Don't Call It A Comeback

My people, my people. What the fuck is up? I've been on a journey the last week, trying to gather up the strength to fight the internal forces of darkness that sometimes threaten to consume us creative types. In other words, I've been depressed. I know I'm not clinically depressed, but rather just clinically feeling crap because this finding a job ting is long. Anyway, as therapy, I decided to work out daily, eat healthy, and avoid additional stress.

The last part was more difficult. Child, thy middle name is 'additional stress'. So on Thursday afternoon my neighbours could hear me scream as I exploded at my homework slacking child and smashed a few plates to accompany the symphony of rage I was conducting within my little cottage. Funny, I started to feel a lot better after that.

I did a few long runs, and on Saturday, after packing The Child off with Dad, I tried a kickboxing class at the gym. My trip to Malaga is in September, and the bikini boot camp starts here. On Sunday I tried yoga again. In the past I just found it too difficult to chill and do the slow ting in yoga, but right now I know its what my body needs. Although I wasn't impressed by the yoga instructor's figure, very slim legs and then a massive tyre in the mid-section, I soon forgot that when she had her legs over head, and knees by her ears. All the more impressive as she was definitely aged over 50 without the resources of muscleman Madonna. I don't know if it's because I'm not getting 'wuk' regular (see-not at all) but I've noticed a considerable lack of flexibility, and tightness...of all my muscles! Hence I decided to get with the yo-gram (groan). I mean, imagine how much I can impress my man when he finds out I can also put my leg behind my head....1,2,3,*penny drops*.

One of our DJ friends was having a birthday rave at D-Ilusions, and me and Wong had to represent. The DJs played wack, not ah one new tune did they buss, and the tunes they did play you could predict what was coming next with stunning accuracy. That fucking 'You Are My Starship' tune (not the original Charlie) which drives me absolutely mad, followed by R.'Pee' Kelly's 'Step In The Name of Love'. But I should've known the rave wasn't gonna be all that because I didn't follow my 'raving grooming routine'.

Usually I wash and braid my dreads, which I undo on the day and they flow all Rasta-punzel like over my cocoa buttered shoulders. It usually comes out best if I do it two days before I go out, because my hair takes a while to dry when braided. And rasta noh use hairdryer. Then I make sure my eyebrows are tidy, I don't shape cos I like them bushy, just pluck out the Liam Gallagher uni-brow hairs. Lastly, I've got to shave. My legs fools. And girls, you know in winter, we have a tendency to let the shit grow like weeds (don't leave me hanging). So, by Saturday, I hadn't washed my hair, and my legs were proper furry. Not just my legs, but hey we won't go there. Well actually we will. No point in shaving there, no one's seeing that right now! Well except the women in my gym. Am I bovvered? The problem isn't helped by the fact that I managed to lose the charger for my bikini line trimmer. You heard me. A Remington bikini trimmer. Its like a shaver for your 'fanny' (the British meaning. LOL! I can't believe I said fanny. Crass. I don't do waxing (anymore), or hair removing cream, as I'm not too sure about the safety aspects of using pubic hair melting cream near your pum-pum.

My outfit was all wrong. I was gassing on the phone, so time ran away with me, and I only had time to fling on a white strapless polka dot prom dress (bought last year), with sacre bleu, CHEAP SHOES. Some green M&S peeptoe sandals. When I walked in D-Illusions, TA-DAAAA, I lit up the place like a Christmas tree as everyone was wearing black. Wong, was looking fabulous in a black strapless cropped jumpsuit with a green and yellow trim, and a new £10 weave which looked like a million bucks. She does it herself, and trust me, this weave looked amazing. June Sarpong, sit down. I keep threatening to make her my art project. Wong changes hairstyle every two weeks on a Friday without fail, so she has a minimum of 21 hairstyles a year. Not including changes of colour. I'm going to take polaroids of them, and mount them in a frame. A Year in the Life of Wong The Chameleon: The Hair Comes and Goes.

We left D-Illusions around 4am, after a decent amount of time had passed (we didn't get there until 1.45am), not long after a sexagenerian who had been staring at me for about five minutes asked me for a dance. As if. Fuck off Grandad.

She's Baack.

The Man

For those who like football. Did you see Ronaldinho's goal for Barcelona against Chelsea? Oh.My.Fucking.God. Mad, sick, head noh good. I have an unhealthy crush on the bucked-tooth boy wonder, and that goal has only made it more intense. He brushed past three players like ah no nuttin'. Can someone please tell me how Frank Lampard made it into second place behind him in the FIFA World Player of the Year chart? I just don't get it.

Mourinho was 'wounded', and could not accept the defeat with good grace. You knew Ronaldinho was going to score, but boy, not only did he score, but he shamed up three man at the same time. I've got a bet on with a mate. I'm betting Barcelona to win the Champions League, him Arsenal HAHAHAHA! With my winnings, I think I'll treat myself to a pair of Kurt Geiger peep-toe with a bow, black patent platforms, a steal at £75, or some French Sole ballet flats at £50. Labels re-sell better on ebay. Well done to Arsenal too, Henry's goal against Real Madrid in the first leg was also sick. And Arsenal are now the only British team left in the Champions League. I hope they get AC Milan in the next round. The draw is tomorrow.

Postscript: I've just seen Ronaldinho's date of birth. I am ELEVEN YEARS older than him. He was born in 1980, the year I started secondary school. Oh my god, that's positively filthy.

I'd still give him 'de work' though.

Nano Post

Charlie Dark's J-Dilla Tribute Party at the ICA was off the hook last night. I hope Dilla realised while he was alive how much he meant to people. The place was rocking to his music all night.

Constipated

Nothing to chat 'bout - taking a week or so off to hol' a mental fresh. Soon come.

Kidulthood

This is a review of a film I've written for Spine Magazine. I went to a screening of this film last week, and it's pretty good. For my American cousins who have probably never seen a film with a black British flavour, this is the film you need to see, to get an insight into what London can really be like, and how we don't all talk the Queen's English!

The film Kidulthood reveals a world where parents are oblivious to the lives of their children and where the law of the inner-city jungle, survival of the fittest, reigns supreme.

Written by actor Noel Clarke, best known for playing Billie Piper's dozy boyfriend in Dr Who, Kidulthood follows the lives of a group of fifteen year-old inner city youths on the edge of adulthood and the precipice of fucking up their lives.

They're ripe for a couple of ASBO's as they smoke, drink, teef, take Class A drugs, and fuck their way through a day off school following the suicide of one if their classmates.

Fifteen year old Trife wants respect, and craves material things.The only male figure he respects is his drug-dealing uncle and he feels weakened by the love he feels for ex-girlfriend Alisa. The top boy among his crew, he has the respect of many of his classmates but not school bully Sam (Clarke) who disrespects him and starts the penis waving battle which quickly escalates into violence.

The language of urban London takes centre stage and blows a hole through the white-washed version presented in that other west London based film, Notting Hill. Clarke’s screenplay deals with some serious issues, and echoes the talk you hear on road, and on buses and tubes filled with schoolkids. "Oi pussyhole!” “Yeah man she's loose." "Proper ghetto". It’s Phil Redmond’s Grange Hill for the Grime generation, which is reflected in the soundtrack featuring its alma mater Dizzy Rascal.

With outstanding performances from its young actors it manages to balance its Tarantinoesque violent scenes, with a coarse street humour that makes you laugh out loud. Comparisons to City of God are outlandish, and despite it’s Evening Standard friendly content, Kidulthood is authentic and entertaining.

