Kidulthood

This is a review of a film I've written for Spine Magazine. I went to a screening of this film last week, and it's pretty good. For my American cousins who have probably never seen a film with a black British flavour, this is the film you need to see, to get an insight into what London can really be like, and how we don't all talk the Queen's English!

The film Kidulthood reveals a world where parents are oblivious to the lives of their children and where the law of the inner-city jungle, survival of the fittest, reigns supreme.

Written by actor Noel Clarke, best known for playing Billie Piper's dozy boyfriend in Dr Who, Kidulthood follows the lives of a group of fifteen year-old inner city youths on the edge of adulthood and the precipice of fucking up their lives.

They're ripe for a couple of ASBO's as they smoke, drink, teef, take Class A drugs, and fuck their way through a day off school following the suicide of one if their classmates.

Fifteen year old Trife wants respect, and craves material things.The only male figure he respects is his drug-dealing uncle and he feels weakened by the love he feels for ex-girlfriend Alisa. The top boy among his crew, he has the respect of many of his classmates but not school bully Sam (Clarke) who disrespects him and starts the penis waving battle which quickly escalates into violence.

The language of urban London takes centre stage and blows a hole through the white-washed version presented in that other west London based film, Notting Hill. Clarke’s screenplay deals with some serious issues, and echoes the talk you hear on road, and on buses and tubes filled with schoolkids. "Oi pussyhole!” “Yeah man she's loose." "Proper ghetto". It’s Phil Redmond’s Grange Hill for the Grime generation, which is reflected in the soundtrack featuring its alma mater Dizzy Rascal.

With outstanding performances from its young actors it manages to balance its Tarantinoesque violent scenes, with a coarse street humour that makes you laugh out loud. Comparisons to City of God are outlandish, and despite it’s Evening Standard friendly content, Kidulthood is authentic and entertaining.

Stupid Boy

Suzie Wong seems to have hooked up with the male equivalent of Glenn Close's iconic 'bunny boiler'. I'm going to call him ''Fatal'. Fatal is 'paro' (paranoid) and obsessed with the telephone. Huge arguments can occur over why she hasn't answered or returned his phone call when she has two mobiles. And a house phone. And saying 'I was taking a shit' doesn't seem to help matters.

Wong has turned that nigga out, and he wants her to make a committment to him which also includes looking after his yout' while he works nightshifts as a 'paromedic' (groan). But the constant pressure, and the possessive behaviour is proving to be a turn off. Both me and the Wong sisters are in agreement. It nah go work. Or as my American cousins used to say 'drop that zero and get with a hero'. He sounds way too possessive, and after a year of 'dating', if you ain't ready to call the man 'your man', what does that tell you?

On Saturday we went to a rave in Croydon. We hadn't been out for a couple of weeks, so it was nice to link up with the girls dem. I wanted to booze the shit-sodden week out of my system. So I started off with half a bottle of champagne at home. And topped up with a couple of spritzers once we got there. I chose one of my second division outfits. White cord flares, black silky topshop wrap top, with red peeptoes and red clutch handbag. But boy it looked like I had in comparison to the peeps that we're there. Let's just say some people looked like they had just pick up and put on what they had dashed on the floor from the night before, intending to pop to the corner shop but ended up in the rave instead. Miaow.

I was rocking to two tune, they dropped the bashment selection neatly, and then from nowhere this guy I know from my rapping days comes right up in my face and grabs hold of me. He was so close he sloshed white wine down the front of my top rendering the tit tape that was keeping it in place useless. So I directed the bottle to my glass for a top-up. Then he clamped himself on me for a dance to some fast r 'n' b tune that was playing. For once, Butterfly's mouth stayed shut and didn't wither the interloper with a dick shrivelling comment. As a wise woman said to me last week, it's just a dance. I managed to extricate myself after the one, as he told me how happy he was to see me, and that he's finished with West End clubs. Translation- too much competition for white pussy up there.

He continued: "It's not the drugs, I mean I don't care what you take, weed, coke, or crack, it's how you handle yourself when your on it." Weed, coke, or CRACK!!! WTF?!? When did CRACK become the same as WEED and COKE? Did I miss that newsflash? I know Pete Doherty is the crackhead's poster boy but I haven't ever been in circles where crack is okay, if you know how to handle it. As far as I'm aware it's a big fat hell to the fucking no.

