Yow!

I read quite a few black sleb blogs, and I just love them. Most journos love gossip, whether at The Mirror, The Times or The Observer, there's always a rush to see the new Hello, OK or Grazia. So I won't apologise for my trash mag habit.

Serena is a favourite for the black gossip sites, because she dresses so spectacularly badly. I cannot get past the strawlike weave, and the ill-fitting clothes. The interesting thing is, is that brothers I know like Serena. Boy, if I knew that I could get it by looking like a drag queen I would've held back on the fashion forward behaviour for the last three years.

Now I see what she's trying to do here, its that beach hair, laid back glamour vibe. Now she actually looks good in the dress, and the colour's stunning, but look at the arm, *sings* "I could just kill a man". This looks like the arm of a trained assassin. Over-hench. I know she's a professional athlete and all, but just relax the arm and don't flex the muscles. The hair, the colour -shades of Worzel Gummidge. I don't understand how a woman who has millions can have hair that looks worse than Suzie Wong's £10 weaves. Seriously, doesn't she have friends? I know she can't ask her sister, cos her headpiece is even more out of control.

People cuss stylists, but I don't understand how she's always hanging out with Kelly and Beyonce and they don't help her out with the damn weave. You know they are not real friends. Rather, they're 'frenemies'. Frenemies don't tell you the truth about shit, they don't say if you have shit in your teeth or a stray bogey, or that your weave is off-point. Its like being the big fat friend, you make them look good by looking bad.

I wish I could be Serena's friend. You done know I would tell her.

Irie!

Bank Holiday weekend was alright. Usually, it's a much bigger deal. A big rave to go to, new outfit, a load of excitement due to the three day weekend. But because we're all gearing up for a weeklong holiday in Malaga next month, everyone's saving themselves. That said, I did manage to pack in a BBQ, Carnival on Sunday and a rave Sunday night. Like I said, it was a quiet one.

Clarke wasn't mad about going to Carnival, but I insisted. "It's your heritage. If you yout's don't go, it gives 'them' more reason to take it away from 'us'." Now that I'm older, I'm not mad about the constant walking, the crush, and the bad boys running through the crowds, but the weather was nice, and we planned to go to just two spots, and stay a couple hours.

There is nothing like raving outdoors, sound systems on the road, and a chance to see lots of brothers in wifebeaters. Mmmm. I gave the jerk chicken a miss (can't beat mama's cookin') and brought my own raspberry vodka tonic in a water bottle. You know dem way dere. We went to Rampage for the kids and there was a white boy beatboxing the Godfather. Suzie Wong was not impressed. When the music started, as is often the case, I was raving more than the kids, and was embarassing mine. It seems that when your a tweenager, it's not actually cool to dance in public. Everyone was having a really good time, and there was lots of Soul 2 Soul type vibes up in the place 'a thumping bass for a loving race'. At Rappattack (I made one of my first tracks with them) sound system on All Saints Road, it was just wicked. Pure 80s soul, big people (adults) and just a really nice vibe. We were stood next to the brother from Corrie who was getting lots of attention, and Kate Moss's babyfather Jefferson Hack walked past with his supercool nose in the air.

My gran used to have a stall at the Carnival, and we used to stay up all night with her as she fried fish and dumplin' to sell with her friend Auntie Thema. I fell in love with a green eyed mixed-race boy who was there with his family selling drinks. I must have been about 11. We walked around together hand in hand, and shared a kiss in the back of his Dad's van. I gave him my number and desperately awaited the phonecall. I waited and waited. Not being a passive type of gyal, I enlisted Shazby to go on a trip to his manor. As we walked out the station, down the road, I saw him. And her. Love fucking hurts. No change there then.

Me and my sister were at Carnival during the riots of the 70s. We had to run across the street into a house where all the windows were shattered to shelter from the unrest. They used to have creches under the flyover, and my mum and dad would leave us there for a few hours, go and rave and come back for us. We would be covered in paint, but happy. They used to sell these helium balloons, and it was such a treat to get one (really showing my age now). We would eat some sugar cane, and get a snow-ice (just ice with syrup). Then we would walk the frontline with our parents, where they would see all their bredrens who would give us money. Not shrapnel, but notes. Real money, which we would give to our mum would hold, which would inevitably end up in our bellies.