Stupid Boy

Suzie Wong seems to have hooked up with the male equivalent of Glenn Close's iconic 'bunny boiler'. I'm going to call him ''Fatal'. Fatal is 'paro' (paranoid) and obsessed with the telephone. Huge arguments can occur over why she hasn't answered or returned his phone call when she has two mobiles. And a house phone. And saying 'I was taking a shit' doesn't seem to help matters.

Wong has turned that nigga out, and he wants her to make a committment to him which also includes looking after his yout' while he works nightshifts as a 'paromedic' (groan). But the constant pressure, and the possessive behaviour is proving to be a turn off. Both me and the Wong sisters are in agreement. It nah go work. Or as my American cousins used to say 'drop that zero and get with a hero'. He sounds way too possessive, and after a year of 'dating', if you ain't ready to call the man 'your man', what does that tell you?

On Saturday we went to a rave in Croydon. We hadn't been out for a couple of weeks, so it was nice to link up with the girls dem. I wanted to booze the shit-sodden week out of my system. So I started off with half a bottle of champagne at home. And topped up with a couple of spritzers once we got there. I chose one of my second division outfits. White cord flares, black silky topshop wrap top, with red peeptoes and red clutch handbag. But boy it looked like I had in comparison to the peeps that we're there. Let's just say some people looked like they had just pick up and put on what they had dashed on the floor from the night before, intending to pop to the corner shop but ended up in the rave instead. Miaow.

I was rocking to two tune, they dropped the bashment selection neatly, and then from nowhere this guy I know from my rapping days comes right up in my face and grabs hold of me. He was so close he sloshed white wine down the front of my top rendering the tit tape that was keeping it in place useless. So I directed the bottle to my glass for a top-up. Then he clamped himself on me for a dance to some fast r 'n' b tune that was playing. For once, Butterfly's mouth stayed shut and didn't wither the interloper with a dick shrivelling comment. As a wise woman said to me last week, it's just a dance. I managed to extricate myself after the one, as he told me how happy he was to see me, and that he's finished with West End clubs. Translation- too much competition for white pussy up there.

He continued: "It's not the drugs, I mean I don't care what you take, weed, coke, or crack, it's how you handle yourself when your on it." Weed, coke, or CRACK!!! WTF?!? When did CRACK become the same as WEED and COKE? Did I miss that newsflash? I know Pete Doherty is the crackhead's poster boy but I haven't ever been in circles where crack is okay, if you know how to handle it. As far as I'm aware it's a big fat hell to the fucking no.

Anyway, it's at this point I notice his wild eyes, and try to excuse myself from the conversation. He asks me about one of my girls, who he fucked about with, but he can't remember her name. Then realises that is the most stupid thing he could ever have said, because a) I'm not interested, and b) I'm gonna tell her what a fool he is.

Then he does another stupid thing. Asks me for my phone number.

Butterfly Jones:"That wouldn't be appropriate".
Stupid Boy: "Oh, is your man in here."
BJ: "Yes he is" (freynights).
SB: "But what about if I want to contact you about work or something".
BJ: "What work?"
SB: "Music, rapping"
BJ: "I don't do music anymore. Sorry, I just can't be seen giving out my number in here, it will blow up my situation."

Then in desperation he drops the classic line.

SB: "Can I tell you something. Just between me and you." Yeah, you me and my blog.
SB:"I've always liked you. But you know back then I couldn't come and tell you that. You know, we were rappers and you just didn't do that." I think. Wow. That's funny. Because I really fancied his DJ. Awkward silence ensues. If I was a bit 'loose' in my teens, it seems I could have had pretty much anyone back then. And if I had a pound for every time I'd heard this line, I could afford several pairs of Manolo's. (Size 7/40/US 9 for your info).
SB: Well I just wanted to tell you that."
BJ: "Sure. Cool. Okaaaay. I'm gonna go find my situation."

Some guys have no standards. What makes him think I would even spit on him after he's been with one of my girlfriends? Not to mention that he didn't treat her well. Trick ass bitch. The audacity of the man. I hope that when he's recovered from his drug and alcohol fuelled trip, that he remembers last night in fine detail, and feels embarrassed. If not I shall remind him the next time I see him. But I hope it's not for a long time.

Flame On!

I have been chosen as the mascot for National Crap At My Door Week. It started Monday. And each day so far this week has brought a new pile of the brown shit to deal with. I dread waking up tomorrow to see what new pile of steaming poo will be land at my feet.

My default mood is 'mad as hell and I ain't gonna take no more'. London Transport has incurred my wrath on a couple of occasions this week. Faulty machines, long queues, and overground stations which don't allow you to use a pre-pay oyster card. Arrrggh! A new travel rule is made up each week I think just to frustrate me.

Then there's the school situation. Clarke said a classroom assistant called her 'a lying bitch'. Can you smell the stink emanating from that situation? Today I had to get up very early to go to the school to talk to someone. Of course you can't see the headteacher without an appointment these days. I sent an email requesting an appointment with the public servant.

Instead I got the year head. I was introduced to her last month when she called me, and began the conversation by saying: "I'm sick and tired of Clarke...". So she didn't really engender confidence. She tried to explain the incident away by saying she's sure it was just 'a slip of the tongue' and she was sure the woman was really sorry. But if Clarke did call her ass a 'batch' (bitch as she pronounces it) I'm sure she would find her Year 7 ass excluded for a few days and no one would be mentioning anything about slips of tongues.

This afternoon the classroom assistant's manager called. The assistant is, as predicted, denying it. No surprises there. Just more stink off the poo. But true she don't know me, I am tenacious. I will get justice.

To top it off I had a stinker of a row with my daughter's father today.We average maybe one a year, and I knew it wasn't a good day to have the conversation I started, being that I am operating on barely-concealed 'batch' mode. But I ignored the many voices in my head not to open the can of worms and managed to spit some flesh-eating maggots of my own just to stink up the situation even more. Clarke said I should call him tomorrow and apologise. But will he accept?

Not even the massive amounts of chocolate I consumed today could restore order. Have you tasted Reese's Peanut Butter Cups? Or Flake Snow? They're good. But not that good.

I just remembered why it is such a good idea to have a bottle of champagne in the fridge. It's for days like this. Flame off.

In The Closet

Boyyy. You think you got problems. And then you read the News of the World's exclusive story which details the alleged antics of two overpaid premiership footballers and their DJ mate. These thrill seeking men are said to have played games with each other which largely involved oral sex for five grand (said DJ on football player mate), and then there's the other hilarious game where one man would attempt to put his cock in another's mouth without touching it. My hair is definitely getting blonder, cos I had to really think about that one. Oh the games rich people play.

The thing is, the DJ alleged to be involved in the scandal is well-known to myself and my friends. The emails which show the full picture of him and his football buddy, which was blurred out in Sunday's NOTW, has been circulating like bird flu on the internet, the phone lines are on fire as people ring each other to 'labrish' the gossip. I have been one of them. The man's alleged business is out on road. The Bobo Dread said: "His business pop down."

The paper didn't name names, because it is 'hearsay'. They only had the one source and no actual evidence, so they cannot name names without being sued. The picture they used has been altered, because if it was easy to recognise the people from the picture, they could be sued for that too. On the internet, an ISP can be sued for defamation, if it can be proved that they have not taken the necessary steps to prevent defamatory comments once it has been brought to their attention. But the picture was 'on road' from Sunday night. Obviously no one has brought it to their attention.

Last night as I struggled to fall asleep (too much coffee), I was really thinking about it. The DJ's career rests on whether people believe it or not. It's one man's word against these people.

