Crappin' hell. It's my daughter's 13th birthday on Saturday. Yes, you heard right, her 13th. Hence why I am feeling extremeply stressed out right now. Why? Because she wants a party. And I can't get away with bowling/ice-skating/Pizza Hut any more.
She wanted a party at home - but our place is quite small so I sat down with her and explained that I would do one for her later in the year, a nice BBQ when we could use the garden, yada yada, blag, blag, and I thought she'd accepted it until Suzie Wong came and rinsed me about how come I'm not doing Clarke's party for her, and that I need to fix up myself.
She went and talked to her surrogate mum about how she was upset that me and her Dad weren't doing the party. So now it's on, and I have to just get on with it. So come Saturday I am going to have a whole heap of 12-13 year olds in my yard, with a DJ. Apparently, these youngsters are already going to parties, which they call 'shubs' - a daytime party in someone's yard. Obviously, Clarke has not attended any of these events. So right about now I think the word is travelling around the school that Clarke is having a 'shubs', so I hope that Clarke's dad is up for the job of door bitch to head off the hordes at the pass.
Luckily my girlfriends have come to the rescue to help me sort things. Shazby is getting the cake, Suzette is helping me prep the room and will cook some food, plus one of our DJ friends is playing and Dad will buy drinks and supervise
So come Sunday I will be the mother of a teenager.
I think this might be the time to start lying about my age.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Ghetto Oscars my arse…
It was more like the TV Quick awards. I’ve not seen so many badly dressed people corralled in one place before in my life. Ok, I have, but not of late.
Ladies, just because your garment is made of 10 per cent lycra, it does not mean that you should wear it two sizes two small. Plus, the new fashion for tulip skirts (think of the flower but upside down) and volume is a bit tricky if you are a woman with a sizeable badonkadonk.
Like most of the trends which trickle from catwalk to road, it suits only the few and rules out 95 per cent of sisters. If, like Beyonce, you are blessed with booty and thunderthighs (and I am included in this equation) think veeeerrryyy carefully before plumping for the a miniskirted tulip dress. It's less dress and more vest if you're round as a pound bum is hitching it up as you jiggle by. But that’s just me talking – I’m sure your target audience – the mans dem – love to see an abundance of backside and thighs on show. So feel free to ignore my unsolicited advice.
After all the pre-party excitement, I was pretty bored about one hour after I got there. I think – and don’t faint now – I’m all partied out. Hence why it has taken me three days to feel anywhere near normal after yet another late night on the weekend. Or that could just be old age.
I mean – you go out, and don't see not even one nice piece to rest your eyes pon. All the effort you make to fling on a nice frock (All Saints), pretty shoe (Office), and a fine veneer of no make-up make-up (MAC, Bobbi Brown and Ruby and Millie), and not even one approach from someone that makes you skin teet. It's a damn shame.
Anyway, after the birthday party I’m going to on Saturday (not a circuit rave), I've decided I'm not going out for a month (that includes Chris Sweeney's birthday dance Mention Crew). I’m retiring from the circuit for a bit and am going to enrich my mind, body and soul with other pursuits. What are they? I dunno yet, but I will report back.
Ladies, just because your garment is made of 10 per cent lycra, it does not mean that you should wear it two sizes two small. Plus, the new fashion for tulip skirts (think of the flower but upside down) and volume is a bit tricky if you are a woman with a sizeable badonkadonk.
Like most of the trends which trickle from catwalk to road, it suits only the few and rules out 95 per cent of sisters. If, like Beyonce, you are blessed with booty and thunderthighs (and I am included in this equation) think veeeerrryyy carefully before plumping for the a miniskirted tulip dress. It's less dress and more vest if you're round as a pound bum is hitching it up as you jiggle by. But that’s just me talking – I’m sure your target audience – the mans dem – love to see an abundance of backside and thighs on show. So feel free to ignore my unsolicited advice.
After all the pre-party excitement, I was pretty bored about one hour after I got there. I think – and don’t faint now – I’m all partied out. Hence why it has taken me three days to feel anywhere near normal after yet another late night on the weekend. Or that could just be old age.
