’m back to the weight/size I was in 1999 – so it’s not all bad. And the dresses that I had to avoid on the grounds of ‘too much booty, not enough fabric’ can come back into circulation. Maybe I’ll try for 1989’s size 10 next year.

First Christmas do was last week Thursday with my team at The Big Time Newspaper (website). Thankfully, there was no need to dress up. We had a meal, where I tried to drink as little as possible, and then once I had some food down me I felt more able to indulge. It’s not about getting lean with work people and embarrassing yourself. I know someone who got very drunk at her office party, and snogged her very married boss, in front of her workmates. Shortly afterwards she got six month’s salary and was asked to leave. Strangely she didn’t think the two incidents were connected. Either way I’d say that was a fucking result!

That would never happen to me. For a start my boss is female. And secondly, when I’ve had a few drinks I’m more likely to hit the dancefloor and dance in a rudely, suggestive manner rather than collar someone I wouldn’t give the time of day to when sober.

After the meal we walked to a pub in Notting Hill. Yes, The Notting Hill, but rest assured, there actually are black folk living in the real NH. We had a couple of drinks at a pub where some weird looking man decided I might find him wildly attractive if he stared at me long and hard enough. Forty-five minutes to be precise. Even after a voddie and tonic and a shot of sambuca, I felt in no way compelled to talk to him.

Like I said, I just wanted to dance. A guy gave us some free passes to a bar up the road, The Gate, so we trotted along there as I was desperate for a boogie. One debate with the doorman later (some people forgot their passes in the pub) we were descending the stairs to Montel Jordan’s ‘This Is How We Do It’.

We had a good little dance and managed to have a conversation that didn’t revolve around work for once. It’s quite cool when you get to know people you work with. What’s strange is that there are people I started off thinking were really nice, that I know now are not. And people I thought who were ‘wrong uns’ and now think they’re great.

Princess Pushy proceeded to get pretty hammered so I went into ‘watch over the drunk friend’ mode, and ended up bringing her home with me. She promptly stained my sofa and her stupidly expensive Reiss top with the extra chilli sauce on the kebab she’d bought. The kebab I waited for in the back of a black cab, while speeching the driver who wanted us to get out and find another cab, because he said we were stopping him from earning.

His maths was obviously shit because him taking us from Kensington was at least a £20 fare, but he was saying he could pick up a couple more fares while he was sat waiting outside Ranoush. I really don’t know what’s got into cab drivers, but it always seems like you have to argue the toss with them. I mean, while we were sitting there, the meters running and he’s getting paid, what exactly is his problem. I just kept him talking, as he tried everything, short of telling to get the fuck out, to get out of the cab. There was no way I was getting out of that warm cab to stand on a street corner in High Street Ken, trying to flag down another.

Don’t these people have any compassion. I won’t even count the number of times black cabs with lights on have driven past me in the early hours of the morning. When I was working in Manchester, an Asian cab driver drover past me. That one really hurt. Two women, on their first day in a strange town and the fucker wouldn’t even stop.

I can drive, but I don’t know how that’s gonna work when I get a new set of wheels. No more boozy nights out for me. Just a tonic water and the thrill of the rave. So looking forward to that.

Why?

Did the cab-driver ask me not to make a mess in his car when I was eating a packet of crisps?
Did the website I’m working for crash for five hours and start working an hour before I was due to go home?
Did roller-skating on Thursday get cancelled?
Don’t I fancy my personal trainer?
Do women wear shoes they can’t walk in, to work?
Do I always like the most expensive item in the damn magazine?
Can I never afford it, but usually find the money?
Does the guy that does pictures for the website never buy anyone tea?
Do I feel its my duty to tell him about it?
Is my child hard of hearing?
Does she think my purse has an everlasting supply of money?
Do I think Beyonce is cheesy?
Do I like the Pussycat Dolls?
Do I bite the skin around my fingernails?
Am I a size 16 in jeans, when I wear a 12 in a dress?
Are there so many fat people in Kensington?
Does work drain me of creativity?
Do I think nothing of dropping £160 on a dress but stress about spending £5 a day on lunch?
Can't I be bothered to exercise yet get fed up when clothes don't fit how I want them to?
Am I not bothered about Christmas?
Haven't I started Xmas shopping yet?
Do I fancy the wrong people?
Am I not bothered about sex anymore?
Do I love cakes so much?
Aren't I doing any work today?!?

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

Started work at 8.30am this morning and got chirpsed by one of the minimum wagers in the lift at 8.31am. He asked me if I like salsa music - I guess he could tell from my generous hips that I like to shake what my mama gave me from time to time, so I said yes. And he said he would bring me some. It's rare that things make me smile that early in the morning but as chirpses go, it's a bit different isn't it? There was no 'bwoy, what ah way you bottom look big eh?' , 'you well 'tick' innit'. I thought that was quite cool. Don't think the man knows where I sit, but hey it was still cool anyway.

Met my friend 'Ox' for our weekly naughty kebab lunch at Ranoush. It's a chain of Lebanese restaurants, there are three on Edgware road in central London alone, and one opposite where I work. I've ended many a drunken night queuing up for a chicken shawarma . This is not your average 'bab dripping with fat and oil either trus' me. It's the real shit. Think about the difference between your Mum's jerk chicken, and that thing they call 'jerked chicken' and serve it up at the staff canteen at work. You see the brownness and the seasoning and pick it up praying that maybe this time, they'll get it right. But...no. They never do. Trade descriptions would have a field day.

Ox is an online editor here and the person I have to thank for getting me through the door at The Big Time Newspaper. We first met when I worked for the Financial Times website back in 1999, and have been friends since then. He was the only boy (well the only one we liked on the editorial team - so he got lots of attention and special treatment). We're quite similar, in that we're working class kids who've pulled ourselves up by our bootstraps, and seem to have a similar love of naughty things: booze, fags and food. We've both tackled fags, and are working on the other two. Well I only drink on the weekends now.....He is the type of white man that makes you forget he is white - you know like some white people say they don't see colour, and you think to yourself? Yeah right. But when I'm with Ox, there's never those awkward moments where you have to start explaining what 'ackee and saltfish' is, or why you need to 'cream' (moisturise) your skin. Or the 'Why do black people do this' question? You know dem way dere. We're just cool together and have a laugh.

The running joke back in the FT days was 'how come you know everyone'? Whenever we went out to lunch, I always bumped into a random acquaintance or got stopped by someone who recognised me from back in the day. To my work colleagues this was simply unbelievable, but to anyone who has grown up in inner-city London, it's standard. That's why you must behave with 'decorum, decorum, decorum' at all times. I know, I don't always mek it. But I try. So when he met me today and I was talking to one of the brothers who works in sales, he thought we knew each other. 'No', I explained, it's just that everybody wants to know who you are when a new black face comes into the plantation.'

Well the ones that are not stoosh do (stuck up Uncle Toms who think we don't need to chat ). I have a couple who do the 'I'm not going to make eye contact with you just because you're black' vibe. But my thing is, it doesn't matter why we connect, it's just cool that we do. There's an Asian guy here that I've become friendly with, and he buys me a cuppa and some chocloate when we're working nights and the African with the French accent at Starbucks who gives me free coffee sometimes, and other people that I just nod my head to in acknowledgement.

Sighted a fit brother in the newsroom today. The first I've seen since working here. Tall, black and handsome, just how I likes 'em. He was wearing his jeans a little too high for my liking, but dem tings easily sorted. We passed each other earlier in the day and he gave me the 'nod' straightaway. Niiice. I asked the online picture editor 'who's dat?'. He said he's a freelance picture editor. So now he's going to book him to work with us, just for me. Watch dis ya space now.

The Wild, Wild, South-West

Sometimes I feel like I’m cursed. Trouble seems to find me wherever I go. I'm sure you've noticed the shit that happens to me rarely happens to other people.

Take Saturday night for instance. A work colleague asked me to come out for a drink. Cute Asian girl I’ve nicknamed ‘Princess’ because of her princess-like tendencies. She is an arch mainpulator and usually manages to wrap everyone around her little finger. Including me. To be honest I disliked the little minx at first, especially after she took a two-hour ‘break’ in the pub the first night I was leading the shift. After that, she was on my shit list.

But her persistent chatter wore me down, and hateship turned to friendship, hence why I entertained meeting her 1.30am in Brixton on a Saturday night to go to a club playing house music.

Princess and her friends, who mainly live in Brighton, had been to a Primal Scream gig at Brixton Academy, and needed to hang out ‘til the early hours of the morning to catch their train back, so I suggested Plan B, as I knew it opened until 5am. I rolled up around 1.30am to meet them. It was pretty packed as a lot of people had the same idea, but once in there, it was like a time machine had transported you back to the 1990s Summer of Love.

A DJ from New York was playing, and the brother was on point. It reminded me of the 90s Chicago and New York house I used to like.

I drank quickly and recklessly at Plan B because I was a few hours behind the others. Half a bottle of wine before I left home, double vodka, glass of white wine, a brandy shot, and then another vodka. Yep, I think that just about did it. Everyone was pretty high on some other stuff, and the vibe was really good.

Even though I recognised very few tunes, I danced all night. I remembered going to raves and taking Ecstasy. We went to one with Suzie Wong once, and me and Lou dropped half an 'E' and Wong wouldn't do it, then she 'screwed' all night. Every time we looked at her, her face was push-up, and it was so funny. I was almost wetting myself at how vex she was. Me and Lou danced til' 7am, but Wong was swellin', bored and wanted to go but couldn't. Thing is, I don't touch illegal drugs any more. I don't need them to rave until 7am, or even 9am, I just need a couple of drinks and some good music. But I understand why people do, most of my experiences were fun.

Princess was attracting some attention from the local yokels which led to a few sticky situations as her boyfriend wasn’t taking no checks. When he spoke to one weirdo who was stalking her in the club, the guy lunged at him and bit him on the neck. What the fuck? I tried to talk to the bro’ and then he started talking about ‘no white boy can come to Brickie and tell me nothing.’ This seemed to be a popular theme for the evening.