But what if it's not true?

I mean, this is the NOTW we're talking about. Remember the Posh Spice Kidnap Story? That was a complete set-up and fabrication. A piece of entrapment which they sold as a legitimate kidnap plot. They paid someone to encourage a random group of men to discuss a kidnapping, who were then arrested despite there being no real evidence apart from the braggadocious conversation captured on tape in the grotty cafes they met in.

Apparently the DJ is on 'leave' from work. But what if none of it is true, and it's just the vindictive rantings of a bad-mind 'friend'. Maybe the person has an axe to grind. Suppose he was the least bling out of all the man's dem. You're rolling with multi-million pound football players, they are 'flossing' big-time, and maybe they treat you like the 'prentice, or a cunt. Cussing you because of your 'garms', or your three-year old ride. Or maybe he was upset he didn't get to suck the mans tings for five grand in the hand?

But if it is true, the DJ can't show his face on road, in a club, or in (black people's) public. Basically London.
The men in question, said the source, are not on some 'Broke Battyman Mountain' shit, it's just something they do for a laugh. Well, I can honestly say, I have never been that starved for joke that I thought it was a laugh to nyam my friend's pum-pum after we'd been clubbing. Other things I have not done while drunk, and I have been very, very drunk many times. I have never snogged one of my friends. Now an ugly man might have got the nod for an inebriated drunken fumble, but not one of my girl's.

But I would snog a girl for five grand. I'm still paying off student loans, and there are worse things you could do. But not Suzie Wong, cos you done know she wouldn't let me. But if she would let me that would be cool cos she doesn't like to french kiss. You read me right. Don't like it. At all. She said: " I just tell them from the start, don't even bother with that tongue shit." Can I just add that mans worship Suzie Wong, and are always trying to lock it down (in a relationship). She treats da mans dem mean, and they are still keen.

I bet the DJ never ever thought that he would be all over the national newspaper's for something like this. I veer between feeling sorry for him, but then thinking, 'WHAT A EE-DIYAT'. For his sake, I hope it's not true, or that he just firms it and comes out of the closet.

Ah Change Haf Fe Come

I spent three days at The Independent last week, sub-editing (checking copy, grammar, spelling, laying out pages) on one of the Saturday supplements, and trying desperately to hide my inadequacies with Quark Xpress. I always feel a bit nervous when I go to new paper, which is normal I suppose. On arrival I'm greeted by one of the subs and shown to my temporary computer. I do a quick scan of the room for people of colour. I don't see any. This is the floor of the Independent on Sunday, and I think the Saturday paper. Oh well. I'm still one of the pioneers in this game. It just seems so impenetrable when you look around the newsroom and see the usual blancmange (cos there sho' ain't no melange) of white faces. When the fuck am I going to get my break? What more do I have to do? Who's fucking lily-white dick do I need to suck to get a gig UP IN HERE, UP IN HERE?!? For those not possessed of irony that was completely hypothetical, and no I won't do it for five grand.

I had Friday off, so took babygirl to see The West Indian Front Room exhibition at the Geffrye Museum in Shoreditch/Dalston. A bit of an education for her in the interior decor cultural signifiers of the Windrush generation. It was closing on Sunday, so I felt it was important to represent. If you don't go to these things it makes the case harder for people to get funding. Like it ain't hard enough already.

She'd just spent five days with Grandma, so had had a fresh taste of parenting the old school way. Lots of shouting is involved, and jumping to attention when called. Also, a psychic connection is required to find anything my mum asks you to fetch as her description usually goes: "Get de ting and de ting, from de ting!". Pause. 1.2. She screams: "YUH NO FINE DE TING YET?!?". The food's good there though.

As it was half-term, it was pretty busy, with all ages represented. Lots of people brought their mums, and grandmas to see this exhibition of a typical West Indian front room which I'm sure lots of my fellow 'slave babies' can relate to. The cluttered decor, the glass-front cabinets overstuffed with figurines, and cheap glass animals, crochet doilies atop television sets which occupied prime position within the space. Vinyl and fabric three-piece suites, with crochet armrests, and the burgundy and gold swirly carpet. The glass fish, ceramic cockerel, and the pineapple ice bucket. It was all there. The exhibition brought back so many memories I was literally transported back to the home of my youth, with the orange and brown seventies wallpaper, the lino floor (till we got the carpet), and sateen curtains.

The way people posed in the photo's taken by Neil Kenlock, as had my family, was typical of the period. They sat in front of televisions, or next to stereo's, inanimate objects which to them portrayed the good life they were leading 'inna h'englan'. Like some of the exhibited photo's, my gran posed next to a sideboard, in her finest clothes, looking like one of the Supreme's in her shiny black wig.

Old dial-front phones could be used to listen to aural histories of people who remembered a time when you couldn't play in the 'front room'. It was a room of mystery. You didn't just breeze in, flinging open the door, and sitting down where you pleased. You peeked in or you knocked the door. You crawled in on your stomach, behind the sofa to watch Rock Follies, or Benny Hill without mum and dad seeing you. You ramped in there when your mum went shopping, broke something, tried to hide it, got found out and then got 'beats' (a beating) and sent to bed without dinner while the sun still shined and your friends voices drifted into your room from downstairs in the block.

Clarke tried to use the dial-front phone, but she didn't know how. I showed her and some other kids how to use the dial feeling every one of my 36 years. But when a woman came and asked if I could show her how to use the camera on her mobile, I directed her to Clarke.

The contrast between my childhood and Clarke's seems so vast, and sometimes, you're so caught up in the 'now', that these memories rarely resurface. But the exhibition gave me the opportunity to really share some stories of my childhood with her, and show her how different things were back then. How strict our parents were, the obsession with keeping things clean and tidy, and the way that the responsibility for housework became ours at an early age. How much value was placed on these artefacts, which were basically cheap mass produced tat, styled in imitation of English homes and their more expensive antique tat cluttering the place.

If my daughter breaks something in the house - like the time she collapsed and broke the whole bookcase, by leaning on it while sitting on her bike (despite being told not to do that several times) - she's more likely to hear a level ten volume rant, rather than feel the back of my hand, or a broom, slipper, tennis racket or belt on her behind. Our front room is our shared space. It reflects the lack of formality between us as parent and child. Although I do claim my own regular spot on the sofa.

Seeing the exhibition, and how different things are now in our uber modern and stylish homes (mine not included) it seems that while some things have changed really quickly, others are still not changing fast enough.

Happy Valentines Day

This freelance work couldn't come soon enough, if only to save me from what passes for my social life. The highlight of the weekend was seeing Suzie Wong get 'lean up' on house white at Etiquette. Me and Miche were wetting ourselves as Suzie let go of all inhibitions, throwing her head back and laughing, dancing with wild abandon, licking over the people dem drink, and openly displaying affection for her 'date'. Trust me, this is not a sight you will see on a 'regs'. She was a good natured drunk though, apart from when she grabbed Miche by the head for no apparent reason. I told her to 'firm it' as we walked through the crowd, and instinctively, despite five minutes earlier being floppier than a flaccid cock, she straightened up and sashayed quite soberly to the toilet. I only had to use the one arm to support her.

Thankfully Saturday was not a Valentine's ball, but there's no escaping it. Today I could barely get into a card shop to buy an engagement card for the Analyst due to the hordes crammed in to spend £5 on a cheesy card for their missus, man, paramour, or fuck buddy. I witnessed all the cliches in effect; the man in Sainsbury's buying a bunch of cheap roses, and another in La Senza clutching the tacky red knickers.