I mean – you go out, and don't see not even one nice piece to rest your eyes pon. All the effort you make to fling on a nice frock (All Saints), pretty shoe (Office), and a fine veneer of no make-up make-up (MAC, Bobbi Brown and Ruby and Millie), and not even one approach from someone that makes you skin teet. It's a damn shame.
Anyway, after the birthday party I’m going to on Saturday (not a circuit rave), I've decided I'm not going out for a month (that includes Chris Sweeney's birthday dance Mention Crew). I’m retiring from the circuit for a bit and am going to enrich my mind, body and soul with other pursuits. What are they? I dunno yet, but I will report back.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
And the Ghetto Oscar goes to...
Remind me not to give the blog addy to guys with ‘motential’ as it means I cannot chat the business if things don’t really work out. Despite my last hope-filled post, let’s just say there is absolutely no fear that I will be off the dating shelf anytime soon.
It’s a tricky thing when you start seeing someone, and I think if you start to fear letting go of your single gal freedom, then you know that he’s not the guy.
Anyway I consoled myself by hitting the shops in time-honoured Butterfly Jones fashion and picking up some shoes. In the last week, I bought six pairs of shoes. The sweetest thing is three of them I’d had my eye on them from way back when, but couldn’t afford them, or didn’t need them so managed to restrain myself. And as a result I saved myself hundreds of pounds. So when I feel a bit crap, I go put on a pair of the sparkliest, twinkliest shoes I own, and sit on sofa looking at my feet. I kid you not. Pure unadulterated Rabbit-free joy.
It’s been a busy week socially, but tonight is the big one. The 'Ghetto Oscars' as a friend of mine called it. Big birthday dance on The Circuit, one of the name-brand DJs from Hyper crew, so it’s a bit of a ‘duty rave’. Basically, if you don’t represent, mans is going to be upset. Why? Because throughout the year, more time we always get squeezes (freeness), or discount to go to dances, but when it’s the birthday dance, everyone’s supposed to represent, buy a ticket (no freeness) and make sure the dance is ram. We didn’t go to his New Year’s dance and apparently, as we found out when we passed a rave at Illusions a couple weeks ago, mans was screwing. Ah so we name mention. Gossip on the circuit is that we didn’t want to pay. Deep. After we all ah work, and have money inna we pocket. Chat bout.
So today I went to Groom and got waxed and plucked. It's a beauty salon in Selfridges where you have two therapists working on you at the same time and you can pick and choose what treatments you want. I had a half-hour waxing package, leg, bikini line and underarm (plus lip wax - shame) and it cost £70.
And went to Scholl to see the podiatrist to sort out the 'hooves' my feet were fast turning into. I think even she was shocked at the amount of hard skin she had to remove, because she said I MUST rebook for three months time!
I had my nails done on Thursday, so I'm good to go. Just need to decide which out of the six new pairs of shoes I can wear, and last the whole night in. It's not about changing into flats.
It’s a tricky thing when you start seeing someone, and I think if you start to fear letting go of your single gal freedom, then you know that he’s not the guy.
Anyway I consoled myself by hitting the shops in time-honoured Butterfly Jones fashion and picking up some shoes. In the last week, I bought six pairs of shoes. The sweetest thing is three of them I’d had my eye on them from way back when, but couldn’t afford them, or didn’t need them so managed to restrain myself. And as a result I saved myself hundreds of pounds. So when I feel a bit crap, I go put on a pair of the sparkliest, twinkliest shoes I own, and sit on sofa looking at my feet. I kid you not. Pure unadulterated Rabbit-free joy.
It’s been a busy week socially, but tonight is the big one. The 'Ghetto Oscars' as a friend of mine called it. Big birthday dance on The Circuit, one of the name-brand DJs from Hyper crew, so it’s a bit of a ‘duty rave’. Basically, if you don’t represent, mans is going to be upset. Why? Because throughout the year, more time we always get squeezes (freeness), or discount to go to dances, but when it’s the birthday dance, everyone’s supposed to represent, buy a ticket (no freeness) and make sure the dance is ram. We didn’t go to his New Year’s dance and apparently, as we found out when we passed a rave at Illusions a couple weeks ago, mans was screwing. Ah so we name mention. Gossip on the circuit is that we didn’t want to pay. Deep. After we all ah work, and have money inna we pocket. Chat bout.
