Black People Don't Like Black People

Late last year DJ Swing was given a bone marrow transplant which was a 90 per cent match. Not ideal, but the best chance in the circumstances. The operation was deemed a success and he returned home. A few weeks ago he developed an infection, his condition deteriorated rapidly, and he died in a hospital bed surrounded by his family. It was remiss of me not to post this earlier, as it happened last week. But somehow, I just couldn't bring myself to start writing about it. I could just feel the cliches forming, and wanted to just muse on it for a while.

Swing was not someone I was especially close to. I wouldn't presume to say I was his friend. But he was someone I got to know from going to the club nights he DJed at. I don't remember when or where I first met him. Once I started raving I met him, and then always knew him. He was a safe bredda. Along with the rest of the Boogie Bunch he entertained me during my misspent youth, and as we both grew up, he moved into the west end and I would see him at 'industry do's' and Trevor Nelson's Back In The Day club nights. When raving on a Monday didn't seem weird. By then I'd reached my late twenties, and Swing brought the house down with his retrospective swingbeat and hip-hop, and convinced you that you could still buss the old moves, especially if he dropped that Rob Base tune.

When he disappeared off the scene, it was noticeable. What happened to Swing? And then the rumours began flying, and they were sadly confirmed. Swing was diagnosed with a rare bone cancer which required a bone marrow transplant. For a white person who requires this operation, the chances of getting a match are one in five. For blacks, it's one in 100,000. Not enough black people have been prepared to give a blood sample. Excuses range from "Bwoyyy me 'fraid ah neegle" to "I don't wanna catch AIDS". Bare ignorance. Maybe if you got some Nikes, or a set of rims with that test we might get some more takers. Yes, I said that too.

But his premature death has been all the more painful because it has highlighted an ugly truth. Black people don't like black people. There, I said it. This can be the only explanation for the dire odds that anyone who has this illness faces. We just don't love each other enough to bear a pin-prick and then maybe a small life-saving operation further down the line. We however willingly participate in our demise. We shoot and shank (stab) each other, fuck without condoms risking contracting HIV and AIDS, and abuse drugs which some of us unfortunately overdose on. But participate in activities which might save lives, hmmm, a bit of a tall order. Special shout out to the so-called COMMUNITY RADIO station who opened their doors in a 'tribute' to Swing. Once he had DIED. So what, the key never work when he was ALIVE?

This is one instance for those that like to blame everything on THE WHITE MAN, that it can't be. And it is not something that can be solved by a fucking DIVERSITY PROGRAMME. Black people need to step up to the motherfuckin' plate, and take the test NOW because it could be a member of YOUR FAMILY that needs help one day.

Despite his natural reticence to keep his illness to himself, to his credit, Swing decided to speak out, not for himself, but because he wanted to help others that shared his situation. He knew that this was bigger than him, and throughout his no doubt painful illness he did what he could to change a hopeless situation into a hopeful one. His friends from the Boogie Bunch campaigned on his behalf to raise awareness. And as a result more people registered and gave blood to be tested.

So my memories of Swing won't just be about how jiggy I got when he was DJing. I will never forget that while he was staring death in the face, he thought not of himself, but of others suffering as he was, or those yet to be diagnosed. He thought of your mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, and their children. He thought of black people, and showed his love for them. And despite his illness, he reached out and tried to help them. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

Big up ya chest Swing. Facing death, as in life, you were a good bredda.

Talk To The Ass

My bottom has been a source of fascination for men long before anyone had ever heard of J-Lo. And yes, I am putting myself in that category, cos some of us was here long before she was. But I must agree, her ass is impressive.

I was 19, and a regular fixture on the hip-hop scene, flitting around lots of clubs which were populated by hungry teenage boys when I realised what an ass-et it was. My ass would get grabbed on a regs. All the time. Till I ended up becoming friends with the ass-grabbers just because that's just how I got to know them. I would of course ask them to refrain from doing it. I didn't like being touched up, but what had once been a source of embarassment - the bigness of the booty - I soon realised was in fact, a good thing where the opposite sex was concerned. So I stopped wrapping the jumpers around my waist.