Suzie Wong was the first person I saw wear red knickers. Come to think of it she's the only person. We lived in a hostel together years ago, and I noticed her red knickers drying in the bathroom. I was incredulous. "You wear RED knickers". Up until then, I hadn't got beyond black or grey on the colour palette. Now I have turquoise...as well as the black and grey.

I could hate on Valentine's Day, but I don't. I think it's harmless, but of course like Christmas, some people like to go overboard about something which should be, if you're in love, a regular occurence. Letting your loved one know how special they are to you (excuse me while I vomit).

But I will hate on the people in relationships that say, 'oh we don't celebrate it, it's just a man-made celebration, you should be romantic every day' or some such bollocks. I bet if you ask them to go somewhere with you on VD (how appropriate) they wouldn't be able to. Go on, try it? Ask someone who says they're not celebrating, and see if they'll go bowling with you, or to the cinema. Trust me, you'll be going by yourself. When you're in a relationship, it don't matter if you're not celebrating it, you can't be with someone else on Valentine's Day. Relationship = Valentine's Lockdown.

Meanwhile, I'll be at home relaxing, happy in the knowledge that unlike most hooked-up people I won't be obliged to spend the evening not celebrating Valentines with my sleeping partner, who already knows how much I love him but wouldn't be at all happy if I decided to spend the evening doing something fun with someone else. And definitely not a male someone else. Even though we already decided we're not celebrating Valentines Day. Hypothetically speaking. Ya dig.

Licensed to be Ill

Been feeling 'crook' (aussie term for being ill learnt from Cell Block H) since yesterday. No fever with the sore throat, so I deduce it is a simple cold. No rest for the wicked, the cupboards are so bare my pickney had to buy a sandwich on road for breakfast. 'Wotless babymother' Suzie Wong would call me. I take Co-Codamol, probably the best painkiller in the world, and use Propolis Throat Spray, bought from the health store, it's good stuff. The painkillers buy me a couple hours to make it to the shops and back to stock up.

I walk to Clapham to blow off the cobwebs, which takes about half an hour from my 'gates'. It's a beautiful, bright, sunny day, and the temperature is mild. There's never a good time to be sick, and this definitely isn't it. It's M's birthday dinner and dance tomorrow night, the backless sequinned dress is making its debut, and I need to get some ideas together for next week as I'm working at the newspaper The Independent. Note to self: stock up on Co-Codamol.

Clapham is bustling, this evening in the bars and restaurants will be a busy one as its Valentine's Weekend. Ugh. If you want a night without the threat of gunshot, 'yardies' congregating like dem deh ah Kingston, and bleachin' big belly women wearing too tight clothing avoid Brixton and spend the night in Clapham. Although if you're black don't bother trying to go to Sand. They don't do more than five blacks at once in there. And that includes the staff.

I look in the window of Esca, probably the best cake shop in the world (one for me and you CC). But remember I have just 24 hours to flatten my rounded stomach before I put on my new dress. I opt for a latte at Cafe Nero, the best coffee shop on the high street, which sells the proper black stuff not that watered down cat's piss served at Starbucks that needs an extra shot.

After Sainsbury's, I stop in at Superdrug to get the painkillers and pick up a body scrub. Superdrug do a Vitamin E enriched body scrub, it's dirt cheap and essential for skin-baring body prep before a night out. You can tell the women who skip this part. Skin come like cheese grater. If money were no object, I'd get the £25 Origins scrub, and have someone big and muscly come massage dat pon me. I digress.

When I read women's magazines I marvel at all the lotions and potions white women are encouraged to use to 'fight the signs of premature aging' (note to sistas: that would be wrinkles). I say white women cos I know they ain't talking to me cos 'black don't crack'. I just have to look at my mum who's never spent as much as £5 on a face cream, to know that I don't have to either, and my black girfriends over thirty with flawless botox-free skin, who use only soap, water, and cocoa butter. So I just read the mags, look at the airbrushed models, and keep my money in my pocket.

The best beauty product, one I've tried to invest in heavily since last year, is beauty sleep. Difficult, as I'm a night owl, and love a rave. But I've done my food shop, the painkillers are wearing off, the pizza's in the oven, and I'm taking my black ass back to bed. I guess being sick has its compensations.

My Thoughts On...

THE GRAMMY'S

1. John Lennon would laugh at Paul McCartney, 'im favour any 'puppy-show'.
2. Why does Fantasia have the same hairstyle as the punky white man she's singing with?
3. Ciara's wearing and a dress, she looks hot, but she can't sing outside the studio.
4. I'm not feeling Joss Stone. The drug-free Janis Joplin schtick is wearing thin. She reminds me of the Princess Fiona giant in Shrek. I think it's the lack of shoes.
5. John Legend's Ordinary People is a brilliant record, but the album is boring as hell.
6. He looks like a younger version of my Dad.
7. I fucking hate the Black Eyed Peas.
8. Fergie is a BOBFOC - Body Off Baywatch Face Off Crimewatch
9. The stage set looks budget.
10. Who is the nigga with the mohican jamming with Aerosmith?
11. He has no neck.
12. Johnny Cash won a Grammy in every decade from the start of his recording career.
13. Tom Hanks is dying his hair.
14. This is kind of boring.
15. I have a sore throat.
16. I digress.
17. Springsteen is dying his hair.
18. Why does Michelle from DC look like she's turned sideways from the front?
19. Her head looks hella big.
20. I thought them bitches had split up now?
21. Beyonce's been on one of her crash diets, she looks runway frail.
22. Kelly looks great. She'd get 10 if she wasn't wearing the Pocahontas weave.
23. Why is that musicians with natural hair only do neo-soul music?
24. How does Jay Z feel watching Kanye?
25. Why is no rap performance complete without girls skinnin' out in pum-pum shorts?
26. Why is Kanye so desperate to win a Grammy?
27. Christina Aguilera can sang (sic) cos you know Herbie Hancock would not be performing with her cracker-ass if she couldn't.
28. The only black woman I've seen so far is Ciara. We are in trouble.
29. Mariah Carey doesn't count.
30. Common looks HOT!
31. IS that John Legend's mum? She looks pushy.
32. I have a lot of time for Elvis Costello. 'Shipbuilding' is a classic.
33. How come I didn't see Kanye collect his Grammy's?
34. I'm vex he's got Pamela Anderson in his new video. Or am I supposed to be?
35. My throat hurts, I'm going to bed.

Another One Bites The Dust

Met up with my friend 'the Analyst' for a drink and a chat. We've known each other since we were teenagers, or thereabouts, and became friends a few years back. He's the type of man that most women would view as 'a catch'. Black, professional male, solvent, drug-free, wears nice shoes. He's really good to talk to, smart, funny in a bitchy way, and good company. I have a bit of a prejudice against these types of men, which is no doubt is contributing to my single status. He's a banker? Yawn. Works in IT? Do me a favour. He's a poet, DJs and is bruk? Coool.

Anyways the Analyst is getting married. Not a bombshell, but I reckon it could've been me. A few years back, we had been going out for dinners, meeting for drinks. But I wasn't sure if he liked me, and wasn't sure if I liked him. He called me close to New Year's Eve to ask if he could tag along with me to the party I was going to. Hmmm, this is quite significant methinks. So the usual preparations begin. I cut the food rations to ensure the corset dress looks good, and on the day of the party, I eat no carbs for optimum flatness of stomach. He picks me up, I'm looking good, he's looking good. We have a few dances, some JD & Cokes, and toast each other with champagne at midnight. It's like a scene out of one of those Black Hollywood movies, for about an hour anyway.