Anyway, it's at this point I notice his wild eyes, and try to excuse myself from the conversation. He asks me about one of my girls, who he fucked about with, but he can't remember her name. Then realises that is the most stupid thing he could ever have said, because a) I'm not interested, and b) I'm gonna tell her what a fool he is.

Then he does another stupid thing. Asks me for my phone number.

Butterfly Jones:"That wouldn't be appropriate".
Stupid Boy: "Oh, is your man in here."
BJ: "Yes he is" (freynights).
SB: "But what about if I want to contact you about work or something".
BJ: "What work?"
SB: "Music, rapping"
BJ: "I don't do music anymore. Sorry, I just can't be seen giving out my number in here, it will blow up my situation."

Then in desperation he drops the classic line.

SB: "Can I tell you something. Just between me and you." Yeah, you me and my blog.
SB:"I've always liked you. But you know back then I couldn't come and tell you that. You know, we were rappers and you just didn't do that." I think. Wow. That's funny. Because I really fancied his DJ. Awkward silence ensues. If I was a bit 'loose' in my teens, it seems I could have had pretty much anyone back then. And if I had a pound for every time I'd heard this line, I could afford several pairs of Manolo's. (Size 7/40/US 9 for your info).
SB: Well I just wanted to tell you that."
BJ: "Sure. Cool. Okaaaay. I'm gonna go find my situation."

Some guys have no standards. What makes him think I would even spit on him after he's been with one of my girlfriends? Not to mention that he didn't treat her well. Trick ass bitch. The audacity of the man. I hope that when he's recovered from his drug and alcohol fuelled trip, that he remembers last night in fine detail, and feels embarrassed. If not I shall remind him the next time I see him. But I hope it's not for a long time.

Flame On!

I have been chosen as the mascot for National Crap At My Door Week. It started Monday. And each day so far this week has brought a new pile of the brown shit to deal with. I dread waking up tomorrow to see what new pile of steaming poo will be land at my feet.

My default mood is 'mad as hell and I ain't gonna take no more'. London Transport has incurred my wrath on a couple of occasions this week. Faulty machines, long queues, and overground stations which don't allow you to use a pre-pay oyster card. Arrrggh! A new travel rule is made up each week I think just to frustrate me.

Then there's the school situation. Clarke said a classroom assistant called her 'a lying bitch'. Can you smell the stink emanating from that situation? Today I had to get up very early to go to the school to talk to someone. Of course you can't see the headteacher without an appointment these days. I sent an email requesting an appointment with the public servant.

Instead I got the year head. I was introduced to her last month when she called me, and began the conversation by saying: "I'm sick and tired of Clarke...". So she didn't really engender confidence. She tried to explain the incident away by saying she's sure it was just 'a slip of the tongue' and she was sure the woman was really sorry. But if Clarke did call her ass a 'batch' (bitch as she pronounces it) I'm sure she would find her Year 7 ass excluded for a few days and no one would be mentioning anything about slips of tongues.

This afternoon the classroom assistant's manager called. The assistant is, as predicted, denying it. No surprises there. Just more stink off the poo. But true she don't know me, I am tenacious. I will get justice.

To top it off I had a stinker of a row with my daughter's father today.We average maybe one a year, and I knew it wasn't a good day to have the conversation I started, being that I am operating on barely-concealed 'batch' mode. But I ignored the many voices in my head not to open the can of worms and managed to spit some flesh-eating maggots of my own just to stink up the situation even more. Clarke said I should call him tomorrow and apologise. But will he accept?

Not even the massive amounts of chocolate I consumed today could restore order. Have you tasted Reese's Peanut Butter Cups? Or Flake Snow? They're good. But not that good.

I just remembered why it is such a good idea to have a bottle of champagne in the fridge. It's for days like this. Flame off.

In The Closet

Boyyy. You think you got problems. And then you read the News of the World's exclusive story which details the alleged antics of two overpaid premiership footballers and their DJ mate. These thrill seeking men are said to have played games with each other which largely involved oral sex for five grand (said DJ on football player mate), and then there's the other hilarious game where one man would attempt to put his cock in another's mouth without touching it. My hair is definitely getting blonder, cos I had to really think about that one. Oh the games rich people play.

The thing is, the DJ alleged to be involved in the scandal is well-known to myself and my friends. The emails which show the full picture of him and his football buddy, which was blurred out in Sunday's NOTW, has been circulating like bird flu on the internet, the phone lines are on fire as people ring each other to 'labrish' the gossip. I have been one of them. The man's alleged business is out on road. The Bobo Dread said: "His business pop down."