But it's like women who have big breasts, sometimes men just talk to my ass, and they just can't wait for me to walk ahead of them so they can get a good look. Yesterday I was on my bike, and I stopped to talk to a friend. The first thing he said to me was "Wow, you have a big bottom" - with descriptive hand movement. This is hardly news to me. What the fuck happened to hello? Now this conversation could only happen with a black woman, cos I know some of my white sisters would be on some Project Ana(rexia) shit quicker than you could say Krispy Kreme. I know my ass is fat, but damn, can't a nigga keep it to himself! He emailed me today and said: " I was only joking?" Yeah right. How can it be a joke, if it's true? And also said I shouldn't go near any drawing pins (and that was a joke too). Whatever.

The other week, a hooded youth ran down the road after me and grabbed my ass. Yes. The man ran after me and grabbed the booty. The funny thing is I was wearing the same outfit both times (grey cotton puffball dress). Note to self: re-ebay. I was so shocked that all I could do was just stand there with my mouth open catching flies. I continued walking down the road, and then this stupid ass had started to follow me. I just said to him "you'd better not come near me again" and gave him my best 'don't fuck with the I' look.


Now I don't think my ass is all that, but with a little work I'm sure it could do battle with Buffie the Body, Melyssa Ford, and Ki-Toy Johnson (thanks for sharing the knowledge S). These are 'models' (LOL) that feature their 'talents' in the videos on MTV Base (never a truer word spoken). I know it's hard out there for a pimp, but had I known that I could just make a living out of having a big ole butt ten years ago maybe I could have just saved myself £6,000 debt in student loans and bought a ticket to the US to pimp my phat ass on MTV. "Go Butterfly, it's your birthday."

Someone complained that I bash men on my blog. I read plenty of blogs where sister's get called out for they're outre behaviour. Some of y'all are assholes, likewise some of us are assholes. It doesn't mean I don't love y'all still. If you want to read about how great y'all are 24/7 - write your own blog, and don't read mine. But on this blog, if mans don't know how to act I will expose their ass. Yagetme?

So this 'peenywarny'* man (LOL - one of Suzie Wong's phrases) comes up to me as I'm staring at the cakes in the window of Esca on Clapham High St. That's usually enough for me - I only go there once a year, on my birthday (yet I still have a fat ass). "Are you French?" he says. Recognition for the the effort I made to put on my high round-toe boots with my denim gaucho pants just to buy a birthday card in Clapham. 'No, I'm from London.' Why? "Because your style is kinda different." 'Okay, that's cool'. "Can I take your number?". I'd been talking to him for approximately two minutes, I was wearing heels, he was shorter than me, wearing a baseball cap, weighed less than me and looked like a hardcore weed smoker. "Sorry, I'm seeing someone." Freynights. Then here's his last ditch attempt to seal the deal: "Do you date men and women? You've just got this different vibe about you?". Oh, you mean the 'get the fuck out of my face vibe that I'm trying to transmit to you'? G'long with your stupid ass.


*small, lacking body, marga man.

Main pic: Buffie The Body

Non-Poetic Justice

For a country where people say sorry as often as they say please or thank you. It took an extraordinarily long time for Duwayne Brooks to get an apology from the Metropolitan Police. Even though the MacPherson inquiry established seven years ago that the police had failed to properly carry out their duties in investigating the crime. The police treated Brooks like a criminal on the night his friend Stephen Lawrence was murdered after they both had to run for their lives to escape a racist gang. The gang were never convicted for the murder because the police didn't investigate the murder properly, because the victims were black. Also Brooks could not give a reliable witness statement. Stephen, who wasn't quick enough in escaping was stabbed to death in the street, just because he was a black yout' in a white boy's manor (area).

