Streets of blood

Another week, another killing. A 16-year-old boy chased along the street by a gang of youths and stabbed. To death. This happened in the area close to where I grew up in west London. Like Marvin Gaye once sang: “What ‘s going on?” I feel helpless, powerless when I hear this kind of ‘news’. My friend’s daughter knew the boy. Like Aids in the 80s, soon we’ll all know someone who has lost a child, a partner or a loved one in some senseless attack.

Daughter complains about the fact that she can’t go out with her friends on the weekends. They like to go wandering out of the area (south London). The way London is, and has always been is, you don’t visit ‘ends’ you are not familiar with, where you don’t know peeps or peeps who know peeps. People will start ‘armshouse’ with you.

Some of her friends have the freedom to roam the streets after school, and on the weekends. But now they don’t ask her to meet them to wander London after she attends Saturday school, because they know she cannot go. This upsets her a bit but she accepts it. I say: “I can’t help it if they have parents that don’t care about them. Be thankful you have parents that care about you.”

Her year head phoned me once to moan. She asked me: “Does Clarke spend a lot of time in adult company?”. As opposed to what? She’s at school more than she’s at home but she is an only child, and during the week, she goes to school and comes home, so she spends a lot of time with ME. Where else should she be? What would she prefer? That she spends more time with her friends roaming the streets of south London so she would have less of a smart mouth and not argue the toss with the teachers?

She has a friend across the road, and hangs out with Suzie Wongs son. They go to the park, play football, watch football and wrestling and play on the computer. They get involved in random kickabouts, and everyone goes home exhilarated. I get a play by play of the goals she scored. That’s the normal childhood shit we know and love. And that's how I'd like it to stay for as long as possible. But of course I know it won't.

This shooting kids in their homes, stabbing them on the street, that’s the shit like most people I just can’t understand. I’m scared for my child. She uses public transport, I’m at work when she’s travelling home. What would I do if someone took her life so cheaply? People are raising murdering little bastards who will take your child’s life for looking at them the wrong way, and not being from the same ‘ends’.

I don’t want to just watch this happening. I want to help, I want to find solutions, I want to get involved.

I don’t want my child to be next.

Catching feelings

I'm experiencing way too many emotions at the moment. One of the side-effects of quitting smoking. After my run, I feel high, only to crash and start feeling tearful an hour later. Last night I got tearful watching some old video of Heaven 17 (can I just say YouTube is sick - I know I'm late).



I'd been watching this singer Beth Ditto sing a version of their song Temptation with Jarvis Cocker at the NME awards on YouTube. Beth Ditto is an American singer from a band called Gossip (I think), she's unashamedly BIG, and is seriously 'fierce'. This is a woman who puts the 'F' into fat. There are a lot of fat girls out there who could do with half an ounce of her confidence, and just from watching her perform I don't believe it is false confidence. For a start she's got a wicked soulful voice, she can really 'sang'. And tons of stage presence. Watch this space on that girl.

So as I watched the original version of Heaven 17 on Top of the Pops, I began to well up. This was the music I loved when I was a teen, Heaven 17, Human League, Depeche Mode, Adam and the Ants, Carly Simon, Scritti Politti, David Bowie. And now it was in an internet archive, like some dusty old file stored away to be accessed by sad old gits like me. *Sighs*. I was going to buy their greatest hits on iTunes but thought I'd ask my music geek mate at work first Irish Dave. We similar taste in music, except that he actually spends his money on it, whereas I only buy shoes.

He always tuts when I come back from lunch with a bag which obviously contains shoes, and I tut when he comes in with yet another bag of CDs...which I then get him to burn for me. Obviously this is a one-sided friendship. Of course he already owned the CD I wanted to buy.

I'm not really that interested in new music. Apart from Amy Winehouse (right Lois). The songs of my youth have more resonance for me. Provoking memories long buried, and rarely remembered. People, places, clothes, and events come rushing back. If I hear something like Run DMCs 'Sucker MCs' or Mantronix's 'Ladies', I start breakdancing and bodypoppin like I was 17 again. To my daughter's embarassment. OK, I could never breakdance, but I could uprock. And still can after a few vodkas, even in heels. If you don't get what I'm talking about. Listen to Chaka Khan's 'I Feel for You'. Now you get me right?