One of the girls wanted to go to the chicken shop afterwards. So we headed to Morley’s. Wrong move. As I walked through the door some bredda tried to feel me up. I told him ‘don’t do that’, so then his friend says ‘can I touch you’. So my loose drunken mouth said: "Do I look like your babymother?’. Ohhhhh…ego dented and bruised.

His friends kept repeating it and before long he started getting abusive. I said to him ‘ah big woman sumptin’ dis you know'. You can tell I was lean can't you. 'Have some respect, I’m a big woman for you.’ He said: ‘How do you know I’m a pickney’ ‘I don’t', I said , but I know I'm older than you. so have some respect'. Next thing I know Princess’ boyfriend is next to me, and mans is saying who you telling to shut up. Fight bruk out. I try to keep them apart but it just ends up turning into this mass brawl, with one of their friends talking about ‘the white man and 400 years of slavery’. The relevance of that is at this particular moment what exactly?

One of the guys was brandishing an Alize bottle threatening to lick the boyfriend with it, but thank God he didn't, and just thumps were thrown. The chicken shop workers called the police, who had to escort us to the police station across the road to get the fuck out of there.

Everyone was shook, including me. Especially as I had to go home without my fucking chicken.

But still, looking back, that was one hell of a fucking good night.

I Don't Need A Man

Girl’s Aloud sit down. You’re not, and never were ready.

The top shotta girl-group out there are The Pussycat Dolls. Although I’d be hard-pressed to name any of them apart from the one like Nicole who is showing up Puffy in his new video. Have you seen that video? Puffy also needs to sit down. Where is he going with that off-key dancing in his too-tight suit? It looks like he’s taking the piss out of himself, or he’s ‘lean’ (drunk/high), or he really just can’t dance. I think it is that he really can’t dance. But that girl Nicole his hot, hot, hot. As Tony Matterhorn sings: “Gooders fe dem, gyal yuh ah gooders fe dem.” I don’t know how long they take on her hair and make-up, but she is definitely going in with tings.

I for one could not name one other girl in that group, and would not recognise any of them if they passed me in the street. They must screw that Nicole gets all the attention. Every time they go to do some publicity I bet the others have to constantly tell people who they are.

Athough in general I disapprove of the trend for stripper dancing that dominates the female arena of pop music, I can’t help but love these girls.

Their song, ‘Don’t Ya Wish Your Girlfriend’ was like Marmite, you either loved it or hated it. And I loved it. I found myself pumping my glutes extra hard in the gym every time that tune came on my iPod in an attempt to look as hot as one of them. They is some fit athletic looking beeyatches. Unfortunately I’m not quite there yet.

As a a self-proclaimed ‘womanist (like a feminist but black), I should hate them, but when I see their videos, I marvel at how tight their routines are, the intricate choreography in the high heels, their movement flows like water, and visually they look stunning, even though they’re not all stunners. There’s so many of them, but no one’s off-beat. Not even the white girls. ‘llow me, you know white girls have only been dancing good for about five years or so, before that, as my Lil’ Bruv would say, they were ‘waste’ ( I’m guessing it’s short for a waste of time).

I’m trying to think why I’m not offended by them. But I think it’s because as mainstream journalists like to say, for women they represent the ‘zeigeist’. Just like Destiny’s Child broke through to the mainstream with ‘Independent Women’, at a time when women were earning decent money, and realised they didn’t have to take up with any old man just to say they had one, the Pussycat Dolls have vocalised with ‘Don’t Ya’ the reality many women are dealing with, having to bat away attached men.

In ‘Don’t Ya’ they acknowledge their sexual power and taunt the man with their lyrics: “Don’t you wish your girlfriend was raw like me, don’t you wish she was a freak like me” with a knowingness that further intrigues the man but does not invite him in. There’s no soppy unrequited love shit, it’s more of an acknowledgement of their own feminine power and prowess. And they recognise that they’re more powerful for not acquiesing while the man is in a relationship. As Nicole sings “If it ain’t love, it ain’t enough to leave a happy home.”

‘Don’t Ya’ vocalises the dilemma many single women are facing in these times of ‘slim pickings’. And I think that’s why I wasn’t immediately turned off by this single girl anthem. Because when ‘taken’ men are running you down, that’s what you should sing to them, “Don’t ya wish your girlfriend was hot like me” and tell them to keep it moving.

Their latest single ‘I Don’t Need A Man” is the perfect song for the noughties woman. Again, they’re talking to the underdogs, single women. Both white and black women are facing the ‘Bridget Jones’ syndrome. But instead of bleating about it, like many of us do, they’ve made an upbeat club anthem for women to sing along to say fuck that, “I don’t need a man to make me feel good. I don’t need a ring to make me feel complete”. And it’s true. Women should be able to feel good about living without a man. We don’t ‘need’ one, but yes, we would like one. We need to stop despairing about being single, and women that are in relationships need to stop acting smug and like they’re all that because they have a man. Because you know if their relationship mash-up, they would mash-up too.

Any man I’ve ever been with, I know I can live without them. That’s life. Breaking up hurts, but after getting over the split ten years ago with my daughter’s father, I know that I could never hurt more than that again. Because that was a family breaking up.

Some women out there would literally die if they were single, they just would not be able to cope. The Pussycat Dolls remind me of why I am glad that I am not one of them. As Suzy Wong says, “Don’t worship man”. It’s all about self-esteem. If you feel good about yourself, you can enjoy life until your Shaka Zulu comes.

That’s why I love the Pussycat Dolls, because they’re not whinging on about not having a man. They’re celebrating. And that’s what I’ll do, until my man comes. Celebrate life to rass, it’s too damn short , so enjoy the time that you’re single, and don’t think that your shit can make patties just because you have a man.

.

F*ck What You Heard

I have been feeling hella stressed lately. Working six days a week is not a good look for the Butterfly, although it certainly helps when you pop into Kurt Geiger on a whim and drop £70 on a hot pair of fuck-me-pumps. For two evenings when I came home after work, I put the shoes on, and just sat on the sofa smiling to myself. I wanted to fuck myself when I put the shoes on. Black patent peep-toes, with a white platform sole and 4 inch stacked heel. Coming to a rave near you, soon.

Saturday night's rave was a 'duty rave'. A duty rave is one where you have a 'duty' to represent. A couple of the DJs we know were having their 'birthday dance'. Otherwise known as a creative way to make money. But, if certain mans is laying off free tickets to you throughout the year, you got to represent at the birthday dance. It would be rude not to.

People always say to me, "Oh my god, do you still rave..?" In the same sort of way that they might say: "Ohmigod you have crabs?". And although I wasn't desperate to go out on Saturday, it turned into a good night out. I must have been feeling haps because I told Gee to get the £55 bottle of Veuve Cliquot instead of £30 Lanson. That disappeared quite quickly, unfortunately I never did get the hang of sipping champagne. And I was rather disgusted that I had to drink it out of a plastic cup. I mean, £55 for a bottle of champagne and you have to drink out of plastic. But when I looked around the club, everybody was holding a glass of champagne. Figures.

Downstairs was crazy busy, and we had had to queue for 20 minutes to get in. It was just too manic so we headed upstairs with all the 'big people'. Saw a couple heads in there, my friend B'baller was in the house celebrating his birthday, so he topped me up with a house party measure of brandy. That was it, head lick off. The whole place was jam, and lively, sing out crew in the house, and despite how ram it was, no bad vibes.

I saw Very Married. We met recently through mutual friends I would have been interested were it not for the significant fact that he's Very Married. VM wants to take me out for dinner to a Thai restaurant. I'm not mad about Thai food. The menu's so fucking long, and I don't know what most of it is, and I'm sick of the Thai green curry. He says he likes me with a capital L. As the song goes, 'If a man a run you down gyal ah nuh fe yuh fault, tek 'im, tek 'im.' It's a good thing I'm not green like cut grass or else I might just take that foolishness seriously. Directly, as I'm not looking to get lick down in the street by no dogged-out girl over her triflin' man, I think I'll pass. But he's GFC (Good For a Crub).

Last week, I was talking to a cab driver saying I was looking forward to weekend, and going clubbing, and he asked me will there be many white people there. 'No not really'. So he says 'do you think it's because they will feel intimidated'. Now I've heard this bollocks quite a bit from white people. But when I go to the pub, a bar, or a party with my friends from my journalism course, I am usually one of very few black folk there. Do I care? I'm there because I want to be there, and 'I AINT NEVER SCARED'!

In our group, I am the only black person. I am not afraid to go anywhere where the majority of people are white. Except the deep south of the USA because someone called me a nigga as they drove past. So why should white people be? I said to him, the reason why few white people go is because they're not necessarily into black music, and I couldn't even begin to explain to him what 'rare groove' is. It's just a completely different thing culturally. For instance, most black people are not trying to go to some dingy club in Camden and listen to live bands standing on a dancefloor covered in beer. It's not because they are intimidated or 'fraid, it just ain't they're thing.

The white people that do go to 'circuit' raves, go because they have friends on that scene, and they like the music and understand the vibe. Oh and the white girls love a black man. Let's be real. But soon in the name of social interaction I'm going to bring a couple of my white friends to a rave with me, because they have expressed an interest in going. So if you see me in a dance soon crubbing with a white man, you know why.

Anyways, for some people the 'circuit' is not for them. And that's cool. But I just can't take the snobbery involved. 'Oh I don't go to THOSE type of raves'. What you mean is raves that aren't full of try-hard black people wearing drainpipes, mohican hairstyles and snorting coke (and that's just the men). 'It's so old-fashioned, nothing changes, they play the same music'. There's no decent man there (ok that bit's true).

But I put it to you, if you haven't been to a circuit dance lately, how the fuck would you know?

No Romance Without Romance

I have to do a piece for Pride on Love and Romance by next week. The two words most likely to bring out the raging cynic in me. Having been single for three years, I would argue, that both of them m*therf*ckers is dead to rass.

My date count in three years is a grand total of two. TWO! I’ll be honest, my memory is not what it used to be, so it could have been more, but they must have been some boring sonofabitches if I can’t remember them.