So today I went to Groom and got waxed and plucked. It's a beauty salon in Selfridges where you have two therapists working on you at the same time and you can pick and choose what treatments you want. I had a half-hour waxing package, leg, bikini line and underarm (plus lip wax - shame) and it cost £70.
And went to Scholl to see the podiatrist to sort out the 'hooves' my feet were fast turning into. I think even she was shocked at the amount of hard skin she had to remove, because she said I MUST rebook for three months time!
I had my nails done on Thursday, so I'm good to go. Just need to decide which out of the six new pairs of shoes I can wear, and last the whole night in. It's not about changing into flats.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
When keeping it real goes wrong....
At the top of my road. A woman was murdered in her workplace. I saw the police and crime scene Saturday night when I went to catch a cab to meet the girls for a drink in Brixton. They had the tape and a big tent up and there were a dozen people milling about, so I knew it was a murder. The next day I saw one of our reporters up there.
Incidents such as these happening right on my doorstep do not fill me with confidence, especially when it comes to my daughter walking around on her own, even just to local shops - which is right near the crime scene.
My friends always rinse me because I will happily take night bus, walk street late at night and generally do my thing with little fear. But trust me my street instincts are intact. When you grow up in the hood - you always take that hood mentality with you, but obviously you only expose it when you need to.
Recently this woman at work was jarring me so much, as Wong says 'I let the street come out in me'. It's like that Dave Chappelle sketch 'When keeping it real goes wrong'. You always get those people at work, and you know you shouldn't rise to it, but on the wrong day, lack of sleep, food or sex makes you short-tempered and the real you is closer to the surface than usual. Speaky-spokey Butterfly done left the house.
Anyway this woman, let's call her The Hurricane (can you work out her name), decided from dot that she didn't like me or my lovely friend at work Irish Dave. I only realised this when my news editor told me that the bitch had complained we were both bullying her? What the fuck?!? I think I had worked two shifts with her by that point, and she had only been there three weeks. This didn't really bother me - but when she was being blatantly rude, obstreperous (there's a word for you to look up), difficult and argumentative while we were working together, it started to bother me.
I thought to myself - this bitch is trying to take food out of my pickney's mouth. If I asked her to do something she would ignore me, or act like I was harassing her, but she wasn't like this with other people. Anyway, I made sure I was polite, and kept it professional, while she continued to be a cow. But then one night, when my colleague asked her to do another story - she said 'oh I've done 9 stories and BJ has only done 1' the mist descended and the street came out in me. I said to her 'Why you watching me, don't watch me. Watch what you're doing. I've only done three stories because I've had to spend the rest of the time re-checking everything that you do.' Bitch.
We had a bit of a set to one night in the newsroom. It was one of those passive aggressive arguments, where no one raises their voice, but everyone knows that you are arguing. Thankfully the paper had gone to press and the newsroom was half-empty, but those that were still there were riveted. I said 'why are you so hostile, and she said 'you were rude to me the very first week'.
'So why didn't you come to me and say something instead of carrying on like this for the next five weeks.' She said 'oh maybe I'm just tired'. Bitch I know all about being tired, I worked nights for a straight month when I started, never finished on time and didn't complain. Then after going to bed at either 2 or 3am I would get up at 7am to cook breakfast just so I could see my child who was fast forgetting what her mummy looked like. Yes, I know about tiredness.
Luckily for me, no one has any complaints with my work, and I get on fine with the rest of my team. And the fact that she accused Irish Dave of fucking with her completely weakened her case because he is wicked, and everyone thinks he's cool. But I knew she was getting to him when he texted me referring to her as 'slagface'. Ha ha.
Anyway, the bitch decided she couldn't handle the nights and decided to leave. Thank the Lord for that. Funnily enough, there were no leaving drinks for her, and no whip-round.
Incidents such as these happening right on my doorstep do not fill me with confidence, especially when it comes to my daughter walking around on her own, even just to local shops - which is right near the crime scene.
My friends always rinse me because I will happily take night bus, walk street late at night and generally do my thing with little fear. But trust me my street instincts are intact. When you grow up in the hood - you always take that hood mentality with you, but obviously you only expose it when you need to.
