Oi! Jagger! Hush Yuh Noise!

Well. For reasons of preserving my elderly Grandma's dignity, I shall have to self-censor and cannot fully describe the circumstances under which she first met her great-granddaughter. But it will not be an entrance she will forget in a hurry. Seeing her again, it was like the past 25 years had passed in less than a month. The woman that greeted me, was not very different from the one that left Englan' a quarter of a century earlier. The only obvious sign of aging was the thinning of her hair which I noticed when she had removed her *'syrup' the next day.

Even in her 70s, my grandma is still a very attractive woman. Strong like a coconut tree, with limbs that look like they could operate heavy machinery for another fifty years. Her skin is smooth, and looks as tight as that stretched over a drum. The giveaway sign that she had long been in 'foreign' was her complexion which has deepened conker like, due to her outdoors job (as a school crossing guard - Lord help the drivers). Or it could have been due to the Max Factor Pan Stick No.2 compact which she applied to her face to 'titivate' herself for the funeral. From the look of the packaging it was as old as Clarke if not my 21 year old art student cousin 'Flin'.

The funeral passed without incident. Aunty Reka was appointed Granny's minder for when she said her last words about her daughter Sophia, and thankfully she kept them short and sweet. Uncle T videoed the whole event. Isn't that bizarre, but people do nowadays, it's just like weddings and christenings. Unfortunately, I think some footage of us laughing might turn up on it, as Granny's singing was making us crack up. Aunty Reka said: "She always did want to be Dusty Springfield."

Back at the house, faces old and new mingled, making small talk, drinking brandy with some smoking 'doobies' in the garden to the surprise of Flin. Uncle Sonny, or as my very un-pc Grandma called him 'The Cha-Cha Man' (Indian), Uncle Courtney, visiting from Florida, Don (My Dad) and others congregated in my mum's new house in Siberia a place in London which takes longer than 30 minutes to get to aka Forest Gate/Ilford/Acton and feel free to add your own).

I think I must have asked Gran a question which set her off on a journey down memory lane which took in her getting her first house in Jamaica after a hurricane, which she paid £25 for, but many people didn't trust the Government, so didn't join her in getting the house. She told of how she took on Catholic schools to get her children educated, decided against sending one of the kids to boarding school, and made them special 'combination' pants to protect them from child molesting teachers. They buttoned at the front and the back. The black people she didn't like were referred to as 'niggers' and she would hear no argument against that. She was a 'higgler', a seamstress, and a hustler, and was very proud of her good looks, loved clothes and shoes, and the dancehall on a Saturday night.....

In West Hampstead they lived in the same street where Mick Jagger lived or came to rehearse (after first living in Kilburn with the Irish as everywhere else was"No blacks, no dogs, no Irish and no children"). He used to make so much noise that she says she would go round to his house and tell him to "SHUT YUH NOISE". By this point we were all in tears. The woman is such a raconteur, she should have been on the stage. My Aunties rolled their eyes, but for me and Clarke, we got a whole new set of memories of this batty old woman. Because she fought Mick Jagger, and she won.

Cry Me A River

My Aunt Sophie died on the weekend. She's my mum's youngest sister, and only five years older than me. It's the first funeral in my immediate family, and the most unexpected. We were closer when I was younger as we spent a lot of time at my gran's, but she was someone that was always around, until I grew up and started making my own life away from my mum, and then as happens, you see less of each other.

Sophie, as is my cousin Tyrone, was born with a genetic disorder Fragile X, "Fragile X syndrome is the most common inherited cause of mental impairment. It's second only to Down Syndrome as a cause of mental retardation." My mum isn't a carrier, and neither am I. But there but for the grace of God go I. As one in every 250 women is. She had learning difficulties, and always seemed younger than her years. We always knew she was different (but not sure why until much older) and even though she was older than us, we used to boss her around, tease her and bully her. Basically we treated her like one of us. There were no kid gloves in our house.

So my mum's gone into Big Sis preparation mode sorting out the funeral of her youngest sister, helped by one of her other sisters. Whenever we go to a funeral with my mum, she says, in a series of asides, which hymns she wants, and what songs we should sing by the graveside. She doesn't want the horse and carriage, but would like the American style casket. My Dad says don't bother with the casket just put him in a cardboard box and cremate him. That man never wants to spend any money on himself. Mum drags us to the funerals of her friends so we'll know 'how to do things properly'. It's like Funerals: The Cliff Notes Version.