The paper didn't name names, because it is 'hearsay'. They only had the one source and no actual evidence, so they cannot name names without being sued. The picture they used has been altered, because if it was easy to recognise the people from the picture, they could be sued for that too. On the internet, an ISP can be sued for defamation, if it can be proved that they have not taken the necessary steps to prevent defamatory comments once it has been brought to their attention. But the picture was 'on road' from Sunday night. Obviously no one has brought it to their attention.

Last night as I struggled to fall asleep (too much coffee), I was really thinking about it. The DJ's career rests on whether people believe it or not. It's one man's word against these people.

But what if it's not true?

I mean, this is the NOTW we're talking about. Remember the Posh Spice Kidnap Story? That was a complete set-up and fabrication. A piece of entrapment which they sold as a legitimate kidnap plot. They paid someone to encourage a random group of men to discuss a kidnapping, who were then arrested despite there being no real evidence apart from the braggadocious conversation captured on tape in the grotty cafes they met in.

Apparently the DJ is on 'leave' from work. But what if none of it is true, and it's just the vindictive rantings of a bad-mind 'friend'. Maybe the person has an axe to grind. Suppose he was the least bling out of all the man's dem. You're rolling with multi-million pound football players, they are 'flossing' big-time, and maybe they treat you like the 'prentice, or a cunt. Cussing you because of your 'garms', or your three-year old ride. Or maybe he was upset he didn't get to suck the mans tings for five grand in the hand?

But if it is true, the DJ can't show his face on road, in a club, or in (black people's) public. Basically London.
The men in question, said the source, are not on some 'Broke Battyman Mountain' shit, it's just something they do for a laugh. Well, I can honestly say, I have never been that starved for joke that I thought it was a laugh to nyam my friend's pum-pum after we'd been clubbing. Other things I have not done while drunk, and I have been very, very drunk many times. I have never snogged one of my friends. Now an ugly man might have got the nod for an inebriated drunken fumble, but not one of my girl's.

But I would snog a girl for five grand. I'm still paying off student loans, and there are worse things you could do. But not Suzie Wong, cos you done know she wouldn't let me. But if she would let me that would be cool cos she doesn't like to french kiss. You read me right. Don't like it. At all. She said: " I just tell them from the start, don't even bother with that tongue shit." Can I just add that mans worship Suzie Wong, and are always trying to lock it down (in a relationship). She treats da mans dem mean, and they are still keen.

I bet the DJ never ever thought that he would be all over the national newspaper's for something like this. I veer between feeling sorry for him, but then thinking, 'WHAT A EE-DIYAT'. For his sake, I hope it's not true, or that he just firms it and comes out of the closet.

Ah Change Haf Fe Come

I spent three days at The Independent last week, sub-editing (checking copy, grammar, spelling, laying out pages) on one of the Saturday supplements, and trying desperately to hide my inadequacies with Quark Xpress. I always feel a bit nervous when I go to new paper, which is normal I suppose. On arrival I'm greeted by one of the subs and shown to my temporary computer. I do a quick scan of the room for people of colour. I don't see any. This is the floor of the Independent on Sunday, and I think the Saturday paper. Oh well. I'm still one of the pioneers in this game. It just seems so impenetrable when you look around the newsroom and see the usual blancmange (cos there sho' ain't no melange) of white faces. When the fuck am I going to get my break? What more do I have to do? Who's fucking lily-white dick do I need to suck to get a gig UP IN HERE, UP IN HERE?!? For those not possessed of irony that was completely hypothetical, and no I won't do it for five grand.

I had Friday off, so took babygirl to see The West Indian Front Room exhibition at the Geffrye Museum in Shoreditch/Dalston. A bit of an education for her in the interior decor cultural signifiers of the Windrush generation. It was closing on Sunday, so I felt it was important to represent. If you don't go to these things it makes the case harder for people to get funding. Like it ain't hard enough already.

She'd just spent five days with Grandma, so had had a fresh taste of parenting the old school way. Lots of shouting is involved, and jumping to attention when called. Also, a psychic connection is required to find anything my mum asks you to fetch as her description usually goes: "Get de ting and de ting, from de ting!". Pause. 1.2. She screams: "YUH NO FINE DE TING YET?!?". The food's good there though.

