Open For Bidnizz

For Kate and anyone interested my ebay seller ID is duttyrock69. Bid high, bid high!

"Change Clothes, Change Clothes"

Oh the pain. Boy how it hurts me inside. I've been selling my things on ebay. The whole process has made me realise that once you've bought them, clothes and shoes are essentially worthless, but it's the purchase that gives you the pleasure, and then the experiences you have while wearing them.

Take my pink babydoll sequinned dress. Bought half-price from TopShop on Christmas Eve. A perfect frothy, Christmas confection, which took me to many a do feeling flirty and fabulous. Then paired with jeans I wore it to see Chris Rock in Reno when I went on a snowboarding holiday to Lake Tahoe. He did that 'keeping your daughter off the pole' routine Zed. I kept falling asleep during the show because I wasn't dying laughing, and I was dead from the waist down after a day on the slopes. Me, Martha Daley, The Warrior Princess, Princess Chung, and Dee took a picture in the mirror. The memory forever frozen in time, I'll never forget that dress. But it's time was done. I got almost half the price back on ebay.

Then there was the J-Lo dress. One of those daring dresses, open from chest to navel and held together by elasticated braid at the bustline and just above the navel. No bra could be worn. Gunmetal grey chiffon, it was sexy, and floaty and was in all the magazines when it came out. One day I walked into TopShop looking for that dress, and it practically flew into my hand, and it was on sale. *sings* "We belong togetherrrrr". I wore it to a party with The Bobo Dread when I came back from a holiday in Jamaica. His words: "It's a bit revealing." Not really what I wanted to hear. Got a bit of attention at the party, a guy got familiar, grabbed my arm, it caused an argument. I was rum sodden and emotional, I cried. Didn't wear it again while we were together. Sold it to a woman in Spain, and got more than I paid for it. Result.

The purple empire line floaty chiffon dress. It was cut really low in the front and was the only dress I've ever had that made me look busty. Bought it in H&M (remember Ud), the cute 20 something sales guy gave me a discount. Don't you just love when that happens? Wore it New Years Day to a rave. I danced with a friend, then another guy I know asked me to dance. He'd had a 'thing' with one of my girl's which ended badly. I had told him before it even started, knowing the type of guy that he is, 'don't fuck with my girl'. But of course he did. I said no to the dance. He got vex and then started some he say, she say shit. Don't tell me men can't be bitches. Got a third of the money back on that. The seams were badly stitched, it didn't lay flat and made me look hippy so despite feeling like a busty chick I hardly wore it.

I was really quite sad to see my Prada stilettoes go. I kinda regret that, I should have kept them, because they are so classic, and I wasn't wearing them, they would actually have held value. But comme ci, comme ca, so it go. Those shoes were banging. I bought them just before the pointy shoe trend went mainstream. I was looking for pointy stils after seeing some on this girl I used to go aerobics with. Her's were Prada. She used to be a buyer at Selfridges and had a discount card, and said I should come and have a look around. I was not trying to buy Prada shoes back then, so looked at all the usual suspects, Faith, Shelly's etc. But none of them had black stilettoes that looked...how I wanted them to look.

I was looking forward to getting paid so I could go to Selfridges. The night before payday I went out with my workmates at the FT, and got hideously drunk. I came through the door, Clarke's dad was baby-sitting, I just went upstairs and flopped on the bed, head spinning. Clarke climbed on the bed next to me, recoiled and said: "Mummy! You stink of alcohol." Err. Busted.

I was off work the next day, and was taking Clarke to the Millenium Dome (let's go back, way back, back in time). As I walked down the road with my then six year-old daughter, she piped up, "Mummy, where's your car?". In my hungover state, I looked back, and saw it wasn't there. I could've sworn I left it right there. I went to ask my all-seeing neighbour Alex. "Sorry Donna, they towed it yesterday, I tried to stop them." Towed from outside my front door. Parking permit 10 days out of date, no reminder sent. Lambeth fucking Parking. ARRRRGGGHH! I've not been dumped, but can imagine it feels something like how I felt that day. Gutted doesn't cover it. It cost me £150. I'm not ashamed to say I cried at the injustice of it all. I was supposed to be going to Selfridges the next day.

I still went to Selfridges the next day.

I paid £130 for those shoes, and stayed in for the rest of the month. I loved those shoes. Those shoes taught me about toe cleaveage. When the shoe is cut low in the front to reveal the top of your toes. It's old school sexy. Unfortunately for me and my wallet, I bought the wrong size. Not having worn those type of shoes before, I didn't realise I should have gone up a size. What felt good in the shop was like walking on glass outside. I took them to the shoemenders to have them stretched. Wore them in the house....and out a couple of times. Then just to restaurants, or places where I knew I would be sitting down. I got a third of the money back.