Later that night I see my drinking buddy LB. LB is one of those people who will assist you in drinking yourself stupid, but can hold her drink better than you. We decide to have a shot of Absinthe. Good idea, not. Within half an hour LB was holding back my dreads as I throw up outside the bar trying not to spew on my expensive shoes. The Analyst comes outside to see his formerly hot date crouched down looking more Courtney Love than Courtney Cox. He went to get my coat, but in my sozzled state I couldn't be bothered to wait, so I left. Yes, I left my 'date'. Off I trotted down Brixton's 'frontline' on Coldharbour Lane, in my tight dress and stilettoes to get a cab home. The first cab driver wouldn't take me. I guess he found the 'retching' a bit off-putting. But the second driver gave me a brown paper bag and some tissues, and got me home safely.

As for The Analyst, he started seeing his new girlfriend shortly after that episode. His loss.

The Prodigal Daughter

Babygirl's birthday weekend all went really nicely. I had my 'beefs' with the family early in the week, so it gave time for the air to be cleared by the time we met on Sunday. No social occasion can pass without some kind of outburst about arrangements. However, as I pondered why I allow my family to wind me up so much, I realised that now I no longer smoke (2.5 months) I don't have nicotine to dull the senses, or to puff away my frustrations, so all emotional traumas are felt at full velocity. And it takes some getting used to. But add to that the combination of no job, no sex, and PMS, and you have a recipe for one very irritable individual.

Father of Clarke, was late to collect us on Friday to take us to dinner for her birthday. His girlfriend was late back with the car and hadn't phoned until it was too late to warn him she would be either. Hmmm. Trouble in paradise? We had a really nice time taking our daughter out. It's the first time we've done anything like this for her birthday, as she usually has parties, and for a couple of years things weren't that great between us so I don't think either of us would have wanted to break bread. But we worked through it, and now have a great relationship as Clarke's parents. He has been very supportive while I've been going through the purple patch, picking up the slack where needed (financially people), and basically making sure that Clarke's needs are met. More often than not Dad's are getting a kicking for being absent fathers, but there are many men who are real positive influences in their children's lives, and are more than present for them. Big up your chest, you know who you are.

On Sunday it was the family's turn, mum, sis, lil' bro, Godmother Shazby, and Baby Mimi. Tootsies is a place we've been eating at since we were teenagers and now we're taking our kids there. Going to a restaurant with my mum reminds me of the TV programme The Real McCoy (one of the best comedy shows on TV). They had a sketch where a West-Indian woman and her daughter would go to a restaurant, and pull out plates and cutlery from their shopping trolley. Mum is scanning the restaurant checking the surfaces for dirt, and the plates for cleanliness. Don't ever make the mistake of buying her something from a West Indian take-away, if it's fish you can bet money she will taste it and say: "Dem never clean de fish properly."

Sometimes it feels like more effort than it's worth trying to get the family together. But when you do it, Clarke's happy, everyone's happy she's happy, and we have a great time. So why don't we do it more often?

Yo' Mama!

One thing that really winds me up, is overfamiliar men. The 'whappen baby', or 'darlin'' I can handle, but when they start talking about body parts, or what they'd like to do to me, it's at that moment I wish I had a mallet to mash their bloody heads in. An extreme reaction you might think, but they are violating me in a way which is so accepted in our society, and there is very little you can do about. Too many fires to put out.

Now Mini-Butterfly is coming of age, she notices all the looks, and the comments which fly forth from the loose-lipped laggards (great word which should be used more often) and often tries to counter them with her own specially cultivated 'death stare'. Suzie Wong's son's strategy is to put his arm around his mum. He's 12, but is the same height as her, so apart from the fact that she looks like she's cradle snatching, I'd say that strategy is working for them. Otherwise I find the odd tongue lashing will suffice.

I was in Brixton Market picking up some peppers and 'ard food for my soup, when one of the stallholders says: "Hello, sexy."
*Kisses teet'* 'Please don't talk to me like that, you don't know me from nowhere, and I don't like it.'
The man keeps on looking in my face with a weird lopsided grin and big starey eyes.
'Are you on some sort of drugs?'
'Why you say that'.
'Cos your acting funny'.
He says: 'Your face look funny.'
I say: 'Your mum's face looks funny.'

At which point he decided he didn't want to serve me anymore. Funny that.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY BABYGIRL!!!

My daughter is 12 today. TWELVE! Oy vey! I dunno what that means but its sounds appropriate. Wow, it seems like only yesterday when we were celebrating her first birthday with a homemade chocolate cake decorated with black jelly babies made by my own not-so-fair hand.

With cash being scarce, I have forgone the £300 birthday party, but Father dearest has bought the PSP, and is taking us to a Thai restaurant. Although, as of 8.03am this morning, he has yet to book a table. I bought the perspex name necklace from Tatty Devine, although since I bought it, she has been saying how much she wants it in white. I bought red. Oops. I also bought her a ceramic pig painting set. I knew she would like it. You know kids, anything that can make mess.

She's really on the cusp of change, but despite the budding of adolescence, still likes her hugs and kisses from Mummy, and hates the fact that I no longer make her breakfast every morning. So getting up to make it this morning, at around 6.30am (why?!?) was a bit of a treat for her. Then she cuddled up in my bed for a bit, until 7.35 when she left to get the 7.49 train. She takes after her Dad in that respect in that she likes to be up early so that she can take her time getting ready. The only time I ever get up at 6.00am is if I'm flying. She gets up at that time every day, without any help from me.

She always looks neat and tidy for school, and harasses me to make sure her uniform is washed. Again, takes after her Dad. My mum always told me off for my scruffiness, and hated it when I came home in my P.E. kit, so I would change quickly at the front door. I loved wearing my shorts, and my pleated P.E. skirt, 24 inch waist, the shortest length. Although when I was her age, I was washing and ironing my uniform myself, shirts, skirt, socks, everything. Sometimes we had to dry the skirt in front of the gas heater, and mine got burnt. My mum patched the hole on the outside. No meaning. And I had to continue wearing it for the rest of the year. Great.

The birthday celebrations continue on Sunday when we'll meet the family for Sunday lunch at Tootsies in Holland Park, the posh burger place with milkshakes to die for. Guess the diet has to go on hold from tonight. Woo-hoooo!

Fifty Cent Not Fifty Pence

My friend, let's call him Fiddy Pound, has demanded I post. Inspiration has been lacking as the hunt for the elusive first post-study job intensifies. But I managed to squeeze something out, purely in the hope that this will gain me brownie points, and that I might get some from him. One day.

Weird shit happens to me, and I don't even have to leave my house for it to occur. Last week I popped into this chat room, which is frequented by a couple of my girlfriends. One has met her current beau there, I dunno if he's a proper boyfriend, but they spent her birthday together so I would say that kinda means something. Maybe. The other has met a couple of people she chats to on a 'regs'. Me? I've met no one. Well until last week.

So I'm lurking in the chat room watching youngsters with names like ‘Sexy Bisexual Gyal’, and ‘Pum Pum Pleazer’ chat rubbish. All attempts to start meaningful conversation are thwarted by men talking about their latest sexual conquest and girl’s checking to see who ‘da buff manz in da room’ are.

I get a PM (private message) from 'bigboylondon'. Lawd ah mercy. Usually in these chat rooms people ask A/S/L = age, sex, location for the uninitiated, I usually say old enough, female from London. So we have a conversation, and continue chatting on MSN where I get to see a very small picture of him, he looks okay, but you can’t really tell from a postage stamp sized pic. He sees one of me. The one of my feet. He asks to see another, so I show him one of my face.