Recently this woman at work was jarring me so much, as Wong says 'I let the street come out in me'. It's like that Dave Chappelle sketch 'When keeping it real goes wrong'. You always get those people at work, and you know you shouldn't rise to it, but on the wrong day, lack of sleep, food or sex makes you short-tempered and the real you is closer to the surface than usual. Speaky-spokey Butterfly done left the house.
Anyway this woman, let's call her The Hurricane (can you work out her name), decided from dot that she didn't like me or my lovely friend at work Irish Dave. I only realised this when my news editor told me that the bitch had complained we were both bullying her? What the fuck?!? I think I had worked two shifts with her by that point, and she had only been there three weeks. This didn't really bother me - but when she was being blatantly rude, obstreperous (there's a word for you to look up), difficult and argumentative while we were working together, it started to bother me.
I thought to myself - this bitch is trying to take food out of my pickney's mouth. If I asked her to do something she would ignore me, or act like I was harassing her, but she wasn't like this with other people. Anyway, I made sure I was polite, and kept it professional, while she continued to be a cow. But then one night, when my colleague asked her to do another story - she said 'oh I've done 9 stories and BJ has only done 1' the mist descended and the street came out in me. I said to her 'Why you watching me, don't watch me. Watch what you're doing. I've only done three stories because I've had to spend the rest of the time re-checking everything that you do.' Bitch.
We had a bit of a set to one night in the newsroom. It was one of those passive aggressive arguments, where no one raises their voice, but everyone knows that you are arguing. Thankfully the paper had gone to press and the newsroom was half-empty, but those that were still there were riveted. I said 'why are you so hostile, and she said 'you were rude to me the very first week'.
'So why didn't you come to me and say something instead of carrying on like this for the next five weeks.' She said 'oh maybe I'm just tired'. Bitch I know all about being tired, I worked nights for a straight month when I started, never finished on time and didn't complain. Then after going to bed at either 2 or 3am I would get up at 7am to cook breakfast just so I could see my child who was fast forgetting what her mummy looked like. Yes, I know about tiredness.
Luckily for me, no one has any complaints with my work, and I get on fine with the rest of my team. And the fact that she accused Irish Dave of fucking with her completely weakened her case because he is wicked, and everyone thinks he's cool. But I knew she was getting to him when he texted me referring to her as 'slagface'. Ha ha.
Anyway, the bitch decided she couldn't handle the nights and decided to leave. Thank the Lord for that. Funnily enough, there were no leaving drinks for her, and no whip-round.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
And then he kissed me
A rota fuck-up meant I got dragged into work on Sunday evening when my roast dinner was halfway done, and my hands were trying to make sense of Clarke's freshly-blow-dried afro. Not to mention the date I had to cancel. Yes. A date. Draw closer my friends. Yes, I started the new year with the prospect of a date. A first date. But sod's law, I had to fucking cancel it. 'I'm so sorry, I have to work'...while he's thinking, yeah likely story! Muy bad Cockoach Brown (yes - we have names for each other, mine is D-Nice).
It's quite funny, because even though I usually have one eye halfway-open for a potential prospect, when we were introduced, I barely noticed him. No, not because he is a butters - but because when we met I was more concerned with the big white security tag I still had stuck to the back of the new dress I was wearing. I came straight from work (where else), was slightly frazzled, and I'd been wearing a clingy blue shirt-dress, but had a 'butters moment' (fit of insecurity) about how big my bottom looked in it, so decided to go buy something big and tent-like to wear to Blacktronica.
He was with peeps I know and we were all talking. When he left to go to the bog (toilet), his friend says to me - 'he's a really nice guy and he's single' . I looked at the nigga as if to say 'do I look fucking desperate to you' and said 'how do you even know that I'm looking' (thinking fuck me - is it that fucking obvious?!?). 'Oh I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything....'it's okay, I am actually quite single' I said, climbing down off my high horse.
So when he came back, you know I looked at him properly. I looked at his clothes, nice. His shoes - dem mek it. Basically, there was nothing I could criticise. No fair. LOL. He kept buying me vodka tonics, and didn't wrinkle his face in disgust when I smoked (don't worry I've given up again since). He laughed at my jokes, and engaged me conversationally. Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.