As it was half-term, it was pretty busy, with all ages represented. Lots of people brought their mums, and grandmas to see this exhibition of a typical West Indian front room which I'm sure lots of my fellow 'slave babies' can relate to. The cluttered decor, the glass-front cabinets overstuffed with figurines, and cheap glass animals, crochet doilies atop television sets which occupied prime position within the space. Vinyl and fabric three-piece suites, with crochet armrests, and the burgundy and gold swirly carpet. The glass fish, ceramic cockerel, and the pineapple ice bucket. It was all there. The exhibition brought back so many memories I was literally transported back to the home of my youth, with the orange and brown seventies wallpaper, the lino floor (till we got the carpet), and sateen curtains.

The way people posed in the photo's taken by Neil Kenlock, as had my family, was typical of the period. They sat in front of televisions, or next to stereo's, inanimate objects which to them portrayed the good life they were leading 'inna h'englan'. Like some of the exhibited photo's, my gran posed next to a sideboard, in her finest clothes, looking like one of the Supreme's in her shiny black wig.

Old dial-front phones could be used to listen to aural histories of people who remembered a time when you couldn't play in the 'front room'. It was a room of mystery. You didn't just breeze in, flinging open the door, and sitting down where you pleased. You peeked in or you knocked the door. You crawled in on your stomach, behind the sofa to watch Rock Follies, or Benny Hill without mum and dad seeing you. You ramped in there when your mum went shopping, broke something, tried to hide it, got found out and then got 'beats' (a beating) and sent to bed without dinner while the sun still shined and your friends voices drifted into your room from downstairs in the block.

Clarke tried to use the dial-front phone, but she didn't know how. I showed her and some other kids how to use the dial feeling every one of my 36 years. But when a woman came and asked if I could show her how to use the camera on her mobile, I directed her to Clarke.

The contrast between my childhood and Clarke's seems so vast, and sometimes, you're so caught up in the 'now', that these memories rarely resurface. But the exhibition gave me the opportunity to really share some stories of my childhood with her, and show her how different things were back then. How strict our parents were, the obsession with keeping things clean and tidy, and the way that the responsibility for housework became ours at an early age. How much value was placed on these artefacts, which were basically cheap mass produced tat, styled in imitation of English homes and their more expensive antique tat cluttering the place.

If my daughter breaks something in the house - like the time she collapsed and broke the whole bookcase, by leaning on it while sitting on her bike (despite being told not to do that several times) - she's more likely to hear a level ten volume rant, rather than feel the back of my hand, or a broom, slipper, tennis racket or belt on her behind. Our front room is our shared space. It reflects the lack of formality between us as parent and child. Although I do claim my own regular spot on the sofa.

Seeing the exhibition, and how different things are now in our uber modern and stylish homes (mine not included) it seems that while some things have changed really quickly, others are still not changing fast enough.

Happy Valentines Day

This freelance work couldn't come soon enough, if only to save me from what passes for my social life. The highlight of the weekend was seeing Suzie Wong get 'lean up' on house white at Etiquette. Me and Miche were wetting ourselves as Suzie let go of all inhibitions, throwing her head back and laughing, dancing with wild abandon, licking over the people dem drink, and openly displaying affection for her 'date'. Trust me, this is not a sight you will see on a 'regs'. She was a good natured drunk though, apart from when she grabbed Miche by the head for no apparent reason. I told her to 'firm it' as we walked through the crowd, and instinctively, despite five minutes earlier being floppier than a flaccid cock, she straightened up and sashayed quite soberly to the toilet. I only had to use the one arm to support her.

Thankfully Saturday was not a Valentine's ball, but there's no escaping it. Today I could barely get into a card shop to buy an engagement card for the Analyst due to the hordes crammed in to spend £5 on a cheesy card for their missus, man, paramour, or fuck buddy. I witnessed all the cliches in effect; the man in Sainsbury's buying a bunch of cheap roses, and another in La Senza clutching the tacky red knickers.

Suzie Wong was the first person I saw wear red knickers. Come to think of it she's the only person. We lived in a hostel together years ago, and I noticed her red knickers drying in the bathroom. I was incredulous. "You wear RED knickers". Up until then, I hadn't got beyond black or grey on the colour palette. Now I have turquoise...as well as the black and grey.

I could hate on Valentine's Day, but I don't. I think it's harmless, but of course like Christmas, some people like to go overboard about something which should be, if you're in love, a regular occurence. Letting your loved one know how special they are to you (excuse me while I vomit).