Now I know it’s easy for me to sit here and act like my kaka don’t stink, like I’m all that and then some, and brothers ain’t right. But I know, that sometimes it’s just not your time. The moon and the stars don’t align, and Venus is not in your sign, and you just have to get over it and get on with life.

But what the hell am I going to write about on the subject of love and romance? Or Roman-antics as the Bobo Dread calls it. Personally I don’t go in for all that hearts and flowers shit. It makes my skin crawl. Romance to me is not a societal construct, as in, on Valentines Day, you should go to an overpriced restaurant, eat from a crappy set menu and gaze into each other’s bored eyes.

And as for those couples that say smugly ‘Oh, we don’t celebrate Valentines Day. We just stay at home. Together.’ Yeah, sure you do. But could your man go out on his jacks (alone) on Valentines Day? Could he go to a rave on Valentines weekend without your non-celebrating ass? Could your girl? I.Don’t. Fink. So. What you mean is, you don’t spend money on celebrating Valentine’s, but you still celebrate it all the same. It’s a day for people with partners to feel even more smug about the fact that they are not ‘out there’.

Don’t feel smug for too long though, remember Aleesha Dixon, the girl from Misteeq. She has just suffered a very public humiliation after finding out her husband was giving his West End co-star Javine, some extra ‘wuk’ after showtime. Apparently they were caught by Javine’s boyfriend, DJ KG, someone I know from back in the day. He must be screwing. Even more so because I ain’t never seen that mixed-race nigga with a black girl, or a near-black girl in all my life. Yeah, he blanked me long time ago. And no I ain’t bitter.

Anyway Suzie Wong says, ‘Don’t swear for your man’. Something tells me Aleesha did. ME! I never swear for my man. But I always tell them this. If you go out there, and get ‘lean’ or high, or happy that some piece of skirt is showing you some attention and your ego forms itself into a penis and you end up inside her, MAKE SURE you wear a condom. THEN, keep that shit to yourself, I am not interested in sharing your guilt. If it happens again, and becomes some sort of ‘love affair’ do the decent thing, LEAVE. or if you’re feeling really brave, tell me about it so I can make a decision about what I want to do.. After I have lost the plot, I will most probably decide to stay and torture your ass until YOU LEAVE, but not before I have rinsed your credit card, and pawned all your shit to buy myself a ticket to Jamaica to get over your cheating ass.

I digress.

What is Love and Romance? This is what I think romance is:
1. Taking the time to think about somewhere special to take your date. The local pub in Peckham High Street and a Wimpy Bar don’t mek it (both real examples of dates I have endured). The date is a reflection of you and your tastes. It doesn’t mean you have to pick the OXO Tower, but if your idea of haute cuisine is McDonalds, it’s safe to say I won’t find it romantic.
2. Having a meal cooked for me – I am an harassed single working mother of one exhausting child. I will suck dick for this. Guaranteed.
3. Romance is observing the basic rules of courtship. Boy meets girl, he asks girl out, or they agree to go out, they go for a meal or do something ‘fun’ together, and there is no dispute about who pays the fucking bill. He pays. There is no romance in my life right now. As no one can observe these simple rules.

What’s your idea of romance?

The Baddest Bitch

Special request to Michie Wong. Apologies for the long ting in posting. It's just been work, work, work. Anyways here's one I did while pretending to look like I was working.

I try, but I just can’t. A combination of dawning PMS, and kicking the cigarette habit I picked up again while ‘enjoying’ myself in Malaga is making me even more of a bitch than usual.
My sense of humour leans towards the dark side on most days, but throw a looming red flag (period slow coaches), and nicotine withdrawal, and believe it’s time for That Bitch to come out to play.

Bitch 1: The cab man who picked me up last week. I’ve just done 9 hours up in the ‘plant’ (tation) and am dragging my sagging ass out the door to snoozeville. I stop and pick up a packet of low fat crisps (I’m trying) and get to the car. As I open the door, this ‘new nigga’ (eastern European) says to me: “Please don’t make mess in my car.” WTF?!? Butterfly Bitch says: “Do I look like a child?” “No…but”. I repeat very slowly, because his English was not very good. “Do.I.Look.Like.A.Child?”. Let me describe the car the man was fussing over. Beat-up white Ford Escort estate. They don’t even make them anymore. First of all, my company pays him to drive me. Why is the man acting like he’s doing me a favour? Second of all, that is the type of thing you might say to a 2-year-old. How many adults do you know that can’t accurately perform the hand to mouth action needed to eat crisps without making a mess? Ooh that man did vex me.

Bitch 2: For three days I’d been listening to one of my colleagues sniffle and snuffle. Not once did I see that fool use a tissue. By day four, I snapped. I tried to hard to say it nicely, it went something like this: “Let me get you some tissues ‘sniffing fool’….(ah isn’t she nice) because believe I can’t listen to you sniffing like that for the rest of the night.” Damn girl. He was wrong the week before when he said I was more ‘brutal’ than he was, but I wouldn’t have corrected him on this occasion. If there’s any noise that makes me homicidal, it’s listening to people sniff. Now I have a child, and I can’t stand to hear her sniff. At the first sign of a cold I buy her a box of tissues and almost glue it to her hand. If she can’t stop sniffing in my presence, she goes to her room. I ain’t playing, that noise gets on my last nerve. I just cannot listen to it. Soon after I got him the tissues, I didn’t have to. Needless to say, he no longer talks to me. Do I care?

Bitch 3: I was at the nail shop, and my usual technician ‘Su Ling 1’ was busy. Time was short as I had to be at work in an hour an a half, so I went with ‘Su Ling 2’. As soon as she started hacking at my nails I knew she wasn’t The Girl. She asked me if I wanted them trimmed and then used the tool that they use for filing down the acrylic to grind away at the length of the nails. I was starting to get ‘fraid blud and thought to myself, this ‘new bitch’ is crazy.

Su Ling 1 walked by and I gave her the international nail customer’s sign of distress – it’s like morse code but you do it by fluttering your eyelashes instead of tapping on a machine . She came over and I said, while trying hard not to snatch my hand away from Su Ling 2 who was grinding away at what was left of my acrylics, ‘I wanted you to do my nails, but I wasn’t sure how long you’d be.’ I was wrong in assuming that Su Ling 2’s English wasn’t that good, because a moment later she said ‘You want her do your nails?’, dropped the tool, and left the table. Vex. Oh well. When you’re paying your hard-earned plantation money, people need to come correct. Not one of my nails was the same length. So I was reunited with Su Ling 1, and she did a beautiful job at repairing the damage that was done.

Roll on *Arsenal playing at home.

*Americans: This is a euphemism for menstruation – Arsenal Football Club wear red shirts.

Preach Papa Preach

Oh the bliss. A full nights sleep with no wake-up call. My eyes opened at 12.15pm, closed again and opened again around 2pm. Got a call from my friend Ronaldinho (not his real name but he’s learning to samba dance and he plays football) we chewed the fat after which I got up. Lawd, that sleep felt so good. Called the Bobo Dread, he’s usually in the manor on a Saturday and passes by for a cup of tea. He passed by and gave me a download of series 1 of The Wire (my nigga), and dropped me to the laundrette to deposit my service wash (machine bruk down). We chatted about winning the lottery. He would launch a magazine and a TV channel. I would launch myself down Sloane Street and on a plane to Jamaica.

Got myself together to see Mr. Miyagi (my Dad) in Harlesden. As soon as I got off the train I felt like a foreigner. Harlesden is the land that fashion forgot. It’s like the area for black chavs. Sportswear pon top of sportswear. Peacocks is the biggest store on the high street. No name brand shops at all. I stuck out like a sore thumb with my TopShop outfit and big silver Russell and Bromley bag. I may as well have had a sticker saying ‘bougie black bitch’ on my forehead.

I stopped off at the Jamaican food place on the high street, One Stop. I’ve been going there for years, but the girl that works in there, if she ever said please or thank you, she might crumble and collapse in a heap of dust. You know I had to cuss her about it already, so now , ME, I don’t look for it. True you don’t go in there bombaclaating and rassclaating they wanna treat you like you’re some eediot.

What a way some black people ‘fraid of educated, mannersable people. It’s a shame. I know she hasn’t forgot the cussing because she tried to ‘boy’ me as Clarke says. It was blatantly my turn, and she served some men on the right who were not in the queue. Why don’t West Indian men like to queue? They just breeze past you and say ‘Gimme me two pattie, jerk chicken dinner and a festival’ like you’re invisible. Dem get pon me nerves.

So I said loudly, can you order my dinner while your doing theirs...please (what a way people can’t think for themselves). You could almost grab the attitude hanging in the air. That bitch has been working in that shop way too long. What’s that about? Ain’t she got no ambition in life? Or is her only ambition to give people attitude while she serves them curry goat. As Michie Wong says, “Can’t relate”.

It’s been a while, but Mr. Miyagi looked well and was in good spirits. I ate my food, cleaned up the house, and we watched X Factor. Dad rightly predicted that the nig-nog, Dionne would get evicted, you know he was cussing.

“The ting is black people have so much talent, and some of dem don’t even know it. Dem don’t haf fe learn to sing. Dem born and dem can sing. Look at you, you did draw some picture when you was in school, and you had a talent fe it. But you don’t even use it.You have all t’ree talents but you only using one. Yes, some white people can sing. But dem cyaan sing like black people. You can do anyting that you waan to, you just haf fe believe inna youself.”

As I watched Justin Timberlake on Parkinson, and Jay Kay of Jamiroquai on the BBC Electric Proms show, Dad’s words came back to me. They’re good yes, but although they make me move, they don’t move me. I heard a Luther Vandross song in a dance recently and I wanted to cry. Admittedly I was the wrong side of Gina Ling’s quarter bottle of vodka. The man’s voice sounded sooo sweet. I was saying to Wong, why did he have to die so soon?

At least, he got his props while he was alive though unlike many other talented blackies. I just bought his song Shine on iTunes - it’s so wicked. He’s riding the Chic riddim ‘My Forbidden Lover’ - he sounds so alive, and I’m dancing as much to his voice as I am to the riddim. Luther didn’t have to try to change with the times. His voice was timeless.

