As well as the melanin deprived, shirtless pregnant men and park exhibitionists, summer seems to increase the number of ‘care in the community’ (CITC) (see mental health cases) cases on the streets of London. Usually dressed in layers of grime encrusted clothes, holding a tin of something liquid, legal and powerful usually called White Lightning accompanied by a small well-fed dog.
I’ll be honest, I never give them any money. Although I was tempted to give this old Chinese guy we saw in Putney something because he reminded me of my Dad. Clarke accused me of being racist. She pointed out that if he were the usual white male beggar I wouldn’t want to give him any money, it was just because he is Chinese. She did have a point.
One of my favourite stories is one my mum tells about walking past some boys who were begging money close to Guy Fawkes day (Nov 5th). Back in the 70s, kids would beg for money to buy stupidly powerful fireworks that sometimes ended up exploding in their hands or the faces of people on road. It was a legitimate enterprise, but obviously not one I was ever allowed to do. As my mum walked past them, these boys said: ‘Penny for the guy, penny for the guy’ without pause she replied: “I’ve got two guys of my own waiting for me at home.” I just love that story. It kinda sums up my own attitude. So as one of the few Londoners who has avoided the street mugging, and sexual or racial assault, I only open my purse to shopkeepers.
So a few days I'm 'promenading' near the local shops. It was around 8.30pm, but it was a balmy London evening, just beautiful. It was one of those moments where you just experience pure happiness. The weather is good, you're not wearing five layers of dark clothing that makes you hot on the train and look two sizes bigger, instead you're wearing a little dress and you're tanned and healthy looking.
Then, out of nowhere this wild-eyed yout ‘ appears. He’s all in my grill, grinning like a sleazy politician and says: “You’re mine, you’re mine.” Ah hell fucking no I'm not. First of all, you stink, and secondly, you look cracked the fuck out. Of course I just said: "No, I'm not." And shrank back as he got closer to my bright white shorts with his grimey self. I tried to side-step him. But he kept blocking my path. He was so close I could smell the stench of weeks, make that months without 'hol'ing a fresh' emanating from him and see the grime that caked his dark, heavy clothing. As I tried to back away from him, he just kept moving closer and closer to me. I didn’t want to touch him, but had to as he bore down on me with his overbearing self. My finger was all that separated us. This motherfucker looked trigger happy, I couldn't get away from him without running. I started to get worried.
Feigning confidence I said: “I’m going to stand still, and you’re going to back up and give me my space.” I stood still, but he kept coming towards me, I couldn't get past him and just felt this intense fear that he was going to touch me. Intimately. I shouted: “CAN SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP ME!” Out of nowhere (ok he was standing near Blockbusters) this Irish guy came flying towards me, and took control of the situation. He asked me where I was going, took my arm and walked with me. The Winston Silcott looking Somali yout’ tried to follow, so the Irish guy went right up in his face pressing his forehead against the other guy's, showing him he was not intimidated. I pulled him away, I was afraid he would get hurt, and that stink yout' might have a knife. My legs were like jelly, and I was close to tears. In those few moments I felt completely vulnerable. I know he would have assaulted me if I hadn’t called out for help.
Of course people were walking past like I could possibly be having a lovers tiff with someone who smelt like Pig Pen and who's face favoured Stig of the Dump. Irish guy (quite fit I might add - obviously I was not too upset to notice) and his lovely Zimbabwean girlfriend (shame) walked me back to my bike which was locked up at the net café. The guys in the net cafe said 'Stig' had assaulted a woman earlier in the week.
I called the police.
They never came.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Monday, July 17, 2006
The Hotness
It's official. London is at the centre of a heatwave and most people done lost their minds. At the moment I have the type of tan usually only seen after a week abroad on a lastminute.com holiday, and am happily surviving on a diet of fruit and salads due to a lack of feening for 'big food'. The parks are full of picnicing people burning the grass with their disposable bbqs. However, most yout's under the age of 21 can still be seen wearing head to toe black sweats and trainers. Mine included.