But I will hate on the people in relationships that say, 'oh we don't celebrate it, it's just a man-made celebration, you should be romantic every day' or some such bollocks. I bet if you ask them to go somewhere with you on VD (how appropriate) they wouldn't be able to. Go on, try it? Ask someone who says they're not celebrating, and see if they'll go bowling with you, or to the cinema. Trust me, you'll be going by yourself. When you're in a relationship, it don't matter if you're not celebrating it, you can't be with someone else on Valentine's Day. Relationship = Valentine's Lockdown.

Meanwhile, I'll be at home relaxing, happy in the knowledge that unlike most hooked-up people I won't be obliged to spend the evening not celebrating Valentines with my sleeping partner, who already knows how much I love him but wouldn't be at all happy if I decided to spend the evening doing something fun with someone else. And definitely not a male someone else. Even though we already decided we're not celebrating Valentines Day. Hypothetically speaking. Ya dig.

Licensed to be Ill

Been feeling 'crook' (aussie term for being ill learnt from Cell Block H) since yesterday. No fever with the sore throat, so I deduce it is a simple cold. No rest for the wicked, the cupboards are so bare my pickney had to buy a sandwich on road for breakfast. 'Wotless babymother' Suzie Wong would call me. I take Co-Codamol, probably the best painkiller in the world, and use Propolis Throat Spray, bought from the health store, it's good stuff. The painkillers buy me a couple hours to make it to the shops and back to stock up.

I walk to Clapham to blow off the cobwebs, which takes about half an hour from my 'gates'. It's a beautiful, bright, sunny day, and the temperature is mild. There's never a good time to be sick, and this definitely isn't it. It's M's birthday dinner and dance tomorrow night, the backless sequinned dress is making its debut, and I need to get some ideas together for next week as I'm working at the newspaper The Independent. Note to self: stock up on Co-Codamol.

Clapham is bustling, this evening in the bars and restaurants will be a busy one as its Valentine's Weekend. Ugh. If you want a night without the threat of gunshot, 'yardies' congregating like dem deh ah Kingston, and bleachin' big belly women wearing too tight clothing avoid Brixton and spend the night in Clapham. Although if you're black don't bother trying to go to Sand. They don't do more than five blacks at once in there. And that includes the staff.

I look in the window of Esca, probably the best cake shop in the world (one for me and you CC). But remember I have just 24 hours to flatten my rounded stomach before I put on my new dress. I opt for a latte at Cafe Nero, the best coffee shop on the high street, which sells the proper black stuff not that watered down cat's piss served at Starbucks that needs an extra shot.

After Sainsbury's, I stop in at Superdrug to get the painkillers and pick up a body scrub. Superdrug do a Vitamin E enriched body scrub, it's dirt cheap and essential for skin-baring body prep before a night out. You can tell the women who skip this part. Skin come like cheese grater. If money were no object, I'd get the £25 Origins scrub, and have someone big and muscly come massage dat pon me. I digress.

When I read women's magazines I marvel at all the lotions and potions white women are encouraged to use to 'fight the signs of premature aging' (note to sistas: that would be wrinkles). I say white women cos I know they ain't talking to me cos 'black don't crack'. I just have to look at my mum who's never spent as much as £5 on a face cream, to know that I don't have to either, and my black girfriends over thirty with flawless botox-free skin, who use only soap, water, and cocoa butter. So I just read the mags, look at the airbrushed models, and keep my money in my pocket.

The best beauty product, one I've tried to invest in heavily since last year, is beauty sleep. Difficult, as I'm a night owl, and love a rave. But I've done my food shop, the painkillers are wearing off, the pizza's in the oven, and I'm taking my black ass back to bed. I guess being sick has its compensations.

My Thoughts On...