Look at Omar, the man is stupidly talented, a fantastic singer, composer and arranger. The song he wrote and produced for Mica Paris ‘Should’ve Known Better must be over ten years old and it is a classic. He sung at DJ Swing’s funeral, and it was the best performance I’ve ever seen him give. His new material is fantastic. But I couldn’t tell you the last time I saw him given any raatid airtime on TV.

Rapper Ty has released an album recently, I’ve not seen him on TV (video in heavy rotation on Channel U). As a live act, he has raised the bar for hip-hop performances. But some new white boy on the block like this guy Jamie T will get wall to wall media coverage and hailed as the next big thing for daring to write ‘socially conscious neo-realistic lyrics’. Now there’s a new idea. Whatever will they think of next. Don’t even get me started on Lily Allen.

We had a fantastic period in the 90s with Black British soul music, now you’d be hard-pressed to name any black British soul singers. And when they do release stuff, it’s just like X-Factor, it don’t matter if you have a great voice like Dionne, man like Simon ‘love a black gyal’ Cowell want to tell you that you’re just a backing singer. Luther Vandross was a backing singer. Dionne, big up your chest, you tried a ting, but no one can deny your talent. You brought it to X-Factor, and you leave with it. Fuck bombaclaat Simon Cowell (yes I am halfway through a bottle of rose as I write this).

I talked family stuff with Pops and about the new job and Clarke. “Make her know she must get a h’education or else she will not get nowhere in life”.

He said my Mum had been down to see him the other week (they split up when I was about 9 after he went to Jamaica for three years and word came back he had shacked up with a woman with four pickney). He said that she looked so pretty that day, he had to tell her. And that the older she got, the more beautiful she looked.

When I got on the train to go home I remembered what he said, and had to blink back the tears that started welling up in my eyes. These days it seems that youth, and maintaining it is the most important thing in the ‘mainstream’ world. Me, I don’t worry. I look at my mum and my Dad, and I know my genes are on point. But working in the media, so many ‘stories’ focus on how people look, do they look bruk down , have they had plastic surgery, are they ageing gracefully. And here’s my Dad acknowledging my mother’s beauty as she approaches her 60s. It was so moving, I couldn’t help but think, I hope one day, I’m fortunate enought to meet someone who will think the same way about me.

P.S - Omar is at Plan B the first Sunday in December. Represent. Ty is at Jazz Cafe later this month.

Butterfly Goes on a Mini Adventure

On my way out of the plantation, I grabbed a copy of one of the free London papers. My chauffeur driven ride home was comforting, and even though I was yawning once every 30 secs, it was Friday night, and I felt haunted.

Clarkie is off with her cousins, and so I have a very rare whole, free, weekend with no responsbilities. Except maybe to take out the rubbish and wash up the dishes that had been stinking out the kitchen for the last two days. What was a girl to do?

I read the paper with a cup of tea, and a small item alerted me to the fact that legendary hip-hop DJ Cashmoney, from Philly, was playing at a bar in Brixton. There was no point in calling Suzy Wong, she was baby-sitting for her sisters, it was 12.30am, and I guess probably too short notice for most people. An hour later, I clip-clopped out of the house in my grey suede ankle boots, skinny jeans, and grey pleather Primark jacket to catch the number 2 to Brixton. I guess that hip-hop blood still runs hot through my veins.

Inside it was ram, and there he was. The Legendary DJ Cashmoney. I got a vodka tonic, found a ‘kotch’, and just jiggled my hips to the music. Saw a few peeps I knew, the comedian Toju who plied me with compliments about how good I looked (always welcome after a week on nights), ‘glowing’ he said (that Nars loose powder is the bomb) and ex-RPM dancer and filmmaker Mark, who was sporting a cool new 'black punk' haircut. I touched his head, and as I moved away from him, a ‘plainers’ girl (i.e. not pretty, but not busted) came from behind and looked at me as she made an exagerrated grab for him, as if to say ‘ah my man dis’. Daaam girl. Well everyone have to watch their man, but I understand the plainers girls definitely have to work harder. Plenty manteef deh bout. And in that relationship, her man is definitely the main attraction. I’m just saying.

Cashmoney played a good set, unfortunately the majority of the crowd were quite young, or just people out on the piss, so he couldn’t get that deep. But it was nice to hear some Main Source, KRS1, Eric B, Tribe Called Quest, Nas, Lupe Fiasco and Roots Manuva. I mean hearing any one of those tunes would normally make my night , but all of them?!? I was transported back to that teenage flygirl who wore C17 jeans (a black British flex), purple and white Patrick Ewings, and a purple leather goose jacket in a hip-hop jam all night and never felt hot.

When Cashmoney came off the decks he came and stood right by me, all my London cool went out the fucking window, and I was shaking his hand and telling him how I saw him when he first came to London in 19-long-time. He was cool though, very humble and didn’t act like I was trying to dash him some coochie like Rakim did when I met him. As if. I mean, if you were gonna go the hip-hop ho route, you wouldn’t choose Rakim would you? I mean, he’s a god! It would have been LL. He was the hip-hop pin-up, and didn’t disappoint when I met him. Damn fine ass big-wet-lipped motherfucker. I most definitely would have back then. And I would have broadcast it myself to MOR (Man On Road - copyright S).

I got talking to this stout looking 'red' guy Jason. “Did you used to rap?”. Oh no. My cover was blown. Now I look like a sad has-been bitch in a rave on my jacks. “Yes”. “What group was you in?”. “She-Rockers”. “Oh shit. Yeah.You look the same man.” Why is he lying? I'm nearly three stone heavier, and I have shoulder lengths dreads as opposed to the flygirl cut I rocked back then (Just for the record, Monie copied me). We got talking about music, and he recommended Lupe Fiasco and Omar’s albums (I know. I’m late). We talked about food we liked, in particular Japanese, Chinese and Indian restaurants. And as I live in Vauxhall he said I should go to the Sunday market and visit the Tate Britain, which I haven’t. Ever. Unfortunately as cool as he was to talk to. I didn’t fancy him. I have Mandingo syndrome. I like them tall, dark, and bigger than me. And he was short, red, and bigger, but in girth, not height. So I’m shallow, fucking sue me. But we hung out, danced, and I said I would see him back there in a week when singer Horace Brown (One For The Money) comes to Plan B.

A squat African man walked by me purposefully a few times. I could see he was on a ‘eggs’ flex. He made a beeline for me so I gave him ‘me back, me back, me back, me bloodclaat back’. Translation: I turned away and started to talk to Jason.
“Why are you turning away? The man wants to talk to you.” “He’s not the guy.” “What are you looking for?” “I ain’t looking (lie), and if I was, he still wouldn’t be the guy.” “Why not?” “Because, I know what I like, and dat nah mek it.”

Man blaze women on a regs because of how they look, and I’m sure I don’t escape judgement, hence why I have been single for three years. There’s better looking, slimmer, finer chicks out there than me, no doubt. But I got what I got, and I’m sure it will be enough for someone.

So a couple of V and Ts and a glass of wine later, I leave Jason (“so you ain’t gonna give me the digits then?”) and head towards Morley’s chicken (bwoy come just like Gina Ling). Damn that alcohol. And then the cab office, which is shut.
By now the New Look fashion boots ah kill me to bloodseed and I’m walking like a bimbo with constipation. I head back to Plan B and get a cab off the road. I know, that was a bad move but my foot was so bruk I couldn’t walk no further. Me did look good though. Made a mental note not to argue about the fare. Anyway, I get to my yard then the man tells me £9 to blow’ole. As comedienne Gina Yashere says: “I. Don’t. Fink. So”. I had a £10 note which would weaken my case, but I didn’t care. I was not paying £9.

Butterfly: “You must tink seh me born yesterday! Where are you going with £9?” “
Teefin Cabdriver: Ah, it’s late. So the price goes up.”
B: “Don’t chat foolishness. It’s not bloody Christmas or New Year’s Eve. Do I look like a tourist to you?”
TC: “You know how much petrol I burn to come here?”
B: “Fumes. That’s what you burned, Brixton is at best a mile from here, you can get here on the red.
TC:“It’s only £2, you gonna argue over £2”.
B: “You don’t know my situation? If it’s just £2, then why are you trying to overcharge me.”

I guess he couldn’t take the noise because I paid the £7 with my £10 and got my change. To bloodclaat. Dem nuh ready fe dis yet bwoyyyy.

Just To Get A Rep

It's been so disorientating working nights. In the morning I just want to sleep, so I barely do anything before I leave for work, and when I return at 12.30am it's too late to do anything, so I eat, watch something on E4 and then go to bed.

I can easily go a whole week and not see any of my people, although I speak to them on the phone. I got into bed, but I felt like I needed to talk to someone, it was 1.30am so I texted Suzy Wong "r u up?". She calls me back.

We chatted about the dance at Dillusions on the weekend, nice rave, ram, ram ram (Hypo you did reach?) We saw one of our friends Coolie Girl, and she was with 'Hedgehog' from the 'Eggatons' crew. We call them the eggatons because they like to latch on to people that they think can make them look good and they're blatantly on a beg friend tip.

Hedgehog got her name because she has a 'fauxhican' hairstyle (think Estelle). You know the hairstyle that looks like its been done by someone that's shares Stevie Wonder's challenges in life, but not his genius. There's a long bit here, and a short bit there. It's quite a popular style with girls on road, it's their way being a bit 'different', but in fact it just means that they end up getting called Hedgehog by rude gyal like us.

Anyway, Coolie Girl is a nice girl, but since we went Malaga, Hedgehog and her twin sister have been 'underneath' her. "I call dem gyal dere Mattress Gyal". What?!? You call her Mattress Gyal?!? Liiiie. Why???'. "Because man treat gyal like dat like a mattress fe dem to lie down pon"...HAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAA! Cue the tears rolling down my face.