Then as a b-girl I used to hang with Westwood under the flyover, where all the whole UK hip-hop scene would congregate. Carnival has been a showcase for all new black music, and welcomed it and it's practitioners into the fold. It's had it's problems over the years, but it seems that these are behind it now. After Sunday, I think I will make a point of touching down for a couple of hours every year, just to make sure this important part of our heritage is being kept intact.

Who You Callin' A Bitch

I write a column called Couchtalk for Pride Magazine. Pride is one of a just a few magazines for black women. It's been going for some time now and has launched the careers of a few distinguished writers such as Guardian columnist and radio host Amina Taylor, author Natasha Walters and me! This piece is in the current issue, and I would urge you to support the magazine, and let them know what you like and maybe what you don't. There's not many spaces where we get to talk about 'our' stuff, so it's important that we own them, and let the people in charge (editor Sherry Dixon) know whether we likey, or don't likey what we read.

Couchtalk

by Butterfly Jones

Who you calling a bitch? If you happen to be a member of the Big Brother house, that would be just about everyone. Wannabe dancehall queen Aisleyne (Ash-lean) was singled out by uber-bitch Grace as soon she entered the house speaking her peculiar brand of Blinglish. She was dubbed a ‘ghetto-ho’ for daring to utter ‘you get me’ and speaking with a suspect ‘sarf’ London accent. It has been called the bitchiest Big Brother house yet, and in Grace’s exit she said: “I know I bitch, what can I say, I’m a girl.”

The round robin of bitching which culminated in housemate Sam’s hissy fit was a classic schoolgirl bitchfest, one which many of us have either been on the receiving end of, or have participated in. The show’s shrinks dubbed it ‘informational warfare’ as the women competed for the scarce male specimens (sound familiar).

This kind of behaviour can be seen repeated in clubs, bars and barbecues up and down the land, overpopulated by women, all competing for that increasingly elusive mate. A visit to the club is a war zone of wombs, weaves, and unevenly distributed weight perched on stiletto heels. This breeds an insecurity and mistrust of women outside your immediate circle which is often sated by the discreet or oftentimes indiscreet bitch.

College lecturer Juliet Walker admits she is often on some Alexis Colby style bitching. “I think like a lot of women I can spend a lot of time scrutinising other women looking at their clothes, their shoes, and checking if they’re hair is real or not. I just can’t help it. God forbid I’m with my girlfriends, if we’re in the club and it’s a dry night, it can get really ugly.”

“If I’ve had a bit to drink, my tongue gets really loose, and I start making up names for guys, like ‘waistcoat’ or ‘bad shoes’. I mean, who wears a waistcoat to a club? You’re asking for people to cuss you!”

The ways in which women can cut each other down leaving a barely visible scar is something Sharon Sinclair has experienced firsthand. “I was at a party with some friends wearing a close-fitting dress. A woman I vaguely know through a mutual friend came up to me and said ‘You’ve got some hips on you’. At first, I was oblivious to the rudeness of this statement, and just laughed it off saying “yeah, childbearing hips”. Her cold response was ‘ow you know?’.

Most people when bitching, try to be discreet about it, choosing to ‘su-su su-su’ in friends ears, or use that favourite gossip’s weapon, the telephone. But there is the odd occasion when a good bitch, goes bad.

Public relations assistant Susan Palmer is more of an ‘incidental’ bitch, and had a moment while at a friend’s barbecue. “I was talking to a friend about another girl’s man. As you do. And I said, ‘don’t you think he looks like Bluto, you know, the big fat dude from Popeye’’. But she didn’t acknowledge me and was giving me this blank, glassy-eyed stare back. So I repeated it, but this time, I said it even louder. She still didn’t respond to what I was saying, and was looking off into the distance, over my shoulder, so I turned to look in the direction she was facing, and to my shame ‘Bluto’ and his girlfriend were standing right behind me. All I could say in my defence was ‘but he does look like Bluto’!