THE GRAMMY'S

1. John Lennon would laugh at Paul McCartney, 'im favour any 'puppy-show'.
2. Why does Fantasia have the same hairstyle as the punky white man she's singing with?
3. Ciara's wearing and a dress, she looks hot, but she can't sing outside the studio.
4. I'm not feeling Joss Stone. The drug-free Janis Joplin schtick is wearing thin. She reminds me of the Princess Fiona giant in Shrek. I think it's the lack of shoes.
5. John Legend's Ordinary People is a brilliant record, but the album is boring as hell.
6. He looks like a younger version of my Dad.
7. I fucking hate the Black Eyed Peas.
8. Fergie is a BOBFOC - Body Off Baywatch Face Off Crimewatch
9. The stage set looks budget.
10. Who is the nigga with the mohican jamming with Aerosmith?
11. He has no neck.
12. Johnny Cash won a Grammy in every decade from the start of his recording career.
13. Tom Hanks is dying his hair.
14. This is kind of boring.
15. I have a sore throat.
16. I digress.
17. Springsteen is dying his hair.
18. Why does Michelle from DC look like she's turned sideways from the front?
19. Her head looks hella big.
20. I thought them bitches had split up now?
21. Beyonce's been on one of her crash diets, she looks runway frail.
22. Kelly looks great. She'd get 10 if she wasn't wearing the Pocahontas weave.
23. Why is that musicians with natural hair only do neo-soul music?
24. How does Jay Z feel watching Kanye?
25. Why is no rap performance complete without girls skinnin' out in pum-pum shorts?
26. Why is Kanye so desperate to win a Grammy?
27. Christina Aguilera can sang (sic) cos you know Herbie Hancock would not be performing with her cracker-ass if she couldn't.
28. The only black woman I've seen so far is Ciara. We are in trouble.
29. Mariah Carey doesn't count.
30. Common looks HOT!
31. IS that John Legend's mum? She looks pushy.
32. I have a lot of time for Elvis Costello. 'Shipbuilding' is a classic.
33. How come I didn't see Kanye collect his Grammy's?
34. I'm vex he's got Pamela Anderson in his new video. Or am I supposed to be?
35. My throat hurts, I'm going to bed.

Another One Bites The Dust

Met up with my friend 'the Analyst' for a drink and a chat. We've known each other since we were teenagers, or thereabouts, and became friends a few years back. He's the type of man that most women would view as 'a catch'. Black, professional male, solvent, drug-free, wears nice shoes. He's really good to talk to, smart, funny in a bitchy way, and good company. I have a bit of a prejudice against these types of men, which is no doubt is contributing to my single status. He's a banker? Yawn. Works in IT? Do me a favour. He's a poet, DJs and is bruk? Coool.

Anyways the Analyst is getting married. Not a bombshell, but I reckon it could've been me. A few years back, we had been going out for dinners, meeting for drinks. But I wasn't sure if he liked me, and wasn't sure if I liked him. He called me close to New Year's Eve to ask if he could tag along with me to the party I was going to. Hmmm, this is quite significant methinks. So the usual preparations begin. I cut the food rations to ensure the corset dress looks good, and on the day of the party, I eat no carbs for optimum flatness of stomach. He picks me up, I'm looking good, he's looking good. We have a few dances, some JD & Cokes, and toast each other with champagne at midnight. It's like a scene out of one of those Black Hollywood movies, for about an hour anyway.

Later that night I see my drinking buddy LB. LB is one of those people who will assist you in drinking yourself stupid, but can hold her drink better than you. We decide to have a shot of Absinthe. Good idea, not. Within half an hour LB was holding back my dreads as I throw up outside the bar trying not to spew on my expensive shoes. The Analyst comes outside to see his formerly hot date crouched down looking more Courtney Love than Courtney Cox. He went to get my coat, but in my sozzled state I couldn't be bothered to wait, so I left. Yes, I left my 'date'. Off I trotted down Brixton's 'frontline' on Coldharbour Lane, in my tight dress and stilettoes to get a cab home. The first cab driver wouldn't take me. I guess he found the 'retching' a bit off-putting. But the second driver gave me a brown paper bag and some tissues, and got me home safely.

As for The Analyst, he started seeing his new girlfriend shortly after that episode. His loss.

The Prodigal Daughter

Babygirl's birthday weekend all went really nicely. I had my 'beefs' with the family early in the week, so it gave time for the air to be cleared by the time we met on Sunday. No social occasion can pass without some kind of outburst about arrangements. However, as I pondered why I allow my family to wind me up so much, I realised that now I no longer smoke (2.5 months) I don't have nicotine to dull the senses, or to puff away my frustrations, so all emotional traumas are felt at full velocity. And it takes some getting used to. But add to that the combination of no job, no sex, and PMS, and you have a recipe for one very irritable individual.

Father of Clarke, was late to collect us on Friday to take us to dinner for her birthday. His girlfriend was late back with the car and hadn't phoned until it was too late to warn him she would be either. Hmmm. Trouble in paradise? We had a really nice time taking our daughter out. It's the first time we've done anything like this for her birthday, as she usually has parties, and for a couple of years things weren't that great between us so I don't think either of us would have wanted to break bread. But we worked through it, and now have a great relationship as Clarke's parents. He has been very supportive while I've been going through the purple patch, picking up the slack where needed (financially people), and basically making sure that Clarke's needs are met. More often than not Dad's are getting a kicking for being absent fathers, but there are many men who are real positive influences in their children's lives, and are more than present for them. Big up your chest, you know who you are.