Now I know people are free to choose their friends, but I thought that Coolie moving with Hedgehog and Mattress was just a holiday flex. So I was asking Wong 'what's up with Coolie Gyal', how come she's rolling with the 'eggs' crew?'. "It's because Coolie knows all the top shottas on the circuit. So they're trying to get close to them through her." Deep.

The Eggatons tried to 'eggs' with us on the trip (if you ever see me make the egg shape with my thumb and forefinger - I am alerting you to the fact that someone is on an 'eggs flex'). They tried to talk to Wong. She said she just went 'uhh'.

And even worse, they tried to talk to Gina Ling. Silence is golden. I know it sounds dark, but them girls are on a beg friend tip, and we know, if we give them an inch, they will try take the whole of Brixton high road and Acre Lane combined. And then they will be like Klingons - blocking with us when we're at the dances to try and get some shine off of us. That's why blanking is the only way to treat them. You got to be cruel to be kind.

The word is now, them girl's is upset. Wong said they were complaining to Coolie Girl: "We have tried to talk to them, but why won't they talk to us, why are they like that, it's like no one can penetrate their crew". That's right. Why are they begging friend? Is their crew not enough for them? It's not a mean thing, as in, we giving them cut-eye or trying to start 'arms'(a row) with them in the dance, but we are not up for opening the lines of communication, because we know, once we say hello, they'll be trying to rush in like Russians.

Coolie Girl set them straight, 'That's just how they are, I only just got past hello with them myself'. I first met Coolie Girl about a year ago, and Malaga was the first time we said more than hello. She's a friend of a friend, so she got the basic level of respect. Hello and goodbye.

Women's friendships are too transient. One season Karen is the flavour, the next season it's Jade. I have fallen into that trap myself. My ex, God bless him, used to try and talk to me, but I wouldn't listen. I have many stories of female friends I've fallen out with.

It's only when I found myself walking down Dulwich Common Road at 3am on my own, after being left by the girls I was with to make my own way home despite two of them driving(the row with the ee-diot cab man who demanded I pay in advance didn't help) that I made the decision, I would not leave my house to rave with people that were not my 'bredrins'. Road code violation. You come together, you leave together.

So these girls are barking up the wrong tree, and they shouldn't take it personal. Suzy Wong's best friends are her sisters, and me, and Lou. We've known each other since we were teenagers, and have been friends since we were 23 years old. That's 14 years of friendship. That's it. That's how we roll. We ain't looking no friend, especially 'beg-a-friend' just trying to get to know the shottas on the 'circuit' through us.

I may not go to celebrity parties anymore, West End clubs, or to the most trendy London events. But whereever I go, as long as I'm with my people, I know I'm gonna have a good time, and more importantly I know that they ain't gonna leave me to make my own way home. Can you say that about your friends?

Ah Big 'oman Like You

We Ain't Never Scared

You're Too Hostile!

I’ve not worked in a morgue before. But I reckon it might be something like the evening shift at the Big Time Newspaper. Somehow I got conned into working 3-12am for a whole month. A month where I see my child for 30 minutes in the morning if I can get up after going to bed at 3am, and then on weekends, squeezed in between spending some time with adults that doesn’t involve working like Kizzy for Missy ‘lisbet.

They pay for my midnight taxi ride home (you know they’re always shocked to see my black face walking up out of there), and I’m usually having a natter with the driver. Imagine my surprise as I’m talking about raving, and how some women compete with each other so ferociously for the few men in the dance that they end up fighting. Not me fools.

The cabbie said to me in an emphatic tone: ” The problem is, is that the black men are all going for the white girls.” Tell me something I don’t know. “Because black women are too agressive and demanding.”

Note to cab driver: Just in case you hadn’t noticed I am one of those aggressive and demanding black woman. I said, in an incredulous voice: “How do you know?” And of course, black men have been blabbing this to him. And oh yeah, the whole fucking world. Which is why a white cab driver from Canning Town can come and tell me this like it’s gospel, because of course the man/men that told him have been with every single type of black woman there is to go out with. Or maybe just one or two.

He said this like it was no big ting and of course didn’t stop to think that this might in anyway hurt my feelings. Which it did.

He continued: “They know what they want when they go out, they want to meet a woman and get their way with them that night, and they know they can’t do that with black women, cos they’ don’t put up with any shit from anyone.” Ok, feeling less hurt now, because he’s basically saying black women have respect for themselves and white women are ‘slack’. ‘Nil point’ for white women from their white bredren.

But I said: “Come on now, that’s not strictly true...black women put up with plenty of shit from men too...” sorry my white sisters but you gonna have to defend yourselves on the ‘slack’ claim...I can’t speak for a white woman “but if you’re saying that brothers think we’re too demanding because we would like more than a pint of Snakebite before dropping our Love Kylie knickers, then I would have to agree. I am demanding. And I don’t raasclaat apologize to no bombaclaat banachecka (old time sleng that means someone who checks white woman/man).”

Ok, I didn’t cuss the bad words dem, but I wanted to. What has it come to, when a white man can come and tell me something like that, like ah nuh nuttin’. Like it don’t hurt me when I hear that shit coming from a brother’s mouth, let alone coming from a white man. When a cabbie is telling you that, that shit is common knowledge. Cabbies are the salt of the fucking earth, the man in the street, the fucking common people. Who live like common people do. Why is it the fault of the black woman if the black man is with a white woman?

When I went out with a white man, I never said: “Oh black men are wotless, all they wanna do is breed you and then left your ass, don’t gi you no money, but then keep coming back to wuk you when they feel like.” And yes I am deliberately stereotyping. No, I just happened to meet someone, he was white, and surprising to me I liked him. (Even though on a scale of 1-10, 1 being busted, and 10 being hot to death, he was a 2). Who says I’m superficial.

However, I’ll admit we’re both at fault here, black women have been cussing black men, and black men cussing black women. But, black women are not turning away from brothers in droves despite some of their shortcomings. But to be honest, I doubt many of them would miss us.

All these black men that say: “White women are easier to get on with, they’re easy going.” You stay dere, white women ain’t no pushover. Remember they are descendants of that bitch that threw herself under a horse to get the vote for women in this country. Don’t underestimate them, they are some tough flat ass bitches. When they’re ready to stop taking your shit and acting like it tastes better than the ackee and saltfish she forces herself to eat at your beloved Mum’s house, she will take your ass to the cleaners and leave you in just the namebrand clothes you’re profiling in. Have you forgotten what happened to Frank Bruno?

As far as I’m concerned some black women have got more reason to desert brothers. Well, the one’s that are left holding the baby/ies have. No money ah month time, no visits from Dad, no involvement in their kids lives. Just walk away and don’t look back. Go somewhere else, drop some more sperm, and repeat the wotless babyfather cycle. But does this turn black women off black men? Noooo. Those same women would prefer to be with a black man, despite what has happened previously, in fact, they would not consider anything else. Usually it just turns them off the wotless ones.

Those big mout’ jackasses who go around saying this foolishness, getting sex easy from some white women, and dissing us sisters, truly, I am not interested in them. Goodbye and good luck, because you are right. I am demanding. I demand that you have a fucking brain, that you look for more from me than what’s between my legs (I mean that’s cool and all but I only fuck for love as Suzy Wong says), that you treat me as an equal and not a subordinate, that every sentence does not end with ‘blud’ or ‘nahwhatImean’, that your favourite restaurant is not KFC, that you don’t go to Ayia fucking Napa every year for your holidays, that you do not have five children by the age of 25 by three different babymothers, and that when you buy a diamond its for the ring finger on my left hand and not to put in your raatid teet’!

Further I would like all black men who exclusively lust after white women to say after me: “I *nigga/footballer* prefer white women because I have accepted the dominant ideology and believe that white women are the ultimate prize in life, and I will never truly believe that I have made it in life until I have a white/asian/latina/japanese/brazilian/chinese (ah fuck it, any bitch with naturally straight hair that isn’t sewn in and can wash n go) woman hanging off my arm. “

Never gonna happen is it.

Shame and No Grace

Today I went into the kitchen, and the sink was full of dishes. Washing the dishes is Clarke's job during the week so I was really not impressed. If me and my sister didn't wash the dishes before we went to bed, when my mum got back in from the night shift, she would wake us up, blaze us, and then make us do it before we went to bed. Don't bother saying it 'wasn't my turn' she wouldn't care, and you would have to do it. Knowing that this would happen, I don't actually know why we forgot to do them.

I was so 'vex' about the dishes I nearly didn't cook the lasagne as planned, but after calming down decided to give her a 'bly' and just let her know, 'it nuh go so'. I have my mum's temper no doubt, but I try hard to use it sparingly. So that when Clarke does see the Wrath of Mum, it is really effective. I don't need to beat my child, because in my house, I AM THE BOSS. That has been made clear since she was a lil whippersnapper, and is not going to change. Yeah she gets the sulks, and acts up now and again, but she knows bad behaviour means consequences. And she still fears them. Unlike the bad breed yoof of today.

How must Damilola Taylor's parents feel to know that the killers of their innocent 10-year-old son will be released in three years, after receiving an eight-year jail sentence for his senseless murder. Their 'supporters' turned up at the court wearing t-shirts saying 'Free the Preddie Brothers. These boys killed a child by stabbing him in the thigh with a shard of glass. For fun. Why are their 'friends' asking for their freedom? It's like they are totally glorifying what these people have done.

I got over feeling shame any time I saw a headline in the Evening Standard about some brutal rape or murder, and it turned out to be a black man, but when I saw those bad breed youts' in those t-shirts, it returned. Shame, shame, shame. The fact that Damilola is African, and these youts' are of Caribbean descent is something that needs to be addressed. So I'm gonna say it.

There are too many darkhearted West-Indian yout's (born here of course) with no ambition, or goal in life out there willing to take someone's life for nothing. Once they did it for financial gain. Now they do it for 'respect'. I have said it once, and I will say it again, black people, no Caribbean people are failing their children. I'm sorry but you do not see African children going on so. They are usually the one's that are being picked on by the 'boasty' Caribbean children who think that because they are descendants of people from a little island in the West Indies that gives them a licence to big up their chest on everyone else.