The murder of Stephen Lawrence happened when I was in my early twenties, and it was the first issue that I ever joined a rally or march for. I was hurt and angry at his death. My brother was a toddler then, but it was all too easy to imagine him in Stephen's place. Things may have changed somewhat, but Anthony Walker's death still happened last year. An axe in the head for the god-fearing teenager who was walking his white girlfriend to the bus stop. But, the lessons of the Lawrence case learnt, a proper investigation, a conviction likely, and widespread media coverage. Hopefully small comfort to Walker's family.

These cases may be exceptional, but for me there is still a fear about going to certain areas which are heavily populated with the wrong sort of white people. Eltham, Woolwich, Bermondsey, and Essex spring to mind. Black areas have always been feared by some white folk, until they realised 'there's gold in them thar hills' and started buying up all the property in the grittier areas of London like it was going out of fashion. And now it has. And yes there are some black areas I ain't looking to hang about in either. But trust me Eltham, the area where the murder happened will never have the pleasure of my company.

Travelling outside of London alone is another thing I am wary about. Especially on my own with my child. I'd rather go to Jamaica on my own, than pitch up at some northern towns. No offence, but when I was touring with my group, we went to a lot of those towns, and there was a whole lot of staring going on. As a mother, I just don't want to take the risk.

When I was in Atlanta, some good old boys shouted nigga as they drove by at myself and a guy I was with. I was in a southern state of America for the very first time. An army surplus store I was shopping at was flying the redneck Confederate flag so when I was on my own in an all white suburb, I was gripped by a fear I had never experienced before. An extreme fear of white people. I did not feel safe among them and I desperately needed to see some black people. If those men had not racially abused me, I wouldn't have been so scared. Where there is abuse, the violence usually follows.

So back to Duwayne, he's come through it all. Stephen's dead, but his life was changed forever. He's been harassed by the police, and feels blamed for Stephen's death by the Lawrences. But in an interview with The Guardian he has remained a positive man. He fought the good fight, and thirteen years later, got his sorry, and £100,000. At least, he lived to tell the tale.

THE APOLOGY

Dear Mr Brooks

On behalf of the Commissioner I would like to apologise for the manner in which you were dealt with by police, following the murder of your friend, Stephen Lawrence, and the attack on you. You were let down. The Macpherson Inquiry identified police shortcomings and I wish to reassure you that important lessons about the proper treatment of victims and witnesses have been learnt.

It is also a personal regret of the Commissioner and I that those who attacked Stephen and you have not yet been successfully prosecuted.

Yours sincerely

Assistant Commissioner Godwin

READ THE ARTICLE HERE
http://www.guardian.co.uk/crime/article/0,,1732542,00.html

Rugby Is The New Football

Rugby is the new black. Please kill me now for using that phrase. I guess this is something that the middle-class 'gels' knew long before us working class football loving types. But since the Rugby World Cup a few years back, I've been giving the rugger-buggers a closer look. Of course the mighty All Blacks always held a fascination for me, much like Brazil's national football team. I love any team that has a drop of ethnicity which manages to dominate a sport. Just like the Chinese and table tennis. Fantastic.

But last weekend I spotted a new darkie playing for England (surely I don't have to be PC on my blog - plus I am a darkie, but white folk just for your information, as I know it can be quite confusing these days, no, it is not okay to call black people darkies, niggers or quelle horreurs - COLOURED). A quick google turned up the name Tom Varndell. He's fast, he's young and he could make me come given half the chance. Scored four tries for England. Didn't see the tries but noticed his body. Forget Tyson Beckford, the man's body was like WOAH!

Then there's the former All-Black captain (I think he just retired), Samoan Tana Umaga. Now, the boat-race (face) looks a bit beat-up. Not like those over-primped and pampered millionaire footballers. Rugby players get down. Full contact, broken limbs, bruised ribs every week. He looks a bit like my Chinese-Jamaican pops (don't we all want to marry Daddy), and he has dreads. That's it, he's on MY team.