We all have a bitch now and then, but to see it daily in glorious technicolor on television exposes the ugly truth about women. We can be some spiteful daughters-of-bitches.

All I Want For Christmas...

...is this motherfucker giftwrapped and delivered to Chez Butterfly Jones.

"You Better Think!"

I didn’t quite understand what Jackie Collins meant when I read the book ‘The World Is Full Of Married Men’ for the first time. All I knew was she wrote some very graphic sexual scenes, talked about something called cum, and the women always wore silk shirts and had erect nipples.

If Butterfly Jones wrote a ‘bonkbuster’, it would be entitled, The World Is Full Of Taken Men Who If You’re Up For A Bit Of How’s Your Father Wouldn’t Nine Times Out of Ten Say No’. It seems to be a hazard of 30-something single life to keep bucking these men.

The deli where I go to get a coffee after a morning run is fast becoming a no-go zone, especially if I’m wearing the Nike lycra, as my married Portuguese barista is always up for the full-on-flirt and when I say no, I don’t want any sugar says: “Is it because you’re sweet enough already?”. Cheese factor 10, but the motherfucker can make a dope coffee.

The same goes for my local wino shop (Two bottles of Pin Grig for £10) run by a very nice Ghanaian man, who last week whispered “Hello beautiful” in my ear as I sat in the net cafe. Again, very married, but a bit too friendly at the same time. You know when a man is skinning teet’ with you till they cyaan skin no more. If I was like, fuck it, I can’t tek this Rabbit ting no more, and made it clear I wanted piece, dem man would be on it like Pete Doherty on a bag of rocks.

If men feel that they are often tempted by women, trust me it’s the same for us. The forbidden fruit of the hamdsome married man, or the very much attached man is sometimes enough to set pum-pum pulses racing, and a hazard that has to be routinely negotiated.

In these somewhat lean times for 30 something single women, the temptation to fall on some attached magic stick can sometimes be too much to bear. Especially if the attached man whispers sweet nothings in your underused ear. I mean, the Rabbit might make you howl like the wolves as many times as you want and never fall asleep on your ass without making you see the Northern Lights in glorious technicolor, but it can’t whisper in your ear, and there’s only nine inches of it.

But sharing a man just wouldn’t work for me, because I need a whole dick to myself. I guess I'm just greedy like that. I am possessive even when it is just me in the relationship, so that shit would never work if two bulls were trying to reign in the same pen. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not on some Glenn Close shit, I am very secure when I’m in a relationship. Ain't nobody got what I got and as Suzie Wong says "You ain't got no tree in your face". But what’s mine is mine and I ain’t trying to share it with no bitch. You’re welcome to look, flirt, even do the surreptitious touch on the arm ting in my presence, but try know as Biggy said: “I’m fucking him tonight.”

Also, sharing a man is long. I mean, you have to be on their time schedule. Oh, I’ll see you after I spend Christmas Day with the family. Long. I am stupidly impatient, and a bit petulant. I’m not trying to hear, I’ll see you in a week’s time around midnight and I can only stay for an hour. Fuck. That. Shit. I dunno ‘bout you, but when I want my tings, I want my tings, and I ain’t trying to wait until your missus is asleep or she’s gone to her mum’s for the weekend. I want it now! I already operate on Mummytime, which means I have to do things according to the needs of my child - that’s hard enough, so having to operate on Cockytime would wind me up good and proper. No dick can be that good.

So sistas before you get all bent out of shape about some brother whose ‘woman doesn’t understand him’ as Vicky Edwards sang: “You better think. THINK.”

"This Is My Story, A True Ghetto Story"

I went to the premiere of DJ Supreme's documentary 'Turntable Trixters: The Story of Hijack', (available from djsupreme.com) yesterday at the National Film Theatre on the South Bank, which was shown as part of Blacktronica's club night. Big up Charlie Dark.