And I know who is to blame. It's the mothers. Yes my sisters, I'm talking to you. Yes, the absentee fathers are to blame too but the boys are left with the mums. We all know boy's need a man in their lives, but if they don't have it, they have mum. Let's face it, it's not a new phenomenon, Caribbean families breaking down. Caribbean men never been the most monogamous types.

Lemar is one of many celebrities who attributes his success to his mother, who sadly passed away. If we can take the credit for the success, we have to take the criticism too. It is the mums, who because Dad has not been seen since 19-long time, spoil their precious sons stupid, allow them to do what they want, when they want, and never say no to them. Anything they want, they can get. Failing at school? 'Ah de school fault', poor grades? 'de teacher dem racist', he's bullying kids? 'ah dem start pon 'im first'.

Equality aside. A child fails or succeeds by the will and strength of its mother. Once the man is gone, 'im garn'! And us women have to 'tan up inna it. Don't fucking keep moaning on about what him did do, and what him never do, it's not the childs fault, you have to get on with it. But what you don't do, is treat your son who has done nothing in his life except be born with a piece of man muscle hanging between his legs, as some kind of raatid demi-god who must be plied with riches beyond his wildest dreams. You are not helping your child when you make them think that everything in life must come easy.

Too many women spoil their sons with the wrong things. Too much focus on material possessions. Never spending a penny on their child's education and don't take no interest in it. The teachers they say 'are racist'. Their children can do no wrong. Many of them are living 'loose' lives themselves, drugs, alcohol, or they work too hard and leave their children to fend for themselves. I know what it's like, I come from the same low-income, council estate background as a lot of these kids, but my parents generation were different. That whole generation was stronger, whereas my generation seem to think deprivation is not being able to buy your son some Nike trainers, and the tracksuit to match.

We are not equipping our children to make a decent life for themselves when we don't have any higher expectation of them than going to school looking better than the neighbours kid.

Something has gone awry, and it is our own kids who we need to be fearful for, because they share the streets with the bad breeds, and these youts' 'don't response' to 'say it loud I'm black and I'm proud' it's more like 'shank a man if you know you're bad'. I am afraid for my daughter and my friends children, who are unwittingly mixing with children coming from 'wotless' homes like this. I don't know what it's like to have a son, but if I am lucky enough to have another child, and it turns out to be a boy, I only hope that I do not become mesmerized by his penis and make the same mistakes as the mother of these two heartless boys has obviously made.

A Tale of Two Dances

Ohmigod. What a weekend. Not only has working out regularly trimmed inches off my body. But the workouts have equipped me with the stamina body for some serious all night raving. A rather flattering chap likened it my physique to 'Venus de Milo'....his words not mine. Damn son! Now that's what I'm talking about, some original sweet talk. Not the same old, 'bwoy, you look tick eh?'!

Any man that can slip those words into a conversation is either a Class A lothario or just someone I need to have a proper chat with. I digress.

Saturday night was a marathon two-party raving session. Not for the fainthearted, and strictly for the stamina mummies. Hence why I was tip-toeing in my metallic gold LK Bennett sandals (4"), due to some serious 'fuck me' foot pressure, out of a club deepest east London, Canning Town, at 7am on Sunday morning. Praise the Lord.

To all those wondering, how do you do it?

Butterfly Jones Raving Survival Guide:

Don't overdo it during the day
I went kickboxing at midday, and then took a leisurely stroll up to the South Bank, past the London Eye, where I took my daughter and her schoolfriend 'K' to lunch at Wagamama's. It was the first time she had had one of her schoolfriend's over and she was a bit nervous because let's put it this way, mother's home-making limitations would be on display. My plans to get up early and tidy up were scuppered by the late shift at work, and sleep was my bed partner. It was one of those sleeps which feels like the sweet love-making.

Clarke's friend had never been to Wagamama's before, but he was up for trying the food, had lovely table manners, and could hold a mature conversation. It was a really nice lunch. He definitely gets the thumbs up and is welcome round our house any time. Oh yeah, I noticed he is a boy, but it's not a problem for me, as I had a lot of boy friends when I was at school too as Shazby pointed out. She said she had thought it was a bit weird when she first met me and I was always hanging round with groups of boys (who I knew from my estate - or just met at school), with my socks rolled down to my ankles, kicking a ball against the wall at playtime.

Apparently lots of people are jealous of their friendship and are now frantically trying to find opposite sex friends of their own. Ah my daughter dat ya know. Trendsetter. No idea where she gets that from...Apparently, their 'names are round the school" because of their friendship. And a girl went out with Kadeem because she wanted to get 'her name round the school." Deep.

I just love talking to the youts' and finding out what's going on their heads. The non-verbal communication between Clarke and 'K' was very subtle too, lots of knowing looks, and lowering of voices when they wanted to say something I shouldn't be privy too.

The lunch happened as a result of something that happened in Malaga. Wong introduced me to a guy she knew, and we were hanging out by the pool, as he watched his young son swim. We were talking about our kids and stuff and he mentioned his son's school changed uniform. The same thing happened at Clarke's school. I enquired which school his son went to and we realised they were at the same school. I asked his son's name and nearly fell over when he said 'K'. That's why I can't go on shabby (slack) in London. My name would be round the 'school'.

Have a nap
After the kickboxing in the morning and the hour-long walk, I felt a sudden urge to lie down when I got in. So if you can, a nap before you rave is ideal. What is not ideal is waking up at 6.50pm realising you have 10 minutes to get to the dry-cleaners to pick up your frock for the night's activities.

Eat well
I made a light repas of roasted chicken, vegetables and potatoes. A small amount of carbs is essential to hold at bay the sensation of alcohol gnawing at your stomach at about 3am in the morning which is usually followed by a visit to the jerk chicken drum outside the dance or a Dixy fried chicken shop. And drink a fair amount of water to help offset the nights imbications (see dem big word deh Pessimist).

Don't leave home before midnight
Gina Ling picked me up around 12am and we set off to meet the others. We went to a big dance at a bar in the city. It's was what I call 'a duty rave'. Some nights you rave because you want to go out. But on Saturday night we all raved because Michie Wong wanted us to go out. So you do it out of duty to your friend (and I'm glad I did). But I got nothing but love for Michie Wong so I dug up a four-year old sexy little French Connection dress, and my hot gold shoes from LK Bennett which Beyonce would love, and represented. Cos ah Michie Wong name did mention Saturday night.

Don't rave with pickney
When we got to the bar, it was like a scene out of a house and garage video. Pure hottie hottie gyal, wearing tops as dresses, big batty girls fitting themselves in shorts, and some gangster lookin' yout's in jeans and fitteds (caps). Everyone was dressed in their ravin' best but it was clear, they were not our age-group. After 'queuing', yes, 'queuing', we went inside. The atmosphere was slightly tense. Too many 'hot gyal' inna de one place, and when a girl tried to flare up with Suzie Wong, we knew we had to just chill on the sidelines as it was the type of place where it was too easy to get into beef. And it's not about fighting in public, for us anyway.

Forget testosterone, estrogen was running tings up in that place, even the man's dem knew it as they clung to the walls, each man holding a bottle of Laurent Perrier just stood watching the girls as they whined and screwed (as in looked) for supremacy.

Thirty minutes into the dance, two eediot gyal started fighting. The DJs got the crowd to boo them, and security threw them out. Ten minutes later we left. When we got outside the police had arrived, as the girls had continued fighting once outside. Apparently they were being arrested. The police brought a van with dogs, and they shut down the rave early. Libs.

Pace yourself
Drink sensibly and don't do drugs. No drugs are needed to last all night, just the high of some alcohol to make you feel nice. No mixing, getting off your face, vomiting in your nice clothes, over your shoes. 'llow. Dat. I knew it would be a long night, so I started the night with a vodka and red bull. Followed by another double. Oh, I forgot about the premixed vodka me and Gina Ling drank in the car on the way to the second rave. House party measures. Oops.

So by the time we got to Rave II, we were feeling 'nice'. Walked in the place like 'woah'. Greeted old friends, found a spot, and started raving. Music was heavy, people were grown and sexy. No attitude, no bad vibes. No scrum for the bar, no queue for the toilets.The DJs were up for it and were reaching for the hot tunes missed out in Malaga. At no time from 3am onwards did I think, I want to sit down. I danced and sang and shook off my week at work.

Dance with a fit man
If at some point you start to think about the pain in your feet, you know it's time to take a load off. You should identify your target early and surreptitiously position yourself in their sightline. Don't beg a dance, but be open to being asked. Strategy worked, and I had someone to lean against for the last couple of hours of the dance, which helped me to forget about the pain of not having my spare shoes (Mich) plus the vodka took the edge off. He was lovely to dance with, look at and good to talk to. Neither the man nor yourself must dance nasty. Decorum, decorum, decorum!

Know when it's time to leave
It's a dance not a relationship. Thank him, leave and go to the car and rub your foot bottom dem. Or as actually happened, leave. Man follows you to the car to talk with you and the girls and after feisty Gina Ling brazenly asks him for a foot rub, rubs your foot bottom for you too! Result.

Don't Call Me Babes!

This is why as an attractive, educated, ambitious, party-loving black woman. You can't win. If you look good, people say you're intimidating. If you look mash-up, people say whappen to you! If you go out a lot, people label you 'circuit girl'. You know, I've achieved a fair bit in my short life, and I don't like to bang on about my achievements (did I mention I have two degrees, both earned after having a child), but maybe I need to, because some people are starting to tek this ting for some joke business (excessive use of patois due to a week spent with the Robb sisters).

Yesterday as I turned up to work at The Big-Time Newspaper, I saw one of the chefs from the staff restaurant. Hear him to me: "Alright babes." BABES?!? Like me and him was friend from long-time.

Babes?!? Like we did roll out of my bed together that morning after some hot-loving and toe-sucking.

Babes?!? Like we did deh innna something and he was trying to hold it down at work but couldn't help himself. Ok you get the picture.