On Sunday it was the family's turn, mum, sis, lil' bro, Godmother Shazby, and Baby Mimi. Tootsies is a place we've been eating at since we were teenagers and now we're taking our kids there. Going to a restaurant with my mum reminds me of the TV programme The Real McCoy (one of the best comedy shows on TV). They had a sketch where a West-Indian woman and her daughter would go to a restaurant, and pull out plates and cutlery from their shopping trolley. Mum is scanning the restaurant checking the surfaces for dirt, and the plates for cleanliness. Don't ever make the mistake of buying her something from a West Indian take-away, if it's fish you can bet money she will taste it and say: "Dem never clean de fish properly."

Sometimes it feels like more effort than it's worth trying to get the family together. But when you do it, Clarke's happy, everyone's happy she's happy, and we have a great time. So why don't we do it more often?

Yo' Mama!

One thing that really winds me up, is overfamiliar men. The 'whappen baby', or 'darlin'' I can handle, but when they start talking about body parts, or what they'd like to do to me, it's at that moment I wish I had a mallet to mash their bloody heads in. An extreme reaction you might think, but they are violating me in a way which is so accepted in our society, and there is very little you can do about. Too many fires to put out.

Now Mini-Butterfly is coming of age, she notices all the looks, and the comments which fly forth from the loose-lipped laggards (great word which should be used more often) and often tries to counter them with her own specially cultivated 'death stare'. Suzie Wong's son's strategy is to put his arm around his mum. He's 12, but is the same height as her, so apart from the fact that she looks like she's cradle snatching, I'd say that strategy is working for them. Otherwise I find the odd tongue lashing will suffice.

I was in Brixton Market picking up some peppers and 'ard food for my soup, when one of the stallholders says: "Hello, sexy."
*Kisses teet'* 'Please don't talk to me like that, you don't know me from nowhere, and I don't like it.'
The man keeps on looking in my face with a weird lopsided grin and big starey eyes.
'Are you on some sort of drugs?'
'Why you say that'.
'Cos your acting funny'.
He says: 'Your face look funny.'
I say: 'Your mum's face looks funny.'

At which point he decided he didn't want to serve me anymore. Funny that.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY BABYGIRL!!!

My daughter is 12 today. TWELVE! Oy vey! I dunno what that means but its sounds appropriate. Wow, it seems like only yesterday when we were celebrating her first birthday with a homemade chocolate cake decorated with black jelly babies made by my own not-so-fair hand.

With cash being scarce, I have forgone the £300 birthday party, but Father dearest has bought the PSP, and is taking us to a Thai restaurant. Although, as of 8.03am this morning, he has yet to book a table. I bought the perspex name necklace from Tatty Devine, although since I bought it, she has been saying how much she wants it in white. I bought red. Oops. I also bought her a ceramic pig painting set. I knew she would like it. You know kids, anything that can make mess.

She's really on the cusp of change, but despite the budding of adolescence, still likes her hugs and kisses from Mummy, and hates the fact that I no longer make her breakfast every morning. So getting up to make it this morning, at around 6.30am (why?!?) was a bit of a treat for her. Then she cuddled up in my bed for a bit, until 7.35 when she left to get the 7.49 train. She takes after her Dad in that respect in that she likes to be up early so that she can take her time getting ready. The only time I ever get up at 6.00am is if I'm flying. She gets up at that time every day, without any help from me.

She always looks neat and tidy for school, and harasses me to make sure her uniform is washed. Again, takes after her Dad. My mum always told me off for my scruffiness, and hated it when I came home in my P.E. kit, so I would change quickly at the front door. I loved wearing my shorts, and my pleated P.E. skirt, 24 inch waist, the shortest length. Although when I was her age, I was washing and ironing my uniform myself, shirts, skirt, socks, everything. Sometimes we had to dry the skirt in front of the gas heater, and mine got burnt. My mum patched the hole on the outside. No meaning. And I had to continue wearing it for the rest of the year. Great.

The birthday celebrations continue on Sunday when we'll meet the family for Sunday lunch at Tootsies in Holland Park, the posh burger place with milkshakes to die for. Guess the diet has to go on hold from tonight. Woo-hoooo!