Usually as insecure about the purity of my African heritage as I am (don't ever call me light-skin or browning) at the first sign of a temperature above 50 degrees, I fling my beach mat out in the back garden, dig out the batty riders and the years old sun oil bought in Brazil for that orange carrotty look (CARROTTY I said not GARROTTY!) and make sure to roast the back of the legs (instant cellulite concealer). However, I've just been enjoying getting on with things, and enjoying the fact that it's not raining. Shit, I shouldn't have said the 'R' word. I'm up early to get my run in before the heat starts lickin' and I must say, this is when my admiration for my fellow white runners kicks in. How they run at midday when the sun is reaching its peak, with that pale translucent skin, burning quicker than a burger on a barbie, I'll never know. I've succumbed to the skin cancer warnings (and premature ageing ones) after reading in Essence that black women shouldn't wear less than factor 15 - but some of my white friends still seem very unconcerned about skin cancer, and tend to favour the lobster look at the best of times.
All this heat as led to increasing PDS - Public Displays of Swimwear. I do not ever want to hear anyone say that British people are reserved. Reserved my big batty. Walking through my local park you see women stripped down to their thongs as they catch some rays in their lunch hour. And in south London's gayest park - Kennington Park - it's Speedos and men rubbing oil on each other all the way.
Meanwhile some black folk who have obviously lived in this country too long won't leave their house unless absolutely necessary because 'It's too hot'. I despair. Yes Suzie Wong, I'm talking to you. And the Pessimist will only sit or walk in the shade. No meaning. I won't even allow myself to think it's too hot. Like my other namesake Goldilocks said, this summer is "just right".
Usually as insecure about the purity of my African heritage as I am (don't ever call me light-skin or browning) at the first sign of a temperature above 50 degrees, I fling my beach mat out in the back garden, dig out the batty riders and the years old sun oil bought in Brazil for that orange carrotty look (CARROTTY I said not GARROTTY!) and make sure to roast the back of the legs (instant cellulite concealer). However, I've just been enjoying getting on with things, and enjoying the fact that it's not raining. Shit, I shouldn't have said the 'R' word. I'm up early to get my run in before the heat starts lickin' and I must say, this is when my admiration for my fellow white runners kicks in. How they run at midday when the sun is reaching its peak, with that pale translucent skin, burning quicker than a burger on a barbie, I'll never know. I've succumbed to the skin cancer warnings (and premature ageing ones) after reading in Essence that black women shouldn't wear less than factor 15 - but some of my white friends still seem very unconcerned about skin cancer, and tend to favour the lobster look at the best of times.
All this heat as led to increasing PDS - Public Displays of Swimwear. I do not ever want to hear anyone say that British people are reserved. Reserved my big batty. Walking through my local park you see women stripped down to their thongs as they catch some rays in their lunch hour. And in south London's gayest park - Kennington Park - it's Speedos and men rubbing oil on each other all the way.
Meanwhile some black folk who have obviously lived in this country too long won't leave their house unless absolutely necessary because 'It's too hot'. I despair. Yes Suzie Wong, I'm talking to you. And the Pessimist will only sit or walk in the shade. No meaning. I won't even allow myself to think it's too hot. Like my other namesake Goldilocks said, this summer is "just right".
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Doing Bird*
I'm walking through the shortcut past Brixton Prison after spending the night at Suzie Wong's house. We went to Plan B on Sunday for her Gina Ling's birthday, where we had a wicked night dancing to old school soul and hip-hop, trying to recreate the old moves (The Wop anyone) in 3 inch wedges and heels. A fit guy I've seen before was there. Could have potential for a midnight panty raid. I don't think he'd have much to say though, but he sure did look good on the dancefloor. The only thing that let him down was he got his friend to give me his number. That hasn't happened to me since I was in secondary school and my boyfriend Vincent told my friend we hadn't kissed after 'going out' for two weeks and he was gonna chuck me if I didn't free up. So I didn't call Fit Guy for that reason. So when he tried to give me the number himself I said I had it. So he's like so why didn't you call me. So I says to him: "My name is WOMAN. So your name must be MAN." I was a little tipsy.
As I pass the prison, the huge doors open, and a big van used to transport prisoners rolls out. Mr Slick Black Man is wearing his crisp white shirt and CHiPS style shades, as he drives past me, he slows down his HMP people carrier to get his mack on. "You are really beautiful. I like you, when can I see you again?" It's honest, it's direct, it's not rude. But it's around 8.30am, I am wearing the clothes I wore the night before (with flip-flops), jeans and a sparkly t-shirt with shades, and am in desperate need of a toothbrush, hot water and strong coffee. Which means I cannot talk to him. So he gets the Mona Lisa smile as I'm too wounded to speak after only 3.5 hours sleep.