That's why you just can't win. If I went to work at The Big-Time Newspaper, and blanked all the brothers, they would think I was a bougie black broad (which I am of course, but I'm not stuck-up). But because I say hello, answer their stupid questions (where are you from? You don't look Jamaican) this leaves me open to a strange man calling me 'babes' in my place of work.

It's not like he was even standing next to me, he was a good six-to eight foot away from me. He grinned his yellow tombstone teeth like a Cheshire cat and called me 'babes' like me and him really 'knew' each other. Me nuh know 'im! I wanted to slap that man. Hard.

Just because our skin be the same colour, don't get it twisted. Trust me, when I go in there today. That man will be saying hello to thin air. I am going to blank him so hard, he's gonna feel like his woman left him. And I'm sure he has got a woman, because the ones that talk to you the hardest usually have.

You just can't win. You work hard, get an education, get a career, get published in national newpaper's, raise a child, and man's that don't know you wanna call you 'circuit girl' or 'babes'. Where's the fucking respect?

Champagne For My Real Friends

Holidays are great. But coming home sucks. I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't say it, being a mum and all, but I wish I was still there. I guess that's the sign of a good holiday, when you wish you were back there. Try know, there are holidays that I'm not so keen to revisit.

Just two days later the euphoria wore off, the glitter of the memories begun to fade, and it's back to reality. It's raining, I have to do all those things you don't have to on holiday, like cook, wash and clean, and I'm getting the sniffles. Not to mention having to return to the plantation.

Plus I miss my girl group. It was a really amazing feeling to be part of a group of such powerful women. All five of them. Some people said to me: "I don't know how you do it, I can't do that sort of thing anymore." How quickly these people forget. It must be nice to be a 'smug married' but I hope I never become that. I'd always like to have a little space where me and my girls can hop on a plane and have some fun, maybe not as intense as the last week, but it can still be a time where we get to let our 'hair' down, and a chance to share our opinions on parenting, our parents, life, and of course, the man's dem.

I learnt a lot about my friends, and have a new found respect for them after hearing all that they have coped with in their lives. The holiday wasn't just about raving. It was about much more than that.

"Gunshot Inna De Air"

Three things let me know I was back home and the holiday was well and truly over; I had to do housework, I had an argument with my mum, and there was a shooting in Brixton.

Clarkie and I were shopping in Brixton at the time of the shooting. I had popped down there to look for a new washing machine, and buy some meat from the market. I also ended up buying a new bike. Brixton was mad busy. There were lots of schoolchildren walking in posses looking smart in fresh new uniforms, and eating chips and takeaways on the road(not my child).

The shop that sells washing machines is about five minutes from the main high street in Brixton, and when we came back to the central area to go to Iceland, the road outside Brixton was cordoned off with police tape. A now all too-familiar sight. According to the Evening Standard, a man opened fire on two teenage boys who were in the queue in McDonalds, in front of children and families. Suzie Wong said one of her co-workers daughters witnessed the whole thing, she called her mum from McDonalds.

This gun shit is getting well out of hand. Apparently while I was away there a number of shootings around London. Why I find it so disturbing is because my daughter is at an age where she commutes to school by herself, and to places nearby, like Suzie Wong's house. Now I'm feeling more and more obliged to get a car and ferry her around more, as I just don't feel it is safe for her to travel about on her jacks.

What must the parents of those teenagers be going through. The government needs to do more to get the guns off the street, and to protect the people. But I doubt that they will. Things are so bad, that despite paying a tax which is supposed to provide these services, people are paying out of their own pockets to hire private security firms. Tony Blair owns a £3m house in Connaught Square, just off Edgware Road (ten minutes from Marble Arch). The residents there are paying a security firm to ensure their safety after muggings and burglaries. If these rich motherfuckers don't feel secure on their own doorsteps, what chance do we have.

"Ah Your Name Mention Tonight"

I'm back. I survived the hardest week of partying ever. RJS is like the black people's Ibiza, without the Class A drugs. OK, a fair bit of weed smoking was gwaaning, but other than that, the stimulant of choice was a bottle of Courvoisier. Make that bottles. Damn - black folk have a capacity for drinking on a scale that makes white folk look teetotal. And not one fight did I see after the dances ended. Unless you count the scrum for the chicken shop. After Mistri put on one of his CD's at the food spot, one girl said: "Only black people could turn a chicken shop into a rave." Sho' you right.

As a RJS virgin, I didn't really know what to expect, but there were many highlights during the week.

JAMAICAN ANGELS
Most nights we had a theme for the evening's party. The 'cheerleaders' and 'ballers' night was one of the best nights. Although it was stupid of the organisers to split the dance between two venues. That was also the night I drank the most which culminated in me doing a pretty good impression of dancehall queen Carlene. The fact that for once I was in a rave in trainers, usually a no-no, meant that me and my old dancing partner Suzie Wong (or Swellin' as we renamed her due to her moodiness) could relive our past and buss moves like we used to back in the day. Once the ragga came on, the 'Jamaican Angels' as the DJ christened us (due to our Jamaican cheerleader outfits) while biggin' us up on the mic, danced like no one was watching and let loose with some moves. One of my friends said 'I have never seen you like that before'. Probably because after an hour my hot shoes ah give me hot foot.

SURVIVAL STORY
It was amazing how quickly I got used to the lack of sleep. Once you accepted that with six girls sharing you would always get woken up (especially cos we are not quiet girls) you were better off. My strategies for coping with the lack of sleep were: drinking lots of water, eating lots of protein. Using anti-shadow eye cream, the Lizzie Arden 8 hour cream worked a treat too. And a few hours sunbathing and a swim a day worked wonders.

DA MANS DEM
There were quite a few about, but only one caught my eye. Of course he was the wrong one. Really losing faith in my ability to recognise a good one, so am urging all decent men to step up to the plate. I don't know why guys feel that women should be running them down. In my experience, most men feel intimidated if women have the confidence to talk to them and let them know she's interested. Most men are quite simplistic in their thinking: "If she does this with me, she's like that with everyone." Long. One guy said to me "You're a 'circuit girl'". Meaning I am a regular on a particular scene. Usually this is in no way a compliment. Can I just confirm that this is not a way to endear yourself to a woman you may be interested in. The following night after we danced to a couple of tunes, the man was looking around like a meerkat. So I said: "Why are you looking around like that?" and he said "You're acting like you already own me." Damn son. I walked off and left that mo'fo standing and did not chat to him again. Imagine if I had run it down. I would have felt like a ee-diot.

Other than that fool, I met some really nice guys, especially when I was playing volleyball, and went go-karting, we had a laugh together, and from what I could see (when I wasn't half-drunk) they treated the girls with respect. People were really friendly most the time, and it was good to see my community enjoying themselves.

DA GIRL'S DEM
You know the competitiveness between girl's always rears it's head when man is in short supply, and this was no different. Girl's would just walk past without even a morning 'dawg'. But for once, no one tried to 'chuck it' with us. There was plenty of looking, and 'blanking' going on. But I made a point of saying morning to most people I saw that were part of the RJS group. Anybody black basically. There were some girls that Suzie Wong identified as long time haters, so out of group loyalty tried to avoid them. But this got harder and harder as the week went on because I would be 'lean up' and just forget who was who! Also, some girls would appear friendly, but you know they were just trying to 'eggs up' with your group because we were friendly with certain man. It's not about that.

One guy said 'the quality' of the girl's was the best yet on an RJS trip. So for the man's dem it was cool. It definitely appeared that lots of the girl's made a big effort to look the part, although I would say that some were showing too much T&A at points, but that's their ting, just not mine.

POOL PARTY
We were lounging by the pool one day and it was pretty quiet except for a ipod playing on some speakers. Then one of the DJs, 'T' went and got his laptop and speakers and that was it, bashment. We were out there for six hours in the blazing sun. I rocked my 'retro' skirted bikinis which got props, and felt pretty comfortable doing the walk from the lounger to the swimming pool despite being surrounded by lots of skinny bitches. Mission accomplished. My tan is dark burnished brown and hopefully should survive well into the wintertime.

I always used to think when I travelled to Europe, it would be nice to do this with a group of black folk because we would have the music and the vibes in the evening time. And it really lived up to my expectations.

THE WONG SISTERS
I had a really good time with Suzie Wong's sisters. Pure joke from Gina Ling, Michie, and Gill. I have known them for a long time through Wong, but you don't really know people until you live with them. I was a bit 'fraid because them lot can argue nuff when they're together(I know I can talk) but it was cool. In a way they were my saving grace as Wong spent nuff time sleeping (boring) so we would go off and do stuff together.

One of the arguments Gill and Gina had was the funniest thing I've ever heard. Come like argument soundclash. First of all, it kicked off because Gina's shower gel was finished and she was 'bent' (upset). During the middle of the shouting and screaming (as we were getting ready) Gina started singing: "I ain't never scared, I ain't never scared" and Gill sang back: "Yuh too bad mind, yuh too bad mind". I nearly wet myself. Never before have I heard people 'clash' each other while arguing. Tears did come in me eye. After that we just would sing 'I ain't never scared' to each other and collapse in fits if laughter.

MENTION
One of the RJS organisers came up to me, half-cut I think and said: "Don't t'ink seh I ain't notice you.Me ah watch you. Ah your name mention tonight." (Translation: I'm am the hot girl) Did I mention he is white. Deep. After that, it became the catchphrase of the trip. If we saw a guy that looked alright - we just shortened it to 'mention'.

Day Six: I´m A Soldier

I can´t remember functioning on so little sleep since I first became a mum. This is just stupid.

Wednesday night: 4 hours
Thursday night: 2 hours
Friday night: 3 hours
Saturday night: 4 hours
Sunday night: 5 hours

Red Bull is my new best friend, and I choose alcoholic drinks according to which will make me more lively, hence I was drinking tequila shots last night. Which along with champagne, and vodka did not give me a hangover.

Had a brilliant day by the pool. The soundmen (djs) do not go anywhere without their music. So power was jacked poolside, laptop plugged in and tunes blazed out like the sun all day. The coolie girl tan is on lock. And funnily enough, I´m beginning to function rather well now.