When you sell stuff on ebay, it's kinda the same principle as if you're buying things from a teef (thief). A good deal is a third of the price. If you make more, it's all good. Not that I buy tings from teefs. Anymore. Well not if it's not in a box. I'm joking.

Well the buyer got the box, the shoes and the Prada shoebag. I kept one. I know she was happy with them. Strangely that makes me feel good to know that people are happy with my old stuff. I suppose I'm like those stupid women who love their dogs. If you have to sell the puppies, you just want to know that they've gone to a good home.

A Mini Adventure

As hard as I try to look cute while riding my circa 1980 something racer, I usually fail. It is winter, which of course involves a certain amount of layering. Check. A hat. Check. Or the dreaded Klingon style helmet. Check. Sometimes. Today, I thought it was a good idea to wear a black mod style short skirt. I wouldn't call it a mini, with leggings underneath. And for those of you who haven't heard, yes they are back. And no I am not wearing them because Mossy is, I've been wearing leggings for the last few years. (I realise how up my own arse I sound but how else can I put it). I borrowed Clarke's bronze ballet pumps, added a black polo neck, and started feeling all Edie Sedgwick (Andy Warhol's muse). Yeah, I'm workin' it. Where was I going? The Post Office. Ebay ting ticking over nicely. So I'm a cheap date, sue me.

So I get on the bike and start flying down the road. Unfortunately the skirt starts disappearing underneath my short wool reefer jacket. WTF?!? Too late to turn back now. I thank God it's not summer, and that I'm wearing the fashionable leggings because all I can see when I look down is the top of my thighs. The very top. Lord knows what the oncoming traffic can see. Even on this short journey to the post office, it's clear I've misjudged the temperature. Outside is 'chappin' (thanks lil bruv) and my feet are fucking cold. But hey I look cute. Well I would do if I didn't have this Mekon helmet head on.

The same thing happened last week when I wore my wrap dress while riding the bike. It flew up about my crutches exposing the gusset of my purple tights. No holes this time thankfully. Phew. Talk about living dangerously. Tres embarassment, and the red on my cheeks wasn't just from the bronzer I'd slapped on, but I just tried to firm it and didn't look anyone in the eye as I cycled past them with my skirt missing from my lapfront. And no I'm not desperate for male attention. Well not consciously anyway.

Usually I wear my trousers secured with the lovely reflective cycle clips, but let's face it, I look like a proper 'neek' as Clarke would say. 'Neek' is the new 'geek'. Don't get me started on 'guts', 'brap', or 'drawback', the other words she's so fond of using. Don't have children, because while they're around, there's no way you can be young or trendy. As they are younger and trendier than you'll ever be. I took her shopping for jeans yesterday. We went to the Gyap (wicked sales). I have to buy her women's jeans, and they must be skinny jeans. I FUCKING WANT SKINNY JEANS! But my thighs need fat jeans. The thighs have it. If I was a size 8, I could borrow hers. But then you might not be able to see me if I turned sideways. I would look ILL as a size 8. And I don't mean ill like Americans mean ill. I mean sick. And not sick like British yout's mean sick. I mean wack. Oh, you know what I bloody mean! Although most women think they look GREAT as a size 8. I beg to differ. Note to the skinny bitches: thighs are meant to be bigger than your calves.

I was freaked out watching Clarke trying on these women's jeans. She didn't fill them out, as she didn't want them drainpipe tight. Just indie girl slim. It is just the weirdest thing seeing your child's body changing and maturing. I mean, I can't shop in children's sections anymore, and she turns 12 next month. TWELVE!!! *faints*. She's wearing women's clothes, and women's shoes. She can't even vote, but I have to pay adult prices for most of her wardrobe. There's more I'd like to say but that would be too weird. But let's just say, we're discussing strategy in the event of the impending arrival of the onset of 'Aunt Flo' while at school. The strategy is: BLOODY CALL ME! (Maybe shouldn't have used bloody there for emphasis).