As I approach my 38th year, looking back and reminiscing about the 'old days' is becoming more and more a part of my life. A life, which in some ways,still feels like its barely begun. Not for want of trying. I've packed in quite a bit, but why do I still feel like I'm at the beginning? Why don't I feel like a grown-up yet? And do I even want to?

The time is now

If you hadn't noticed, new season spring/summer stock is in the shops. And if, like me you're not buying anything new because you are wearing the extra seven pounds you gained over the winter (okay a fucking stone then), now is the time you get your phat ass up off the sofa, and get busy calorie burning.

Contrary to popular belief, smoking does not keep you slim, it just gives you cancer, so that experiment is over. After a run to Victoria during which I thought my heart was going to explode out of my chest, something had to give. So the patches are back on, and the mental affirmation, 'smoking kills, even you you fat bitch', is my new mantra.

I have set up a 21-day challenge with my buddy who works at the Other Big Time Newspaper in Wapping, to exercise each day for the next 21 days. Well, we have weekends off. We have to do a minimum of a 20 minute run, walking does not count. So far so good, I ran Monday, and today (even though it was raining). And I already feel more positive, I prefer being a smug fit person, to a smoke-infested lardy one. I'm even considering giving up the demon drink for the 21 days. Ok, I considered it. No fucking chance.

So people we are in March now - if you have a holiday, or a summer wardrobe you like and want to wear again - brave the elements, join a gym, or get a bike - and start moving that fat ass.

Sex counts too - but if you have a two-minute man, I guess you might have to find another activity to top you up.

Bada Boom! Bada Bing!

I really didn't feel like going out on Saturday night - don't faint - but then I didn't really feel like staying in. I was working on Sunday, so staying in was not an option when you have five days of stress to look forward to. Like Biggy said, 'mo money, mo problems'.

Apart from Wong picking me up to do my food shop (so handy now she's driving) I spent most of the day on the sofa after taking two rinky dink paracetamol for the headache I'd had since I woke up. Surely one glass of red wine couldn't have done that. I usually take stronger painkillers, but since reading about Robbie Williams addiction to painkillers I began to re-assess my enthusiasm for Co-Codamol. Needless to say the paracetamol did absolutely nothing for my headache which fast began to turn into a migraine. Having suffered through a phase of migraines which saw me throwing up every day for a week and end up on a drip in hospital I rang Suzy Wong for some painkillers and got my ass ready to go out.

Wong is the painkiller Queen, due to suffering from really bad period pain. Which you know about when you call her and she says: "Don't chat to me, I ain't the girl." Ooookkkk.

After a fairly dry night out the weekend before, we heard about a DJs birthday party at Le Fez, and everyone said it was going to be a good night. So I flung on the frock, and my platform Kurt Geigers (praying for at least a five-hour dancing limit) and hoped the painkillers plus a brandy would dissolve the hurt in my head. Boy did they ever.

We got there at about quarter to 2 (Wong was being long), and it was already ram. The dancefloor was just wall to wall bodies, and the DJs were playing high above the crowd on the balcony. It was a night of flossing, as mans was keen to impress the many women there (and show off on each other) by buying champagne and brandy, eager to secure the all-important 'crub' later on. A combination of the Ibuprofen and the brandy ensured I was on a level pretty quickly. In fact, I was high. Now I get the painkiller addiction.

I saw a guy I know who I quite fancy. Dayum. This night was getting better. A guaranteed flirt op for the night. With my dancing partner on lock, and the DJs playing tune, it turned out to be a wicked night. At six o'clock in the morning we were dancing to Justin Timberlake's 'My Love', the couples and people that don't rave often had already left, and the party was still going strong. I bought one drink the whole night, but my glass was never empty. The night had flown by in a blur of dancing, laughter, and flirting, and we staggered outside into the daylight at around 7am to the car. Oohh, damn, it was bright outside. People were looking at us in our raving clothes with disdain, it was now Sunday after all and we sure didn't look like we were dressed for church. Well my church was over for the night. For this week.