The old school grapevine had been buzzing for weeks, and the film was sold out in advance (unprecedented for a 'black' film as we tend to be lastminute.com bookers). The Screenwriter said: "Mans is coming out the woodwork to see it like snails in the rain!". Unfortunately because he is tardiness personified, he was a snail still in the rain waiting outside the cinema with his late black ass while we were all inside watching the 'flim'. Shame guy.

Watching it again made many of us involved in the halcyon days of UK Hip-Hop realise even more the importance of documenting those times. Trust me a few people are now on a mission to get going on their own productions.

The film is not just a look back at what was a pivotal moment for UK b-boys and b-girls, but it's also about one man's journey to create a legacy within music, and what happens when things fall apart. For him, it wasn't a vanity project, but an attempt to set the record straight and dispel the myths and the rumours surrounding the demise of the group. Not to mention, the man had a ridiculous scratching talent which was embraced, and copied around the world. He was one of the UK's finest hip-hop DJs and could definitely hold his own against the yanks.

The ‘Grime’ music culture and current hip-hop scene have been quick to embrace new technology and have been putting their own DVD magazines out for some years now. There's a real admirable entrepreneurial streak in that scene, yet our generation of hip-hoppers have been gazing (me included), and letting our legacy gather dust as we lock our memories away from the sunlight. But after last night, the light switch has gone off in many people’s heads because of Supreme’s tenacity in documenting his own story. The trickle down effect will be interesting to watch.

It had been years since I had seen Supreme, fourteen at least, and back then we never had much to say to each other. As we had lunch today, it was funny to think that the conversation we were having was probably the longest we'd ever had in all the years we'd known of each other, yet it felt like we’d been friends for years. I attempted to dispel some myths and rumours of my own surrounding my group the She-Rockers and our much talked about collaboration with Professor Griff from Public Enemy. He was openmouthed as I set the record straight for him (and for the last time I did NOT fuck Flavor Flav!).

Want to know more....well, you’ll just have to wait for my film for the truth about that.

It’s juicy for sure.

Vote for the Ghetto Princess

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YOW!

Everybody's seen or heard about Janet Jackson's 'amazing' weightloss/plastic surgery/diet/existing on a lettuce leaf/body tune-up. But judging by the pictures I've seen, I'ma need that bitch to either stop wearing them goddamn ugly ass clothes she insists on wearing or just do me a favour and regain the weight. I really don't see the point in her being slim if she is going to insist on exposing her midriff like an eight year-old (cos you know my 12 year old is not exposing any midriff), and 'queezing her plastic puppies together in a too small bra. WHAT THE FUCK?!?

I can almost excuse Nicole Ritchie's emaciatedness, because she wears some fantastic clothes, and has great hair. The fact that she looks like she couldn't bench-press a Krispy Kreme doughnut is neither here nor there. But if I were a man, I wouldn't want to fuck her: *sings* 'Dem bones, dem bones, dem jutting out bones.' Hell to the no!

For a long time the quest for ultra-thinness has not really affected black slebs (ce-lebs) but it seems that now that is no longer the case. Where the once bootylicious Beyonce leads, you can be sure others will follow. I've seen pictures of singer Monica recently (www.ybf.blogspot.com) with legs like pipecleaners.


It upsets me when I see someone like Janet looking about as stylish as her man Jermaine Dupree, is handsome. This is the problem with women approaching 40 who are slim. Yes, I'm talking to you Toni 'Always selling haddock' Braxton. Just cos you slim it don't mean errrbody have to see what you got! Hire a frickin' stylist, do you have a REAL friend?

Take Vicky Beckham, she looks terrible at least 98 per cent of the time. The only time she looks good is when she wears something that covers those margaton legs like a full-length Cavalli evening gown. What is quite scary, is that she's quoted as saying: "My body is my career". She knows that being slim, wearing tiny shorts and overdone extensions keeps her in the public eye. It is her reason for existing. She made a career out of that shit. Who knew.