And then he says can he send another pic to my phone. Within a minute I receive a picture of this barechested black man flexing his big barrel chest for the cameraphone. I don’t know him but I am embarrassed for him. Because homeboy’s chest is not his best feature. Fiddy kinda fucked it up for the manz dem. If you is trying to show off your chest, it’s best you have the 50 Cent Made in Attica ‘ripped to fuck jail-body’. No six-pack, no bare-chest shots. Cover the fuck up. I mean, I wouldn’t send no man a picture of myself topless because we’re not talking melons in the front, more like Outspan ‘small one’s are more juicy’ oranges. I might send one of the booty, but I would struggle to get it to fit in the frame.

I digress.

Anyways we continue conversatin' (as some Americans say. Surely that is not a real word, is that Ebonics CC?), and Barrel Chest reveals a few more details about himself. Wake me up if I fall asleep while relating this scintillating list. He works for the railways, long 12-14 hour days, leads a very boring life (his words), does nothing (g'head, sell yourself), spends weekends with his two-year old son, oh, and shares a house with his babymother. But the relationship is sooo over. Oh yes he did say that.

It’s not like he needed to give me any more ammunition to blank his dry sounding ass, but instantly I could hear sirens wailing and see fluorescent signs flashing ‘timewaster’, ‘loserrr’, and ‘player’.

Now what was I supposed to say to that? ‘Oh okay, so you too are finished but you live in the same house. That’s soooo cool'. Now I love situations like this, because once someone reveals some shit which means there is no way in hell I would EVER consider going on a date, kissing or fucking them, I will ask the nosiest questions.

Butterfly Jones: ‘Nigga, why the fuck are you still living with your babymother?’
Barrel Chest: ‘Because I want to be there for my son. The boys need their fathers.’
BJ: ‘So why can’t you be present, but just not keep up a pretence for your son’s sake which is a bunch of bollocks?’
BC: ‘Because he’s a handful, and she can’t manage him.’
BJ: ‘So this grown woman can't manage a two-year old?
BC: 'No'.
BJ: 'So your son knows that he can’t get away with stuff with you, but he can take the piss with his Mum, and he’s two?
BC: ‘I try to tell her she needs to be firmer, but she can’t manage him.'
BJ: ‘So she knows that as long as she acts as if she’s wotless with the pickney, you’ll stick around?’
BC: ‘I’ve thought about it, and talked about this with my friends...’
BJ: ‘So who ended the relationship, you or her? (no prizes for guessing)
BC: ‘Me’.
BJ: 'So do you think if you wanted to get back together, she’d want you back?’
BC. ‘Yes’. (If he was smart he would say no to that question. But he obviously isn't).

Your honour the prosecution rests.

He asked me out for a drink. I couldn’t even be bothered to respond. I mean, that’s just some fucked up mess that I’d rather not get in the middle of. I don't even want to talk to that in case some bad karma shit floats my way. I mean, there's nothing wrong with having a good relationship with the ex, like I said to BC, I get on well with my daughter’s father, but not that fucking well! The only question I forgot to ask him was: ‘Does she throw you the pum-pum now and then for old times sake?’ Like we don't know the answer to that question. NIGGA PLEASE!

Open For Bidnizz

For Kate and anyone interested my ebay seller ID is duttyrock69. Bid high, bid high!

"Change Clothes, Change Clothes"

Oh the pain. Boy how it hurts me inside. I've been selling my things on ebay. The whole process has made me realise that once you've bought them, clothes and shoes are essentially worthless, but it's the purchase that gives you the pleasure, and then the experiences you have while wearing them.

Take my pink babydoll sequinned dress. Bought half-price from TopShop on Christmas Eve. A perfect frothy, Christmas confection, which took me to many a do feeling flirty and fabulous. Then paired with jeans I wore it to see Chris Rock in Reno when I went on a snowboarding holiday to Lake Tahoe. He did that 'keeping your daughter off the pole' routine Zed. I kept falling asleep during the show because I wasn't dying laughing, and I was dead from the waist down after a day on the slopes. Me, Martha Daley, The Warrior Princess, Princess Chung, and Dee took a picture in the mirror. The memory forever frozen in time, I'll never forget that dress. But it's time was done. I got almost half the price back on ebay.

Then there was the J-Lo dress. One of those daring dresses, open from chest to navel and held together by elasticated braid at the bustline and just above the navel. No bra could be worn. Gunmetal grey chiffon, it was sexy, and floaty and was in all the magazines when it came out. One day I walked into TopShop looking for that dress, and it practically flew into my hand, and it was on sale. *sings* "We belong togetherrrrr". I wore it to a party with The Bobo Dread when I came back from a holiday in Jamaica. His words: "It's a bit revealing." Not really what I wanted to hear. Got a bit of attention at the party, a guy got familiar, grabbed my arm, it caused an argument. I was rum sodden and emotional, I cried. Didn't wear it again while we were together. Sold it to a woman in Spain, and got more than I paid for it. Result.

The purple empire line floaty chiffon dress. It was cut really low in the front and was the only dress I've ever had that made me look busty. Bought it in H&M (remember Ud), the cute 20 something sales guy gave me a discount. Don't you just love when that happens? Wore it New Years Day to a rave. I danced with a friend, then another guy I know asked me to dance. He'd had a 'thing' with one of my girl's which ended badly. I had told him before it even started, knowing the type of guy that he is, 'don't fuck with my girl'. But of course he did. I said no to the dance. He got vex and then started some he say, she say shit. Don't tell me men can't be bitches. Got a third of the money back on that. The seams were badly stitched, it didn't lay flat and made me look hippy so despite feeling like a busty chick I hardly wore it.

I was really quite sad to see my Prada stilettoes go. I kinda regret that, I should have kept them, because they are so classic, and I wasn't wearing them, they would actually have held value. But comme ci, comme ca, so it go. Those shoes were banging. I bought them just before the pointy shoe trend went mainstream. I was looking for pointy stils after seeing some on this girl I used to go aerobics with. Her's were Prada. She used to be a buyer at Selfridges and had a discount card, and said I should come and have a look around. I was not trying to buy Prada shoes back then, so looked at all the usual suspects, Faith, Shelly's etc. But none of them had black stilettoes that looked...how I wanted them to look.

I was looking forward to getting paid so I could go to Selfridges. The night before payday I went out with my workmates at the FT, and got hideously drunk. I came through the door, Clarke's dad was baby-sitting, I just went upstairs and flopped on the bed, head spinning. Clarke climbed on the bed next to me, recoiled and said: "Mummy! You stink of alcohol." Err. Busted.

I was off work the next day, and was taking Clarke to the Millenium Dome (let's go back, way back, back in time). As I walked down the road with my then six year-old daughter, she piped up, "Mummy, where's your car?". In my hungover state, I looked back, and saw it wasn't there. I could've sworn I left it right there. I went to ask my all-seeing neighbour Alex. "Sorry Donna, they towed it yesterday, I tried to stop them." Towed from outside my front door. Parking permit 10 days out of date, no reminder sent. Lambeth fucking Parking. ARRRRGGGHH! I've not been dumped, but can imagine it feels something like how I felt that day. Gutted doesn't cover it. It cost me £150. I'm not ashamed to say I cried at the injustice of it all. I was supposed to be going to Selfridges the next day.

I still went to Selfridges the next day.