Now sportsmen have always been a trusty source for crushes. David Beckham, Totti, Henry, Daley Thompson?!? But their prevalence in my life at present could be linked to the fact that I am not getting any, not seeing any, so can only fantasise about strapping young, unattainable, nubile (can men be nubile) sports stars. In much the same way that a number of my male friends like to look at pictures of 'video models' with unfeasibly large bottoms. Even the hooked up ones (some men never satisfied). Why can't I say 'video models' without laughing. I'm sure some of my friends are going to say, 'aw hell no' when they see my crushes. But there's no rhyme or reason sometimes to why you're attracted to certain people. You just are.

Tell me who you're attracted to so I can laugh after you too!

p.s. Blogger is bugging so will post pics later.

No.1 Pon De Look-Good Chart

I have been tagged by Nneka. I thought I'd do it and wait for the 'your so unrealistic comments' to flood in. Before you post a comment, you might want to chill the fuck out, it's a wish list, not the 10 frigging Commandments!

If I tag you, you do the same. Well not the same as mine, but your version!

RULES:

1. The tagged victim must come up with 10 different points of their perfect lover.
2. Need to mention gender of target.
3. Tag 8 victims to join this game and leave a comment saying they've been tagged.
4. If tagged again, there's no need to post a 2nd time.

The perfect lover for me, in no particular order would be:

1. Articulate: He needs to be able to hold a conversation during which he does not exclaim at my command of the English language, it does not revolve around whats happening 'on road' or doesn't ever start with: "The trouble with black women is..."

2 Confident: Self-assured, flexible (more on that later) and not all in my grill.

3. Funny: the fastest route to getting the coochie. Even if you're not that great looking.

4. Tall and broad: Been there, done that with the small-medium sized men. I want a big bastard next please.

5. Physically fit (or trying to be): as Capleton once sang, I want 'the stamina body for de gyal pickanny'.

6. Considerate: Someone to whom considering your needs as well as their own is not an effort akin to brain surgery. Someone who thinks your goals and ambitions in life are of equal importance to theirs.

7. Worldly: Someone who doesn't consider travelling outside the M25 risky, has tried more than one cuisine (his mums), doesn't consider eating out a worthless and expensive activity, and knows a mini-break is not a chocolate you have with your elevenses.

8. Sociable: If I'm not around other people (I don't have to know them) at least once a fortnight, in any social arena whether that be cinema, theatre, restaurant, football match, concert, art gallery (if doesn't have to be a rave) you can be guaranteed I will leave your boring ass. I'm not called Butterfly for no reason.

9. Child friendly: I already have one, she means a lot to me. How you treat her how will determine whether I will allow you to plant your seed, impregnate me and stretch my cervix to the size of a small melon to push out your brat.

10. Handy with tools: I will gladly do all the cooking (those that know me will know this is a big deal) if I meet a man who knows how to put up a decent shelf, build a fitted wardrobe, and lay wooden floors. You know, someone that can do 'man stuff'.

I will tag these people: hangthedj, she always made a new mistake, chubby chocolate, jacquelyn, gooders girl, zesty, sarah jane, and jamie (ok you know I was strugging for the eight peeps cos jamie has a man)

Lets Get Physical

It's cold. So cold. I just want to curl up in my bed, and forget the gym. Clarke asks if she can borrow my lovely fleecy Burton hoody. Hell no! That hoody is my protection from the howling wind while on my bike. It doesn't help that my gym is a 10 minute cycle down the road. I got a cheap deal to LA Fitness by collecting tokens from The Daily Star. Can you imagine. The most trashy paper in Britain. But the celeb news is quite good!

It's a really nice gym in Victoria, definitely nothing like that 'orrible Fitness First I used to go to in Brixton, full of neanderthals dropping weights very loudly. And they were just the people that worked there. It even has a swimming pool. However, I keep forgetting to ask Clarkie where my goggles are. If I swim without them I end up looking like I've been smoking a bong as my eyes go blazing red.