So here's me trying to master looking all cute and girlish on my bike still, and my child's growing up and going through puberty. Maybe it's a form of denial. I'm trying to stay young and defy my years, while she's gaining maturity and can't wait to be older. Boy, if I knew at her age what I know now, I would stay in knee highs and cutdowns for the next ten years. All that teenage shit is painful, and comes at the wrong time to fuck with you just when you need to be concentrating on your schoolbook. With me, it wasn't men, it was the music. We fell in love, and me school were done. And with the rate she's buying CDs, and making tunes using Garageband on the mac, I fear she may go the same way. But I have been indoctrinating her since birth about going to University. Not too worried about teen pregnancy as she has assured me she is not feeling childbirth, or the pain that comes with it. Plus thank god for scientific progress, there are those contraceptive, I mean vitamin injections she'll soon need. I digress.

But I do love my bike, and looking cute on it, and realise that maybe safety and modesty need to come first. Because crashing and burning while wearing a mini-skirt that's already hitched up round my waist is so not a good look.

Loving The Alien

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The Drink Don't Work

Made the journey into Sodom and Gomorrah aka the West End on Saturday night for hangthedjs birthday drinks. As I tottered up the sleazy Tottenham Court Road, past the disgusting looking 'food' joints (kebab anyone), trainer shops and Ann Summers, I felt like turning back to go home and watch Celebrity Big Brother. My protestations of 'I'm not watching it' lasted all of ten minutes, until I saw MP George Galloway, the firebrand politician going in the house! After that, I knew I would be glued. Galloway, Dennis Rodman, Jodie 'why don't they love my untalented ass' Marsh and Michael Barrymore, this is shaping up to be car crash TV of the highest order. Galloway will be lucky to have a constituency to go back to.

Anyways it was cool to catch up with H and my other uni pals for a proper drink and a chat. However, I fear my new non-smoking stance has alienated me somewhat from the drinking experience. Or maybe it's just that smoking and drinking just go together so well, that it will take some getting used to. To make matters worse, I'd forgotten to wear my nicotine patch, and was fighting cravings every ten minutes after the first couple of drinks. But I was careful not to drink with complete abandon, I just had a very expensive Cosmopolitan (double of course) a few white wine spritzers, and then shared a bottle of white wine....Thankfully, I resisted the fag urge, and made the most of the dancefloor, politely shooing off the keen Asian boys and some other randy types trying to do the bump and grind with me. But did pass the time of day with handsome twenty-something Ghanaian Mani who complimented me on my locks. Mmmm.

I dislike West End bars and clubs because they're full of kids who think because they're wearing name-brand clothes, hair extensions and have a fake bag from New York, that they're the shit. Plus, the few black guys you see there ain't looking black women. And neither are the white men. It's cool for someone's birthday, but if it's my choice I'd rather go somewhere where niggas don't be looking through you like glass. Cos let's face it, if there's no chance of a little eye contact and a flirt, what's the point in going out?

Another thing I dislike is the 'women in the toilet' gig that most West End clubs have going on. As a black person I find it quite embarassing to see a black woman (never seen a white one yet) handing people tissues and soap for a tip. You can take pride in any work that you do, but I hate that this niche has somehow been created. And its only black people filling it. Not to mention that some of the women are damn rude. Once I left a woman a 50p tip, all she had done was hand me the tissue which she was guarding with her life, and she said to me, "is that all?". Who told her to say that. I picked up my 50p and said "that enough for you now".

But one night last month my principles had to take a back seat. At M's Christmas Ball the bar was hot, air con was not working properly, my deodorant was failing as my armpits went into perspiration overdrive. Not exactly the elegant look I was going for. I've never been happier to see the woman in the toilet that night and paid a £1 (buck and a half) for two squirts of deodorant. But soap and water could've stemmed the tide if need be.

The night flew by in a blur of post-uni catch up, dancing and drinking and ended abruptly when Cardiff Rob called Jamie a cunt, which kicked off a bit of limp-wristed punch-up which got them both thrown out. I went outside to see wha' gwaan. They were over it and had decided to go drinking in Holloway Road. At least neither of them had gone to their car to get a bucky (gun). If only all disputes could be resolved in this way. Over a civilised drink. Maybe the drink does work after all.

All That Shaking is Booty

So 'Big Lez' aka Queen Latifah got a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Wow. Who would've guessed that the girl I located condoms for, so she could fuck this fine-ass boy from Ladbroke Grove would've made it in the movies. Rumours of lesbianism aside, I've got to give her props because she cracked that beautiful, tall, blue-eyed nigga from Grove I'd been trying to hit for at least a year. But then, we were all suckers for a US accent back in the 90s. Until it reached saturation point. Personally, I love a Jamaican accent (one I can understand and not too Ricky Trooperish) but please go easy on the bullshit.