I paid £130 for those shoes, and stayed in for the rest of the month. I loved those shoes. Those shoes taught me about toe cleaveage. When the shoe is cut low in the front to reveal the top of your toes. It's old school sexy. Unfortunately for me and my wallet, I bought the wrong size. Not having worn those type of shoes before, I didn't realise I should have gone up a size. What felt good in the shop was like walking on glass outside. I took them to the shoemenders to have them stretched. Wore them in the house....and out a couple of times. Then just to restaurants, or places where I knew I would be sitting down. I got a third of the money back.

When you sell stuff on ebay, it's kinda the same principle as if you're buying things from a teef (thief). A good deal is a third of the price. If you make more, it's all good. Not that I buy tings from teefs. Anymore. Well not if it's not in a box. I'm joking.

Well the buyer got the box, the shoes and the Prada shoebag. I kept one. I know she was happy with them. Strangely that makes me feel good to know that people are happy with my old stuff. I suppose I'm like those stupid women who love their dogs. If you have to sell the puppies, you just want to know that they've gone to a good home.

A Mini Adventure

As hard as I try to look cute while riding my circa 1980 something racer, I usually fail. It is winter, which of course involves a certain amount of layering. Check. A hat. Check. Or the dreaded Klingon style helmet. Check. Sometimes. Today, I thought it was a good idea to wear a black mod style short skirt. I wouldn't call it a mini, with leggings underneath. And for those of you who haven't heard, yes they are back. And no I am not wearing them because Mossy is, I've been wearing leggings for the last few years. (I realise how up my own arse I sound but how else can I put it). I borrowed Clarke's bronze ballet pumps, added a black polo neck, and started feeling all Edie Sedgwick (Andy Warhol's muse). Yeah, I'm workin' it. Where was I going? The Post Office. Ebay ting ticking over nicely. So I'm a cheap date, sue me.

So I get on the bike and start flying down the road. Unfortunately the skirt starts disappearing underneath my short wool reefer jacket. WTF?!? Too late to turn back now. I thank God it's not summer, and that I'm wearing the fashionable leggings because all I can see when I look down is the top of my thighs. The very top. Lord knows what the oncoming traffic can see. Even on this short journey to the post office, it's clear I've misjudged the temperature. Outside is 'chappin' (thanks lil bruv) and my feet are fucking cold. But hey I look cute. Well I would do if I didn't have this Mekon helmet head on.

The same thing happened last week when I wore my wrap dress while riding the bike. It flew up about my crutches exposing the gusset of my purple tights. No holes this time thankfully. Phew. Talk about living dangerously. Tres embarassment, and the red on my cheeks wasn't just from the bronzer I'd slapped on, but I just tried to firm it and didn't look anyone in the eye as I cycled past them with my skirt missing from my lapfront. And no I'm not desperate for male attention. Well not consciously anyway.

Usually I wear my trousers secured with the lovely reflective cycle clips, but let's face it, I look like a proper 'neek' as Clarke would say. 'Neek' is the new 'geek'. Don't get me started on 'guts', 'brap', or 'drawback', the other words she's so fond of using. Don't have children, because while they're around, there's no way you can be young or trendy. As they are younger and trendier than you'll ever be. I took her shopping for jeans yesterday. We went to the Gyap (wicked sales). I have to buy her women's jeans, and they must be skinny jeans. I FUCKING WANT SKINNY JEANS! But my thighs need fat jeans. The thighs have it. If I was a size 8, I could borrow hers. But then you might not be able to see me if I turned sideways. I would look ILL as a size 8. And I don't mean ill like Americans mean ill. I mean sick. And not sick like British yout's mean sick. I mean wack. Oh, you know what I bloody mean! Although most women think they look GREAT as a size 8. I beg to differ. Note to the skinny bitches: thighs are meant to be bigger than your calves.

I was freaked out watching Clarke trying on these women's jeans. She didn't fill them out, as she didn't want them drainpipe tight. Just indie girl slim. It is just the weirdest thing seeing your child's body changing and maturing. I mean, I can't shop in children's sections anymore, and she turns 12 next month. TWELVE!!! *faints*. She's wearing women's clothes, and women's shoes. She can't even vote, but I have to pay adult prices for most of her wardrobe. There's more I'd like to say but that would be too weird. But let's just say, we're discussing strategy in the event of the impending arrival of the onset of 'Aunt Flo' while at school. The strategy is: BLOODY CALL ME! (Maybe shouldn't have used bloody there for emphasis).

So here's me trying to master looking all cute and girlish on my bike still, and my child's growing up and going through puberty. Maybe it's a form of denial. I'm trying to stay young and defy my years, while she's gaining maturity and can't wait to be older. Boy, if I knew at her age what I know now, I would stay in knee highs and cutdowns for the next ten years. All that teenage shit is painful, and comes at the wrong time to fuck with you just when you need to be concentrating on your schoolbook. With me, it wasn't men, it was the music. We fell in love, and me school were done. And with the rate she's buying CDs, and making tunes using Garageband on the mac, I fear she may go the same way. But I have been indoctrinating her since birth about going to University. Not too worried about teen pregnancy as she has assured me she is not feeling childbirth, or the pain that comes with it. Plus thank god for scientific progress, there are those contraceptive, I mean vitamin injections she'll soon need. I digress.

But I do love my bike, and looking cute on it, and realise that maybe safety and modesty need to come first. Because crashing and burning while wearing a mini-skirt that's already hitched up round my waist is so not a good look.

Loving The Alien

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The Drink Don't Work

Made the journey into Sodom and Gomorrah aka the West End on Saturday night for hangthedjs birthday drinks. As I tottered up the sleazy Tottenham Court Road, past the disgusting looking 'food' joints (kebab anyone), trainer shops and Ann Summers, I felt like turning back to go home and watch Celebrity Big Brother. My protestations of 'I'm not watching it' lasted all of ten minutes, until I saw MP George Galloway, the firebrand politician going in the house! After that, I knew I would be glued. Galloway, Dennis Rodman, Jodie 'why don't they love my untalented ass' Marsh and Michael Barrymore, this is shaping up to be car crash TV of the highest order. Galloway will be lucky to have a constituency to go back to.

Anyways it was cool to catch up with H and my other uni pals for a proper drink and a chat. However, I fear my new non-smoking stance has alienated me somewhat from the drinking experience. Or maybe it's just that smoking and drinking just go together so well, that it will take some getting used to. To make matters worse, I'd forgotten to wear my nicotine patch, and was fighting cravings every ten minutes after the first couple of drinks. But I was careful not to drink with complete abandon, I just had a very expensive Cosmopolitan (double of course) a few white wine spritzers, and then shared a bottle of white wine....Thankfully, I resisted the fag urge, and made the most of the dancefloor, politely shooing off the keen Asian boys and some other randy types trying to do the bump and grind with me. But did pass the time of day with handsome twenty-something Ghanaian Mani who complimented me on my locks. Mmmm.

I dislike West End bars and clubs because they're full of kids who think because they're wearing name-brand clothes, hair extensions and have a fake bag from New York, that they're the shit. Plus, the few black guys you see there ain't looking black women. And neither are the white men. It's cool for someone's birthday, but if it's my choice I'd rather go somewhere where niggas don't be looking through you like glass. Cos let's face it, if there's no chance of a little eye contact and a flirt, what's the point in going out?