I could have saved myself five years of studying and gaining and losing thirty pounds. Instead I should have made attaining 15 per cent body fat and marrying a footballer my one goal in life. But then changing colour would have been a bit difficult (Ambi anyone) as finding a footballer in the premiership willing to marry a sista is probably about a million times more difficult than finding a regular brother to marry! Can I get a witness!

Little Black Nig-Nog

It’s the school holidays. Hurrah. If you are a kid. Booo if you’re a parent. For some reason, since I was last a child (oh so long ago) it has become de rigeur to plan your children’s lives as if it were a perpetual holiday, five star at that. Fortunately I am a direct descendant of Ye Olde Jamaican Mum. Get thee to a playcentre child, and enjoy fighting over the table tennis table, playing football on a concrete pitch no bigger than a parking space, and make friends with the local aspiring hoodlums. Thank god for the unsung heroes that run these places. These people out there paying £200 a week for some child-centred childcare are wasting their money - where better to learn how to hold your own in the concrete jungle we call London than at a local playcentre.

Clarkie loves hanging out in the ‘hood with the boys dem - especially when they big her up for how well she plays football. Wonder if they’ll notice her breasts this year? The girl’s already wearing one of my cast-offs. Those of you that know me will know that this is no big ting, as I don’t have big bres’. If there was a way (other than weight-gain and cutting yourself open) to pump the little suckers up, I surely would. If only to balance out the bottom half. I digress.

The playcentre even take the kids on a week’s camping trip. Clarke goes with Suzie Wong’s son, so she’s not on her own. Boy if she goes this year she best wear two sports bra on a daily basis to strap them suckers down. It’s really not about the ‘kiss-chase-game-which-is-just-an-excuse-for-a-feel-up’.

I am planning to go away with Clarkie but the weather’s been so good I don’t feel any urgency. Last summer her Daddy took her to Paris for a few days. How sweet is that? I never went on holiday with my parents, we did day trips and parks and stuff like that, but never a plane, or abroad. The closest I got to a holiday was *cue Hovis theme* a week’s visit to stay with some random family somewhere outside London. And later school trips. It was the weirdest thing, in fact I need to talk to my mum about it. My sister and I would go and stay with strangers for a week, in some town where we’d be the only little nig-nogs for miles around. I say nig-nogs because that is what you were called back in the 70s....and also it just sounds funny! LOL.

I stayed with a family in Maidstone when I was about seven. It was like something I’d seen on TV. Mum, Dad, Daughter, Son, Grandad, Grandma. And they all lived together. Mum laid the big wooden dining table at night with plates, cutlery, linen and condiments. You know jam and shit. I remember we had Rose’s lime marmalade, I had never had it before. I had had Robinson’s marmalade before, but just not that one. I liked it very much. They didn’t have dinner - but they had tea at around 4 or 5. And before you went to bed, you were given some bread and dripping...ok I’m lying about the dripping. No actually I’m not - but I never liked the look of it (beef fat leftover from the roast dinner). Bleuch.

It was lucky for me that I wasn’t one of those children who pined for my mum. If it was an adventure, and I was having fun - I clean forgot about back home. It was on that trip that I learnt to ride a bike. Surely a defining moment in any child’s life, especially one whose Dad wouldn’t buy her a bike because “Girlchild not fe ride bike.” And that was the end of that until I bought my own when I was 18 (off Joe for £50 - I don’t know where he got it but it was a Muddy Fox).

They lived in a cul-de-sac (you know, like in Knots Landing), and when I went out, I had to face the barrage of racist abuse from the Bisto Kids who hadn’t seen a real live nig-nog before. However, they were soon more curious than hostile, and stopped the abuse and wanted to get involved in the games I was playing with my hosts who by the way were lovely to me. In the end everyone helped me to learn to ride the bike, and we played and played and played like our lives depended on it. Everyone came and said bye to me when it was time to go home. I think I reached some hearts and minds back there. It was a classic fish out of water scenario, but I know that those experiences have just served me so well, even now. I often feel a lot that I don’t fit in, just like the little nig-nog back in the 70s, but after a while, once people get to know you, you soon realise, it’s more curiousity than hostility.