The man's on the Queen's business, but he's still got time to holla at a sister, while driving a truckful of human cargo like he's rolling on 'doves'. I had to give it to him, the brother was smooth and respectful. And I in turn respectfully turned him down.
It seems that the prison theme is the subject du jour as a new live show started yesterday from HMP Cardiff, a Category B Prison. The BBC are using our tax dollars to show us the reality about prison life. And who's face did you see first onscreen? As The Pessimist said when we talked yesterday, and I quote: "Nig-nog. Niggy-niggy nig-nog.""Did he have plaits or cornrow?" Plaits. Shame and grace.
The prison is the cleanest looking prison I have never seen. Pristine, looked like you could nyam off the floor. They showed you the inside of cells, took you through a cell search, spoke to other prisoners, a mampy white girl who obviously worked in the kitchen and was teefing all the pies, who was in for drug offences. A woman who used her kids to shoplift to support her heroin habit. Deep.
I hate programmes like this. In my opinion they act as a PR exercise for whatever service is being shown. Oh look at what a hard job we have to do. It's all just too black and white, with very little contextural analysis. I think in many cases it just serves to reinforce stereotypes about the alleged criminality of certain races. And for anyone who thinks I'm being unduly cynical, lest we forget, the Prison Service stands accused of 186 failings following the racist murder of Asian prisoner Zahid Mubarek in Feltham young offenders institution. Mubarek, who had a three month sentence for theft, was killed after being deliberately placed in a cell with known, racist psychopath skinhead Robert Stewart who battered him to death with a table leg. The Prison Service failed to protect him. I doubt this subject will be touched upon in the cosy chats between the TV presenters and prison officers.
* Bird = Doing time, and is also a euphemism for a woman, e.g. chick.
As I pass the prison, the huge doors open, and a big van used to transport prisoners rolls out. Mr Slick Black Man is wearing his crisp white shirt and CHiPS style shades, as he drives past me, he slows down his HMP people carrier to get his mack on. "You are really beautiful. I like you, when can I see you again?" It's honest, it's direct, it's not rude. But it's around 8.30am, I am wearing the clothes I wore the night before (with flip-flops), jeans and a sparkly t-shirt with shades, and am in desperate need of a toothbrush, hot water and strong coffee. Which means I cannot talk to him. So he gets the Mona Lisa smile as I'm too wounded to speak after only 3.5 hours sleep.
The man's on the Queen's business, but he's still got time to holla at a sister, while driving a truckful of human cargo like he's rolling on 'doves'. I had to give it to him, the brother was smooth and respectful. And I in turn respectfully turned him down.
It seems that the prison theme is the subject du jour as a new live show started yesterday from HMP Cardiff, a Category B Prison. The BBC are using our tax dollars to show us the reality about prison life. And who's face did you see first onscreen? As The Pessimist said when we talked yesterday, and I quote: "Nig-nog. Niggy-niggy nig-nog.""Did he have plaits or cornrow?" Plaits. Shame and grace.
The prison is the cleanest looking prison I have never seen. Pristine, looked like you could nyam off the floor. They showed you the inside of cells, took you through a cell search, spoke to other prisoners, a mampy white girl who obviously worked in the kitchen and was teefing all the pies, who was in for drug offences. A woman who used her kids to shoplift to support her heroin habit. Deep.
I hate programmes like this. In my opinion they act as a PR exercise for whatever service is being shown. Oh look at what a hard job we have to do. It's all just too black and white, with very little contextural analysis. I think in many cases it just serves to reinforce stereotypes about the alleged criminality of certain races. And for anyone who thinks I'm being unduly cynical, lest we forget, the Prison Service stands accused of 186 failings following the racist murder of Asian prisoner Zahid Mubarek in Feltham young offenders institution. Mubarek, who had a three month sentence for theft, was killed after being deliberately placed in a cell with known, racist psychopath skinhead Robert Stewart who battered him to death with a table leg. The Prison Service failed to protect him. I doubt this subject will be touched upon in the cosy chats between the TV presenters and prison officers.
* Bird = Doing time, and is also a euphemism for a woman, e.g. chick.
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