When I get there around 8.30am, the changing room is busy with all these women who've already finished their workouts. These skinny bitches have been up since God knows what time, and while I've been debating with myself whether to go or not, they're already sweating off the half a pound they have to lose, and getting ready to go to work. Different. I mean, I'd read about people like that, but I'd never actually seen any.

Another unnerving thing about my gym, is that there are very few fat people. Why you looking at me? I'm not fat, I'm curvy. Believe me, everyone looks like they just stepped out of a fitness magazine. They all wear the latest hi-tech workout gear, and look pretty slim. It's like the gym for Stepford women. No one speaks to one another, or barely makes eye contact. This is so unlike when I used to go to Brixton Rec. The ghetto gym.

Each aerobic class was like an American style workout, and we would start whooping and hollering to the garage music, singing and shouting, encouraged by the teachers. It was like you would see in American films, everyone going for the burn. People used to come and watch the classes just to see what the fuss was about. You know how we do black people, we loud. Well everyone was loud in the Rec, black, white and asian. Some women used to come to classes in full make-up. I'm talking red lipstick on some fat-ass lips. I used to wear mascara and lipgloss. It was just that kind of place. Everyone knew each other, we'd do two classes back to back, and then go shower, chat, laugh, run joke, or go in the sauna for some man-bashing, I mean girl-talk. We did a class every day, so got to know each other pretty well. It was all really friendly and there were even a few men that came too.

On Sundays, we had a two-hour step class, which was full of the fittest girls in south London. Bodies like WOAH! It was advanced step aerobics, but you would always get a beginner sneaking into the class. Everyone would just look at them thinking you should really leave now while you can. The teacher would ask, are there any beginners, or anyone who hasn't attended this class before. They would stay silent, even though no one had seen them before. After the warm-up, the class would speed up and about ten minutes later you would hear this BU-DOOF as the beginner fell off the step onto the floor. Shame guy. Many a regular ended up in a heap when the class picked up pace, so beginners had no chance. It was some ghetto workout at your own risk shit. I had to stop when my knees started complaining, but boy I miss those classes. I like to have a laugh when I'm working out and at the moment my LA Fitness women are dry like crackers in comparison, but hey, I'm gonna try and take the Brixton Rec ghetto workout vibes in there. I can always start some whooping and hollering on my own.

Don't Call It A Comeback

My people, my people. What the fuck is up? I've been on a journey the last week, trying to gather up the strength to fight the internal forces of darkness that sometimes threaten to consume us creative types. In other words, I've been depressed. I know I'm not clinically depressed, but rather just clinically feeling crap because this finding a job ting is long. Anyway, as therapy, I decided to work out daily, eat healthy, and avoid additional stress.

The last part was more difficult. Child, thy middle name is 'additional stress'. So on Thursday afternoon my neighbours could hear me scream as I exploded at my homework slacking child and smashed a few plates to accompany the symphony of rage I was conducting within my little cottage. Funny, I started to feel a lot better after that.

I did a few long runs, and on Saturday, after packing The Child off with Dad, I tried a kickboxing class at the gym. My trip to Malaga is in September, and the bikini boot camp starts here. On Sunday I tried yoga again. In the past I just found it too difficult to chill and do the slow ting in yoga, but right now I know its what my body needs. Although I wasn't impressed by the yoga instructor's figure, very slim legs and then a massive tyre in the mid-section, I soon forgot that when she had her legs over head, and knees by her ears. All the more impressive as she was definitely aged over 50 without the resources of muscleman Madonna. I don't know if it's because I'm not getting 'wuk' regular (see-not at all) but I've noticed a considerable lack of flexibility, and tightness...of all my muscles! Hence I decided to get with the yo-gram (groan). I mean, imagine how much I can impress my man when he finds out I can also put my leg behind my head....1,2,3,*penny drops*.

One of our DJ friends was having a birthday rave at D-Ilusions, and me and Wong had to represent. The DJs played wack, not ah one new tune did they buss, and the tunes they did play you could predict what was coming next with stunning accuracy. That fucking 'You Are My Starship' tune (not the original Charlie) which drives me absolutely mad, followed by R.'Pee' Kelly's 'Step In The Name of Love'. But I should've known the rave wasn't gonna be all that because I didn't follow my 'raving grooming routine'.