Anyway, last month on the flimsiest pretext of hooking up to go to this club Co-op, we swapped numbers. We had dinner beforehand at The Diner in Shoreditch, where I ate a burger and fries like I was in my living room, and his eating didn't put me off. Did I mention that I never like to go to restaurants on first dates, because if a man eats badly (like a hog) it will seriously put me off. I could be single lickle more, I can't knock boots with a man that eats like a monster.
Anyway, this really wasn't a date, so I really didn't even scrutinise him. In fact I don't think he scrutinised me either - he really didn't seem interested in me. You know sometimes you have a male friend, but you're not sure if you really fancy him, but then you sense that he's put you in the friend zone – You start to get vex. How dare he put me in the friend zone before I’ve made up my mind about him? Fucking cheek! (yes I like to be adored by people I don't even want - so sue me).
Anyway, it wasn’t really like that. He seems like a cool guy, and I just thought, cool, he’s a cool guy, we can be mates. But then he kissed me!
It's quite funny, because even though I usually have one eye halfway-open for a potential prospect, when we were introduced, I barely noticed him. No, not because he is a butters - but because when we met I was more concerned with the big white security tag I still had stuck to the back of the new dress I was wearing. I came straight from work (where else), was slightly frazzled, and I'd been wearing a clingy blue shirt-dress, but had a 'butters moment' (fit of insecurity) about how big my bottom looked in it, so decided to go buy something big and tent-like to wear to Blacktronica.
He was with peeps I know and we were all talking. When he left to go to the bog (toilet), his friend says to me - 'he's a really nice guy and he's single' . I looked at the nigga as if to say 'do I look fucking desperate to you' and said 'how do you even know that I'm looking' (thinking fuck me - is it that fucking obvious?!?). 'Oh I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything....'it's okay, I am actually quite single' I said, climbing down off my high horse.
So when he came back, you know I looked at him properly. I looked at his clothes, nice. His shoes - dem mek it. Basically, there was nothing I could criticise. No fair. LOL. He kept buying me vodka tonics, and didn't wrinkle his face in disgust when I smoked (don't worry I've given up again since). He laughed at my jokes, and engaged me conversationally. Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.
Anyway, last month on the flimsiest pretext of hooking up to go to this club Co-op, we swapped numbers. We had dinner beforehand at The Diner in Shoreditch, where I ate a burger and fries like I was in my living room, and his eating didn't put me off. Did I mention that I never like to go to restaurants on first dates, because if a man eats badly (like a hog) it will seriously put me off. I could be single lickle more, I can't knock boots with a man that eats like a monster.
Anyway, this really wasn't a date, so I really didn't even scrutinise him. In fact I don't think he scrutinised me either - he really didn't seem interested in me. You know sometimes you have a male friend, but you're not sure if you really fancy him, but then you sense that he's put you in the friend zone – You start to get vex. How dare he put me in the friend zone before I’ve made up my mind about him? Fucking cheek! (yes I like to be adored by people I don't even want - so sue me).
Anyway, it wasn’t really like that. He seems like a cool guy, and I just thought, cool, he’s a cool guy, we can be mates. But then he kissed me!
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Get me to the church on time
Clarke said this morning, ‘2006 doesn’t feel any different to 2007’. Well daughter dearest, I said: ‘What makes it different is what you decide to do differently. So what are you going to do differently this year? ‘I’m going to study hard at school.’ That thud you just heard was me passing out.
I hadn’t made any New Year’s resolutions until New Year’s Eve when I rediscovered just why I gave up drinking that evil concoction, Brandy. I bumped into an old friend, dragged him for a dance, but as soon as we drew close, my head started spinning, and I had to cling onto him for dear life. It was more of a hug than a crub.
The New Year started stressfully. I outdid myself and had to be in three places in one night. First work for an evening shift until 11 (thinking I was going to get double pay and found out too late I wasn’t). Then church in east London, to meet my family, and finally onto club Dillusions with the girls. I worked like a crack-fiend to finish early, which was doubly difficult as it was just me working the graveyard shift.
My cab driver was pissed off because no one had told him I was going east instead of south and he was not feeling battling the new year traffic. Am I bovvered? I used the time wisely to remove the death pallor from 9 hours in front of a computer screen and apply my no-make-up make-up (girls will get this). Vex cabbie took the backstreets and I walked into church on the stroke of midnight. Hugged my mum and my tearful sister (this is often the reaction I get when I turn up to church, sinner that I am) and settled down to the praise and worship ceremony. Breathe.