I ain't hating on La-ti-fah, but she seems to have cornered the market in butch mammy coon type roles which don't enrich or entertain without embarrassment. I watched that film she did with Steve Martin with my mouth open most of the time. 'Oh no she didn't?' 'Oh no he didn't?' But as the first rapper to get a star, I guess that's something to applaud. What? Will Smith ain't get one? The man is box office gold. Ice Cube? Never. Not while he's still remembered for Fuck Da Police, nevermind the torrent of shit films he's made in an attempt to erase all memories that he was ever a part of NWA. Has anyone seen Are We There Yet? (Nia Long come home). That nigga hasn't made a good film since Higher Learning in 1995. Did 'Ho'yonce get one yet? They probably waiting on the stripper pole to erect beside it.

Has anyone seen her new vide-ho. I'm glad she's dropping the church girl pretensions. I love me some Be, but she is getting a bit skanky and overdoing it now. Are you in the music industry or the ho industry? Cos all that's missing from her new vid is some singles tucked into her waistband as she pops and shakes her jelly like a trick on crack. Jiggling her booty like she itching for some rock and shit.

I know it's just entertainment, but what about the kids man? The Kidssss! Why does the dancing have to be so sexual, and its the youngsters that watch it and go there and try to drop it like it hot. Enough of the hoochie mama ting Beyonce, try writing and singing a decent song. Me and Clarke watched the documentary Rize a film about the 'clowning' and krumping' style of dancing that originated in LA. A fantastic doc, which showed lots of talented dancers of all ages doing what they called 'the stripper dance'. I don't need to describe it really do I? Now, a six-year old may not understand why the dance is called that, but one would hope that their parent would. Then again, they parent probably is a stripper.

I guess this is where me and the youth of today part company. I don't think it's okay for my daughter to be doing a dance called The Stripper Dance. I don't care if it's what all the kids are doing these days or that it's keeping her off the streets, go read your schoolbook! At Clarke's primary school BBQs the kid's would be 'kinning out (whining) to the popular dancehall tune of the year, but one Mummy look from me let her know she shouldn't follow suit. There be other ways to dance. How she loves my old school dance moves.

It's alright for Ho'yonce, she rides in a limo, and private jets. But these over-sexualised looking teenagers and pre-teens are on road, in their over-tight clothing, shaking their jellies when they walk, attracting the attention of men old enough to be their fathers, or worse, paedophiles. I still can't actually believe that two children have been abducted from their homes in the last week and raped. One was taken while she was in the bath. Ok, I know it's not Be's fault the world is full of crazies, but it's the music industry, the film industry, and society are constantly pushing sex down everyone's throats (no pun intended), so people think they should be doing it, getting it, or taking it, all the time. Including the kids, and the crazies.

Maybe I'm old-fashioned, but I think kids should be kids for as long as possible. I look forward to seeing what bodypart Beyonce will be popping when she's a mother. Let's just hope it's the breast.

We Don't Need A Resolution

I've been trying to lose the same two stone for the last five years. I ain't gonna stop trying, but resolutions just beg to be broken don't they? So this year I'ma hedge my bets (see - make it easier for myself), and resolve to just be 'more consistent'. In everything. Exercising, eating healthier, pitching ideas, making contacts, looking fly, buying hot shoes, meeting fine brothers (shall work espesh hard on this one) and making cash baby.

It's kinda vague, and not goal orientated, but rather more attitude adjusting. Rather it's something to aim for because you can always become more consistent at anything. For instance, I will be consistent in checking a bitch if she tries to step to me at the club. No turning a blind eye to bitchy comments fearing gunshot wounds or even worse a torn dress. I will WHOOP DAT TRICK' if she steps out of line. Further, I will be consistent in cursing men old enough to be my father who tell me in front of my daughter how much they like my shape, making sure the words 'cats', 'chance' 'in hell' 'Grandad' figure in the cussing out. I'll also be consistent in telling my daughter that I was not created for the purpose of picking her 'baggy' dem off the bathroom floor, and if I should see said knickers I will consistently pack them into her school bag so that she can share them with her schoolfriends in double Maths.

As you can see it's a resolution with infinite possibilities for success. I mean its not like you're gonna be consistent in all areas at the same time, consistency will be staggered and achieved in different areas at different times, which means the possibilities for achievement are numerous, and can occur hourly, daily, weekly or even monthly.

Fuck goal setting - that's just way too stressful and control freakish and leads to a constant feeling of failure when you don't achieve them. Consistency in the pursuit of a better overall quality of life is the way to go. For me that is.

Bon Annee!

Love you people.

BJ