Fifty Cent Not Fifty Pence

My friend, let's call him Fiddy Pound, has demanded I post. Inspiration has been lacking as the hunt for the elusive first post-study job intensifies. But I managed to squeeze something out, purely in the hope that this will gain me brownie points, and that I might get some from him. One day.

Weird shit happens to me, and I don't even have to leave my house for it to occur. Last week I popped into this chat room, which is frequented by a couple of my girlfriends. One has met her current beau there, I dunno if he's a proper boyfriend, but they spent her birthday together so I would say that kinda means something. Maybe. The other has met a couple of people she chats to on a 'regs'. Me? I've met no one. Well until last week.

So I'm lurking in the chat room watching youngsters with names like ‘Sexy Bisexual Gyal’, and ‘Pum Pum Pleazer’ chat rubbish. All attempts to start meaningful conversation are thwarted by men talking about their latest sexual conquest and girl’s checking to see who ‘da buff manz in da room’ are.

I get a PM (private message) from 'bigboylondon'. Lawd ah mercy. Usually in these chat rooms people ask A/S/L = age, sex, location for the uninitiated, I usually say old enough, female from London. So we have a conversation, and continue chatting on MSN where I get to see a very small picture of him, he looks okay, but you can’t really tell from a postage stamp sized pic. He sees one of me. The one of my feet. He asks to see another, so I show him one of my face.

And then he says can he send another pic to my phone. Within a minute I receive a picture of this barechested black man flexing his big barrel chest for the cameraphone. I don’t know him but I am embarrassed for him. Because homeboy’s chest is not his best feature. Fiddy kinda fucked it up for the manz dem. If you is trying to show off your chest, it’s best you have the 50 Cent Made in Attica ‘ripped to fuck jail-body’. No six-pack, no bare-chest shots. Cover the fuck up. I mean, I wouldn’t send no man a picture of myself topless because we’re not talking melons in the front, more like Outspan ‘small one’s are more juicy’ oranges. I might send one of the booty, but I would struggle to get it to fit in the frame.

I digress.

Anyways we continue conversatin' (as some Americans say. Surely that is not a real word, is that Ebonics CC?), and Barrel Chest reveals a few more details about himself. Wake me up if I fall asleep while relating this scintillating list. He works for the railways, long 12-14 hour days, leads a very boring life (his words), does nothing (g'head, sell yourself), spends weekends with his two-year old son, oh, and shares a house with his babymother. But the relationship is sooo over. Oh yes he did say that.

It’s not like he needed to give me any more ammunition to blank his dry sounding ass, but instantly I could hear sirens wailing and see fluorescent signs flashing ‘timewaster’, ‘loserrr’, and ‘player’.

Now what was I supposed to say to that? ‘Oh okay, so you too are finished but you live in the same house. That’s soooo cool'. Now I love situations like this, because once someone reveals some shit which means there is no way in hell I would EVER consider going on a date, kissing or fucking them, I will ask the nosiest questions.

Butterfly Jones: ‘Nigga, why the fuck are you still living with your babymother?’
Barrel Chest: ‘Because I want to be there for my son. The boys need their fathers.’
BJ: ‘So why can’t you be present, but just not keep up a pretence for your son’s sake which is a bunch of bollocks?’
BC: ‘Because he’s a handful, and she can’t manage him.’
BJ: ‘So this grown woman can't manage a two-year old?
BC: 'No'.
BJ: 'So your son knows that he can’t get away with stuff with you, but he can take the piss with his Mum, and he’s two?
BC: ‘I try to tell her she needs to be firmer, but she can’t manage him.'
BJ: ‘So she knows that as long as she acts as if she’s wotless with the pickney, you’ll stick around?’
BC: ‘I’ve thought about it, and talked about this with my friends...’
BJ: ‘So who ended the relationship, you or her? (no prizes for guessing)
BC: ‘Me’.
BJ: 'So do you think if you wanted to get back together, she’d want you back?’
BC. ‘Yes’. (If he was smart he would say no to that question. But he obviously isn't).

Your honour the prosecution rests.

He asked me out for a drink. I couldn’t even be bothered to respond. I mean, that’s just some fucked up mess that I’d rather not get in the middle of. I don't even want to talk to that in case some bad karma shit floats my way. I mean, there's nothing wrong with having a good relationship with the ex, like I said to BC, I get on well with my daughter’s father, but not that fucking well! The only question I forgot to ask him was: ‘Does she throw you the pum-pum now and then for old times sake?’ Like we don't know the answer to that question. NIGGA PLEASE!