Usually I wash and braid my dreads, which I undo on the day and they flow all Rasta-punzel like over my cocoa buttered shoulders. It usually comes out best if I do it two days before I go out, because my hair takes a while to dry when braided. And rasta noh use hairdryer. Then I make sure my eyebrows are tidy, I don't shape cos I like them bushy, just pluck out the Liam Gallagher uni-brow hairs. Lastly, I've got to shave. My legs fools. And girls, you know in winter, we have a tendency to let the shit grow like weeds (don't leave me hanging). So, by Saturday, I hadn't washed my hair, and my legs were proper furry. Not just my legs, but hey we won't go there. Well actually we will. No point in shaving there, no one's seeing that right now! Well except the women in my gym. Am I bovvered? The problem isn't helped by the fact that I managed to lose the charger for my bikini line trimmer. You heard me. A Remington bikini trimmer. Its like a shaver for your 'fanny' (the British meaning. LOL! I can't believe I said fanny. Crass. I don't do waxing (anymore), or hair removing cream, as I'm not too sure about the safety aspects of using pubic hair melting cream near your pum-pum.

My outfit was all wrong. I was gassing on the phone, so time ran away with me, and I only had time to fling on a white strapless polka dot prom dress (bought last year), with sacre bleu, CHEAP SHOES. Some green M&S peeptoe sandals. When I walked in D-Illusions, TA-DAAAA, I lit up the place like a Christmas tree as everyone was wearing black. Wong, was looking fabulous in a black strapless cropped jumpsuit with a green and yellow trim, and a new £10 weave which looked like a million bucks. She does it herself, and trust me, this weave looked amazing. June Sarpong, sit down. I keep threatening to make her my art project. Wong changes hairstyle every two weeks on a Friday without fail, so she has a minimum of 21 hairstyles a year. Not including changes of colour. I'm going to take polaroids of them, and mount them in a frame. A Year in the Life of Wong The Chameleon: The Hair Comes and Goes.

We left D-Illusions around 4am, after a decent amount of time had passed (we didn't get there until 1.45am), not long after a sexagenerian who had been staring at me for about five minutes asked me for a dance. As if. Fuck off Grandad.

She's Baack.

The Man

For those who like football. Did you see Ronaldinho's goal for Barcelona against Chelsea? Oh.My.Fucking.God. Mad, sick, head noh good. I have an unhealthy crush on the bucked-tooth boy wonder, and that goal has only made it more intense. He brushed past three players like ah no nuttin'. Can someone please tell me how Frank Lampard made it into second place behind him in the FIFA World Player of the Year chart? I just don't get it.

Mourinho was 'wounded', and could not accept the defeat with good grace. You knew Ronaldinho was going to score, but boy, not only did he score, but he shamed up three man at the same time. I've got a bet on with a mate. I'm betting Barcelona to win the Champions League, him Arsenal HAHAHAHA! With my winnings, I think I'll treat myself to a pair of Kurt Geiger peep-toe with a bow, black patent platforms, a steal at £75, or some French Sole ballet flats at £50. Labels re-sell better on ebay. Well done to Arsenal too, Henry's goal against Real Madrid in the first leg was also sick. And Arsenal are now the only British team left in the Champions League. I hope they get AC Milan in the next round. The draw is tomorrow.

Postscript: I've just seen Ronaldinho's date of birth. I am ELEVEN YEARS older than him. He was born in 1980, the year I started secondary school. Oh my god, that's positively filthy.

I'd still give him 'de work' though.

Nano Post

Charlie Dark's J-Dilla Tribute Party at the ICA was off the hook last night. I hope Dilla realised while he was alive how much he meant to people. The place was rocking to his music all night.

Constipated

Nothing to chat 'bout - taking a week or so off to hol' a mental fresh. Soon come.