The big news is, the Matriarch of La Famiglia, my Grandmother, Clarke's Great Grandmother is flying in from Florida for the funeral. I haven't seen her for 20 odd years, and she's not met Clarke. She is the most cantankerous Jamaican woman you could ever wish to meet, and I am quite afraid of her. I think my mum is too. Like my mother, you can never be sure what mood she's going to greet you with. Trust me it's a Butterfly Jones novel waiting to exhale.

It will be the long overdue family reunion we all hoped for, but under circumstances we didn't wish for. Hence I'm struggling with mixed emotions. Tears of sadness for Sophie, and tears of joy at seeing my Grandma again.

A Dad Is For Life

Went to see Mr Miyagi* (my Dad) in Little Jamaica, aka Harlesden. Not because it was Father's Day, but because a visit was long overdue. Clarke was happy to tag along as she was looking Grandad pocket money.

The first half an hour of any visit to see my Dad is usually spent being lectured to, and being asked the same three questions he asks me every time I see him:

1. How is Clarke getting on at school? "Make sure, she gets an education, and don't grow up to be no dunce."
2. Why haven't you got a job? - "You need to believe in yourself and don't give up."
3. How is your boyfriend? - I'm single, but he suspects me of seeing the Bobo Dread and hiding it.

Whenever I see my Dad, I'm conscious that our time together may not be long. Usually because he insists on telling me his funeral arrangements (cremation) and showing me where he keeps his papers. He's 70 next year, so I always try to probe him about his life and family, as regretfully I never met any of them. His mum was Chinese-Jamaican, as was his sister Pearl. His Dad was called Wilfred (he never met him until he was 18 and all he gave him was a 'fowl' - he tells me this EVERY time I see him, and every time I laugh), and he had a brother called Oswald. Oswald had two children, and his sister had one called Pamela. They should still be alive.

My Aunt's name was Pearl Lee Shiu, her mother (my grandmother) was half-Chinese, and her father was full Chinese. The Chinese accepted him because his sister was considered to be Chinese. They would invite him into their homes, but not his full black friends, and he had a job in a Chinese store, where he picked up the language. Dad says he could speak fluent Chinese when he was younger. Me and Clarke were creasing up when he said this.

My Dad never thought he was better than his friends though. And he never raised me to think I should be extra proud of being part Chinese. Everything I know about his family, I've had to prise out of him. He loved his sister Pearl because she gave him anything he wanted, and paid for him to go to school. I really wish I'd got the chance to meet them.

Although my Mum and Dad split up when I was young, I've always had a relationship with my Dad. I cannot imagine what life must be like, not to have that person to refer to. To always wonder what they're like, to wonder if you look alike and not to know where they are. It makes me angry that so many men find it so easy to walk away from their children's lives, or to be in their lives and still let them down by not giving them the right support instead of the newest trainers. Not forgetting the women that hurt their kids by spoiling them rotten and not letting them see their dads. On Father's Day, and every day, big up the Dad's that are doing the right thing, under whatever circumstances. It takes a real man, to be a Dad.

*I know he's Japanese. Japanese-American.

Blogger Be Thy Name

I and I has been busy spreading the gospel of blogging (that’s not blasphemous is it?). I was invited to speak on a panel about Black Creativity in digital media by B3 Media at the ICA. And there’s you lot thinking all I do is buy clothes and shoes, and talk about ravin’...tsk, tsk. (It was just the one pair of shoes last week).

I've not done much public speaking of late, but took the gig, as it’s something I need to work on. I managed to firm it in front of the small audience that showed up despite it being the weekend that both the World Cup started and high summer came to London.

After the event, I was approached by a college lecturer who asked me to speak to his students about blogging at the College of North East London. So on Thursday I went up there. I thought back to the time I re-started my education at a similar college in north London. And when I got there, I bumped into Nicky, a woman who was on the course with me all those years ago. I've literally come full-circle.

The group knew nothing about blogging but were enthusiastic and asked lots of questions. I really enjoyed the class, and sharing the knowledge I’ve gained from almost a year of blogging, and my knowledge of media law when it comes to defamation and libel. The nerves didn't make an appearance at all.