Day Four: No Sleep Til´....

Forget holiday. The raving marathon continues. And so does my headache. Last night´s rave was at Lineker´s Bar, and Rampage flew in the spice things up a bit. I decided to have a ´dry´ night, no alcohol, and stuck with water. It´s not about falling sick from too much alcohol and dehydration.

Have got to know a few people from playing volleyball (mainly guys) and just being friendly in general. The woman to man ratio is high as expected, with around 10 girls to 3 man. It´s not really an issue for me, but it does manage to breed a bit of resentment among the girls, and in the toilets conversations seem to centre on the fact that women are ´screwing´ (eyeballing) each other. So far so good. Bad breed Butterfly has not had to make an appearance. I pray it stays that way as the lack of sleep generally affects my mood adversely making me even more short tempered than usual.

Other than that, there is generally a good atmosphere at the parties, and the men that are there are being respectful. Everyone is drinking sensibly and we´ve had no casualties, and don´t expect to, but this ´holiday´is not for the fainthearted. Because of my headache I really wasn´t feeling staying out late, but just as I was about to leave they started dropping the old school ragga and I couldn´t leave. We closed the dance at 7am....

I was well impressed with myself (´llow me) as I was wearing some of those fashionable short shorts. I have not worn shorts out in public since....19 long time. All that work did pay off as I felt good, and wasn´t feeling paro (noid) about my big thighs. I wore them with my jewelled TopShop wedges (last season) for added height and a nice black silky wrap top from ToSho (two seasons). It is nice to get dressed up everyday and go somewhere, that´s one of the nice things about holidays. You don´t really have a ´butters´(ugly) day.

I´ve had 2.5 hours sleep and we´re going on a day trip to the beach. I have my yellow polka dot bikini on, and the coach will be here in 15 minutes. I´m going for a full english now (sorry personal trainer). OY OY!!!

21.56pm

I went to bed with a headache brought on no doubt by the high level of alcohol consumption and over-exertions on the dancefloor. And then I woke up with it. I swum with it, sunbathed with it, and despite the 3.5 Panadol Extras ingested, have still not managed to shake it. It´s my third night here, and third party. Last night I must have got in at 6am, and was still called a lightweight.

There´s Karaoke at 11pm, suffice to say, they will not be seeing my black ass. Black people take karaoke too seriously. People act like they´re on American Idol and Simon Cowell is judging them. I´m only going to watch, so I´ll just try and sleep, something I´m finding hard to do for long with five other bodies our ñiving quarters. Someone gets up and starts talking (loudly) and that´s it, you´re up.

It´s gonna be a struggle to stay looking human on this punishing schedule. But tomorrow´s the all-day beach party. Gotta fix up and look sharp by then *yawns*.

The Malaga Diaries: We Run Tings, Tings Noh Run We

Finally got to Malaga after the journey from Hades. Stupidly early flight meant we were awake for twenty-four and then some hours. Some people didn´t handle it well.

The first two days Suzie Wong was acting like the baddest bitch. Sleep deprivation made her a monster and we were all suffering. Michie Wong is filming the trip and when she played back the footage of Suzie Wong acting up, she couldn´t believe she was really going on like that.

We got to the first night´s rave around 2.30am. Everyone really looked good. Grown and sexy in dresses. I was wearing a full length halter necked number from Miss Selfridge I bought last year. It´s a style that´s become very fashionable this year. And yes I am bigging up myself for being fashion forward. I teamed it with a pair of snakeskin print open-toe wedges which I found in East Street for £5.99. The shoes dem look good, and for once I did not complain of foot pressure. Praise Jesus.

Everyone was sleeping before the dance except me because I was restless. So I went and ate some food, found a Baskin Robbins and had a sundae, and made like E.T. Phoned. Home. We´re in Fuengirola a real English people´s holiday spot. The Spanish like to stare a bit, but it don´t really bother me. Some English tourists have been a bit funny. One of them said as some of the girl´s we know walked by¨"Don´t ever let me go out with one of them." As if you bombarass. And why is it the English always have to wear an England football shirt on holiday? What´s that about. Then they act stupid and everyone knows, it´s the English football hooligans.

We had a sports day yesterday. After doing a bit of sunbathing, I played volleyball for a couple of hours. It was really good fun, and there were lots of buff guys playing. Heh heh heh. But unfortunately despite my efforts at marshalling ´my´ team. We lost three times in a row. The girls on the team let us down because they couldn´t play at all, it was embarassing. I love sport, and was always the captain of the teams at school. My pet hate is girl´s that can´t catch or throw a ball. So you know I spent time with my babygirl teaching her how to catch ball. And she´s very good. Some of these girls don´t seem to know what their hands can do other than apply make-up.

Last night we had our ´cheerleader´theme night. We went as Jamaican cheerleaders. We had these Jamaica vests and short black skirts. (I had some black adidas boxing boots too). The djs bigged us up nuff on the mike. As soon as we got in the dance we were ´brukking out´like we were in that David LaChapelle film ´Rise´. Well I was anyway. Because we were wearing trainers, we were able to really dance properly for once, not just do the ´foot pressure´ two-step. All the dances I usually reserve for my living room in front of the TV came out. I felt like 18 again.

The alcohol measures out here come like when you go house party. Half the glass is filled with alcohol, and I´m talking tall glasses. So as the night wore on, and we got merrier and merrier, the dancing got more and more outlandish. When the dancehall music came on that was it. The Jamaican came out in me and I was bending down backways in a half-crab, and dropping down on the floor booty-shaking. Shabby. I hope the big black knickers did cover my modesty.

The Spanish people working in the bars have been wicked. And lots of Spanish people have been coming into the bars just to rave with us. They are so amazed by the whole scene in the clubs, and were baffled when everyone was singing along to the popular tunes. Chris Sweeney, one of the promoters for the trip said they wanted to know how everyone knows the words to the songs.

That´s one of the things I love about these type of dances. It´s very Jamaican. For some people it´s too old-fashioned, and they say it hasn´t changed in years. But that´s what I like about it. Even though my parents are Jamaican, I was born in England. But going to these dances I feel I get to express my Jamaicanness to the full. I mean, I can hardly start singing and dancing and saying ´wheel´when I´m working at some newspaper can I!

We're All Going On a Summer Holiday

Despite my recent blog big-up in a free London paper, I have not actually been posting anything for new readers (wishful thinking) to digest. Duh.

Apologies for the MIA behaviour, but Butterfly got a grown-ass gig, still freelance but some regular hours in-house at one of the big papers. It's all good, a bright shiny building in one of London's ritziest areas. It's a small 'hack' (journalist) world, and I keep bumping into people I studied with at City – aka the 'hacks' finishing school - as well as others I just know from around the journo way.

I have to do my usual BPHC (black people headcount) just to see who is about and how many. There's actually quite a few outside the kitchen, and not wearing the uniform of the cleaning company.

The brothers in the staff cafeteria are being their usual interested selves. I'm polite and stuff, but one of them pissed me off when he asked me where I was from. I said my parents are Jamaican. "You don't look Jamaican." I said: "What does Jamaican look like?" And the man pulled a 'screwface'. Whatever.

"Where are you from?", I asked. "Nigeria". "Are you Ibo or Yoruba?" He said: "Yoruba". Eh heh. "How do you know about Ibo and Yoruba?". I said: "I might be Jamaican, but I am not ignorant." And tried to walk off in as dignified a manner as I could muster which was quite hard in my too tight pencil skirt.

A summer of freelancing at home has taken its toll of my office fashion. Lots of raving garms, and not enough work garms. It doesn't help that it coincides with the change in the fashion season, and we're having an Indian summer. Que nightly wardrobe trauma as I put aside an hour to get something half decent together. It's not that I care that much, but it's mainly because I will end up being late if I do it in the morning.

Every night I go through the wardrobe and try to pull together something which is not too revealing, not too tight, doesn't make me look fat, and doesn't crease too much when I fold it as I ride to work. As you can imagine it's a lot more pressure than my usual style choices, 'thigh-skimming' or 'boob-flashing'?

Next week I'm off on my holidays to Malaga. Yes, it's finally here, the trip I have been wanging on about for some months now. I ran, biked, jumped and humped. Ok, forget the humping. Got a personal trainer, and took up cycling in a big way. I dropped a dress size, lost inches, and two chins. Unfortunately the holiday coincides with major tummy bloat and extreme body dissatisfaction. But the first heffa I see bigger than me will soon put that into perspective. Trust me there's always someone on the beach fatter than you, wearing something they shouldn't, and looking like they're having a better time. So don't watch that.

I have 'molto' bikini's (many), some cute Kelis style skirted ones and some skimpy triangle ones for when I start feeling brave after I've had a few days in the sun to cover the old cellulite. Although the word is that some brothers like cellulite. Thank god for pervy brothers.

It's a group holiday, a black 18-30 (more like 18-50) and I'm sure there are will be plenty of 'saga's' to tell. Although the mantra is: "What goes on in Malaga, stays in Malaga." And I shall be keeping a diary. Web addict that I am, I will probably update at least once. I have three aims for the holiday:

1. Nothing will happen on anyone else's time except mine. I will not rush for no one, and I do not response to no one but me. ME ME ME. For a whole week I will not hear: "Mummy can you...can I...can we..I need...my hair..where are...what's for dinner...". Sorry babe - but mummy be back soon.

2. I will enjoy spending time with my bredrin Suzie Wong who made this possible for me, her sisters and Lou. Grown women with wildy different personalities and it will be a challenge at times no doubt. But, it's all about enjoyment, so hopefully any negatives will not last long. The less said about the last set of women I went away with the better. Let's just say, they didn't know the 'road code'. Man was the be-all and end-all and certain gyal did lose their mind over a 'wotless' boy.

3. I will make time for myself to go and explore the town, have some authentic Spanish tapas, buy some shoes (it is Spain after all) and find some vintage clothing. I always did love the flamenco look.

Other than that I'm gonna rave it out, and come back bruk up with a 'coolie girl' tan. Wish you was dere!