At 1am, I rolled on gathering no moss to get the tube back to south to meet the Mention Crew (Cah ah your name mention tonite). Liverpool Street appeared to be the mecca of new year’s eve carnage. Most people had started their celebrations several hours earlier, so queues for food were long, there were packs of girls in too-high shoes and party dresses with no coats stumbling about, and shovelling down take-away. The chic party veneer had long since left and they looked fucked up. I jumped on the train trying to avoid the carriages with PLV’s (people likely to vomit) and listened to my ipod loudly to block out the revelry.
Got picked up from the station by Gina Ling, and rushed to Suzy Wong’s to get changed. One strapless black and gold M&S party dress (it's the new Primark trust me), and a pair of bashy gold shoes later, we were on the road to Club Illusions.
Once in there, a similar sight greeted me, previously glammed up girls looking the worse for wear, while we were the ‘freshers crew’, having arrived fashionably ghetto late at 3am. We drank Brandy, they played bashment, and within an hour I think I looked pretty much like the girls who had been there for five hours. Trashed as a motherfucker.
The gold LK Bennetts I was boasting ‘are like my trainers' as I jogged down the road to Illusions, were fucking killing me, and I had no choice but to buss a white girl flex. And tek off me shoe dem. The music was so good, I didn’t want to sit out the rest of the night. So me and Gina Ling backed off the shoes and raved it out.
Just like the last three, my New Year’s was a great success. I got paid, I prayed and then I raved.
HAPPY NEW YEAR.
I hadn’t made any New Year’s resolutions until New Year’s Eve when I rediscovered just why I gave up drinking that evil concoction, Brandy. I bumped into an old friend, dragged him for a dance, but as soon as we drew close, my head started spinning, and I had to cling onto him for dear life. It was more of a hug than a crub.
The New Year started stressfully. I outdid myself and had to be in three places in one night. First work for an evening shift until 11 (thinking I was going to get double pay and found out too late I wasn’t). Then church in east London, to meet my family, and finally onto club Dillusions with the girls. I worked like a crack-fiend to finish early, which was doubly difficult as it was just me working the graveyard shift.
My cab driver was pissed off because no one had told him I was going east instead of south and he was not feeling battling the new year traffic. Am I bovvered? I used the time wisely to remove the death pallor from 9 hours in front of a computer screen and apply my no-make-up make-up (girls will get this). Vex cabbie took the backstreets and I walked into church on the stroke of midnight. Hugged my mum and my tearful sister (this is often the reaction I get when I turn up to church, sinner that I am) and settled down to the praise and worship ceremony. Breathe.
At 1am, I rolled on gathering no moss to get the tube back to south to meet the Mention Crew (Cah ah your name mention tonite). Liverpool Street appeared to be the mecca of new year’s eve carnage. Most people had started their celebrations several hours earlier, so queues for food were long, there were packs of girls in too-high shoes and party dresses with no coats stumbling about, and shovelling down take-away. The chic party veneer had long since left and they looked fucked up. I jumped on the train trying to avoid the carriages with PLV’s (people likely to vomit) and listened to my ipod loudly to block out the revelry.
Got picked up from the station by Gina Ling, and rushed to Suzy Wong’s to get changed. One strapless black and gold M&S party dress (it's the new Primark trust me), and a pair of bashy gold shoes later, we were on the road to Club Illusions.
Once in there, a similar sight greeted me, previously glammed up girls looking the worse for wear, while we were the ‘freshers crew’, having arrived fashionably ghetto late at 3am. We drank Brandy, they played bashment, and within an hour I think I looked pretty much like the girls who had been there for five hours. Trashed as a motherfucker.
The gold LK Bennetts I was boasting ‘are like my trainers' as I jogged down the road to Illusions, were fucking killing me, and I had no choice but to buss a white girl flex. And tek off me shoe dem. The music was so good, I didn’t want to sit out the rest of the night. So me and Gina Ling backed off the shoes and raved it out.
Just like the last three, my New Year’s was a great success. I got paid, I prayed and then I raved.
HAPPY NEW YEAR.
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