Afterwards the Lecturer took me for a drink, which turned into dinner as I was hungry due to the fact that I can’t speak on a full stomach so hadn’t eaten for hours. We tried and failed to watch the big match - England v Trinidad and Tobago, as the one pub in the no bredrin’s land that is Tottenhale Hale lacked a TV. We were having such a laugh though, it didn't seem to matter. And lawd the food was good. By all accounts it was the usual disappointing England performance. You know, the one that’s been seen at every World Cup since 1966.

The way England play football is painful, and always has been. I can barely bring myself to watch any more of their games. It’s not that I don’t support them, I do, but not the blind support that’s been going on which does not take into account the team's failings. I guess I’m more of a realist than your average white van man. With their bloody chav England flags everywhere. I’ve even seen a man with a St George’s flag arm cast, and a people carrier with four flags? Why the hell do you need four? Beckham cyaan see dem!

World Cup fever has overtaken my house. As perfectly demonstrated by the broken window in my kitchen courtesy of Clarke ‘Bruk it like Beckham’ . To say I was VEX is an understatement. Both she and the other kids hanging around my kitchen door listening to her getting told off, got the Alex Ferguson hairdryer treatment. I swear my meighbours are on the verge of calling social services as every other day I am blaring that child out for some misdemeanour. She's lazy, hard of hearing and draining. If she doesn’t get a degree I’m going to make her pay back all the money I’ve spent on her. With interest.

I think I need a holiday.

Hot Dis Year

The long hot week and weekend was very welcome. I upped my cycling quota, and even ran into work one morning (to Tower Hill/Wapping) doing my best Kelly Holmes impression (and no I don't mean looking hench in an evening dress). Its quite amazing the difference a year makes. This time last year I was moaning about my turkey legs, and dying to wear skinny jeans.

Well the thighs are going down, slowly but surely. I finally gave up smoking, and I am pretty fit (and don't I know it). But it's not enough. The next phase is the targeted summer wardrobe slim down. I've bought the frocks (all size 12), and it's on beeyatches. It seems like it gets harder to maintain your figure, let alone lose weight as you get older. I went to my friend's 40th birthday party recently though, talk about holding back the years. She looks absolutely fabulous at 40. But then she did at 20, 35 and 39. Some people just have that real determination to stay fit and healthy. And they feel better that way.

But as much as I feel good being able to run, jump and wine and go down (rarer and rarer these days), I feel well happy with some apple pie and custard, I feel irie with some bun and cheese, and I feel nice 'to bomba' with a big plate of 'ard food! LOL. But I guess sometimes, you just haf fe say no. Cos I feel nice in a pretty, short-ish, frock. And I feel irie in some white jeans, and I feel nice to bomba in some battyriders. Forget that last one, never had the bottle even when I was slim, and prob won't when I am again. Then again. I might be feeling irie.

Shame and Grace

I was watching BBC News the other morning while runnig late and struggling  into my cycling gear. It should really include body armour as I was almost knocked off my bike three times yesterday, including once by a yardie who jumped the lights (bombaraas). I thought I'd give Big Brother (the morning repeat) a break as my inner snob was berating me about the amount of trash/bollocks TV I'm currently consuming.

There was an item on a headteacher who has come up with the novel idea of going round to his pupils yards and confiscating their Playstations/Nintendo GameCubes/ or Xboxes, as he realised that some of them were turning up at school tired, lethargic and disinterested from staying up late playing computer games.

The headteacher was sat on the sofa with Exhibit Number 1: The Cheeky Looking Black Kid. Shame and Grace. Back in the day, we used to laugh about how slack white people were at parenting their kids. One of my white school friends Dawn used to tell her mum to shut-up. 'Try know', (as Wong says) I would not be here to tell the tale if I'd ever told my hair-trigger temper of a Mum to shut-up. Even now.

So this little 'butter wouldn't melt' (enjoying the cute phase before teenage spots land) yout' was telling Dermot Murnaghan how his teacher came to his house and took his games console. All THREE of them. Black parents hang your heads in SHAME! The yout' has THREE games console, which each cost around £200, not to mention the TV in his bedroom. He said: "I didn't think he had the right to do that." Well son, if you had a REAL parent instead of the spineless, non-boundary setting one that you live with, he wouldn't need to come to your yard and do that.

What a shameful day (among many) for black people. We are so lax with our youts' nowadays that a teacher can go on national TV and talk about his 'initiative' to go into people's houses and remove his pupils toys. The interview also revealed that this child was outside of mainstream schooling. So, even though the child is basically failing at school yet his parents/parent still felt it was okay for him to have THREE games consoles. No wonder my daughter hates me. Last week she was on a TV ban, before that a clothes shopping ban (one too many eediot detentions) and if she ain't acting right her FATHER removes the Playstation. And try know, an unexpected slap works wonders.

It's a state of affairs someone recently christened 'loving neglect'. A phenomena which affects all classes and creeds. We live in a society which is no longer afraid of debt, and has embraced the 'bling' mentality wholeheartedly, to some parents, saying no to their child is almost akin to being cruel. It's not just the single parents who try to make up for the absent one by buying lots of stuff, but as seen on the programme Don't Mess With Miss Beckles, some middle-class parents she encountered didn't agree with her strict boundaries, goal setting or making their children study when they didn't want to. They didn't agree with her 'methods' they said. Well at least she had some in comparison to their 'let's just let Little Johnny shit all over us and do what he wants when he wants to' approach! Dyam fools.

As Spike Lee said some years back, some parents need to: "WAKE UP!"

Leaders of the Old School

Apologies for the blog silence. Am having problems with my home connection (see disconnection) and the wireless network I manage to latch onto every now and then is somewhat unreliable.

Blogging is my first love, and it will be my last. But I must confess, MySpace, forever known as MyPipe has become my concubine. Just like with my blog, I've met some interesting people such as JElbourne, Josephine and Son of Dan. But MyPipe seems to have become an ante room for British hip-hops old school, and I have spent many a night reconnecting with some of them.

In particular I’ve been having a long dialogue with Hijack’s DJ Supreme. He was definitely, apart The She-Rockers own DJ, Streetsahead (a sick white DJ), one of my favourites. The scratching on Style Wars is legendary in the UK and US. The She-Rockers and Hijack both released their first singles on the same record label Music of Life. Our's came first, produced by Public Enemy's Professor Griff. We were the act with the buzz on the street at MOL because of that, but Hijack: The Terrorist Group, always did their best to give us the impression that they considered us silly little girls and that they would soon blow us out the water. And so they did.

Hijack, were the hip-hop group that made the US sit up and take notice. Handpicked to be signed by Ice-T to become part of his Rhyme Syndicate (I know you heard of these niggas Zed) they were British hip-hops great black hopes - that included the pasty-faced white boy who hung with them - can someone please tell me what he actually did?.

Supreme and I laugh about it all now, and how tough we all thought we were back then, with us girls giving as good as we got. Last month he sent me a copy of DJ Supreme presents: The Turntable Trixters. Which is to all intents and purposes the story of Hijack. Despite the fact that I appear on it (with the shiniest face ever to avoid pressed powder), it’s a really good movie (available to buy on www.djsupreme.com).

The story follows the classic music documentary narrative structure, the groups creation, battle against adversity to become recognised on the scene, their ascent to musical glory, and then their descent due to internal conflicts and eventual sad implosion. For anyone who is into hip-hop, it’s a must-see. If you were down (that's so old school) and are interested in the genesis of Hijack, how Supreme got into hip-hop, the beef between DETT (Pogo and the rest) and the Trixters, you have to see this. Minor grumbles about the length aside (by The Pessimist), it’s fascinating and if you're a hip-hop trainspotter, like me, you'll be glued to the screen. Each Hijack track heard sent me hurtling into worlpools and vortexes of long forgotten hip-hop memories (that sounds so Kool Keith).

Supreme is in exile, well he may as well be as he lives in Switzerland, he's a successful club DJ, still showcasing his trademark scratching techniques, happily married, but best of all my homie's a snowboarder like me! YEAH BUDDY! Next year we’re gonna link up and terrorise the slopes with some new tricks of our own. Get me!



P.S. Watch this space for release of The Story of the She-Rockers: British Hip-Hops Destiny’s Child*.

P.P.S: Don't get it twisted. I am in no way comparing myself to Bouncy, but am merely making a comparison between our frequent line-up changes.