Another thing I dislike is the 'women in the toilet' gig that most West End clubs have going on. As a black person I find it quite embarassing to see a black woman (never seen a white one yet) handing people tissues and soap for a tip. You can take pride in any work that you do, but I hate that this niche has somehow been created. And its only black people filling it. Not to mention that some of the women are damn rude. Once I left a woman a 50p tip, all she had done was hand me the tissue which she was guarding with her life, and she said to me, "is that all?". Who told her to say that. I picked up my 50p and said "that enough for you now".

But one night last month my principles had to take a back seat. At M's Christmas Ball the bar was hot, air con was not working properly, my deodorant was failing as my armpits went into perspiration overdrive. Not exactly the elegant look I was going for. I've never been happier to see the woman in the toilet that night and paid a £1 (buck and a half) for two squirts of deodorant. But soap and water could've stemmed the tide if need be.

The night flew by in a blur of post-uni catch up, dancing and drinking and ended abruptly when Cardiff Rob called Jamie a cunt, which kicked off a bit of limp-wristed punch-up which got them both thrown out. I went outside to see wha' gwaan. They were over it and had decided to go drinking in Holloway Road. At least neither of them had gone to their car to get a bucky (gun). If only all disputes could be resolved in this way. Over a civilised drink. Maybe the drink does work after all.

All That Shaking is Booty

So 'Big Lez' aka Queen Latifah got a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Wow. Who would've guessed that the girl I located condoms for, so she could fuck this fine-ass boy from Ladbroke Grove would've made it in the movies. Rumours of lesbianism aside, I've got to give her props because she cracked that beautiful, tall, blue-eyed nigga from Grove I'd been trying to hit for at least a year. But then, we were all suckers for a US accent back in the 90s. Until it reached saturation point. Personally, I love a Jamaican accent (one I can understand and not too Ricky Trooperish) but please go easy on the bullshit.

I ain't hating on La-ti-fah, but she seems to have cornered the market in butch mammy coon type roles which don't enrich or entertain without embarrassment. I watched that film she did with Steve Martin with my mouth open most of the time. 'Oh no she didn't?' 'Oh no he didn't?' But as the first rapper to get a star, I guess that's something to applaud. What? Will Smith ain't get one? The man is box office gold. Ice Cube? Never. Not while he's still remembered for Fuck Da Police, nevermind the torrent of shit films he's made in an attempt to erase all memories that he was ever a part of NWA. Has anyone seen Are We There Yet? (Nia Long come home). That nigga hasn't made a good film since Higher Learning in 1995. Did 'Ho'yonce get one yet? They probably waiting on the stripper pole to erect beside it.

Has anyone seen her new vide-ho. I'm glad she's dropping the church girl pretensions. I love me some Be, but she is getting a bit skanky and overdoing it now. Are you in the music industry or the ho industry? Cos all that's missing from her new vid is some singles tucked into her waistband as she pops and shakes her jelly like a trick on crack. Jiggling her booty like she itching for some rock and shit.

I know it's just entertainment, but what about the kids man? The Kidssss! Why does the dancing have to be so sexual, and its the youngsters that watch it and go there and try to drop it like it hot. Enough of the hoochie mama ting Beyonce, try writing and singing a decent song. Me and Clarke watched the documentary Rize a film about the 'clowning' and krumping' style of dancing that originated in LA. A fantastic doc, which showed lots of talented dancers of all ages doing what they called 'the stripper dance'. I don't need to describe it really do I? Now, a six-year old may not understand why the dance is called that, but one would hope that their parent would. Then again, they parent probably is a stripper.

I guess this is where me and the youth of today part company. I don't think it's okay for my daughter to be doing a dance called The Stripper Dance. I don't care if it's what all the kids are doing these days or that it's keeping her off the streets, go read your schoolbook! At Clarke's primary school BBQs the kid's would be 'kinning out (whining) to the popular dancehall tune of the year, but one Mummy look from me let her know she shouldn't follow suit. There be other ways to dance. How she loves my old school dance moves.

It's alright for Ho'yonce, she rides in a limo, and private jets. But these over-sexualised looking teenagers and pre-teens are on road, in their over-tight clothing, shaking their jellies when they walk, attracting the attention of men old enough to be their fathers, or worse, paedophiles. I still can't actually believe that two children have been abducted from their homes in the last week and raped. One was taken while she was in the bath. Ok, I know it's not Be's fault the world is full of crazies, but it's the music industry, the film industry, and society are constantly pushing sex down everyone's throats (no pun intended), so people think they should be doing it, getting it, or taking it, all the time. Including the kids, and the crazies.

Maybe I'm old-fashioned, but I think kids should be kids for as long as possible. I look forward to seeing what bodypart Beyonce will be popping when she's a mother. Let's just hope it's the breast.

We Don't Need A Resolution

I've been trying to lose the same two stone for the last five years. I ain't gonna stop trying, but resolutions just beg to be broken don't they? So this year I'ma hedge my bets (see - make it easier for myself), and resolve to just be 'more consistent'. In everything. Exercising, eating healthier, pitching ideas, making contacts, looking fly, buying hot shoes, meeting fine brothers (shall work espesh hard on this one) and making cash baby.

It's kinda vague, and not goal orientated, but rather more attitude adjusting. Rather it's something to aim for because you can always become more consistent at anything. For instance, I will be consistent in checking a bitch if she tries to step to me at the club. No turning a blind eye to bitchy comments fearing gunshot wounds or even worse a torn dress. I will WHOOP DAT TRICK' if she steps out of line. Further, I will be consistent in cursing men old enough to be my father who tell me in front of my daughter how much they like my shape, making sure the words 'cats', 'chance' 'in hell' 'Grandad' figure in the cussing out. I'll also be consistent in telling my daughter that I was not created for the purpose of picking her 'baggy' dem off the bathroom floor, and if I should see said knickers I will consistently pack them into her school bag so that she can share them with her schoolfriends in double Maths.

As you can see it's a resolution with infinite possibilities for success. I mean its not like you're gonna be consistent in all areas at the same time, consistency will be staggered and achieved in different areas at different times, which means the possibilities for achievement are numerous, and can occur hourly, daily, weekly or even monthly.

Fuck goal setting - that's just way too stressful and control freakish and leads to a constant feeling of failure when you don't achieve them. Consistency in the pursuit of a better overall quality of life is the way to go. For me that is.

Bon Annee!

Love you people.

BJ

F*ck Santa

Thank God it's over. Christmas that is. I'm not a big fan of the enforced jollility (is that a word), and being cooped up with the fam for more than two hours is often a recipe for argie-bargie. Too many Arians in the place (me, mum and sis). I invited everyone over, including cantankerous Dad, and did the cooking. It was okay, but I kinda missed my mum's food. I watched Dances With Wolves, the big film on Channel 5. Well I'd never seen it before, and as it was three hours long, felt that it would keep me out of harm's way as I tend to be at the centre of the rows. It worked. The day passed without incident, and we all kissed goodbye happily when everyone left.

I got Clarkie two presents. Yes, two. I am officially a bitch without money. Thank God my child is humble. Some Vans checkerboard skate shoes, and a Simpsons DVD. She loved them both, and the other 14 pairs of trainers in her wardrobe won't get a look in now. Her Dad came over to open presents with her before he went to work, showering her with lots of cool gifts, and also gave me one, a sweatshirt made by his designer friend Andrew Ibi which I love. If I didn't know better I'd swear that man was trying to get back into my...good books. But he's all loved up, so I guess not. Am so trying hard to remember why I finished with him...

The only thing I know she didn't get but would have wanted (besides a PSP which she's knows I ain't buying) was a brand new all-singing all-dancing mobile, but not even having more money would have made me buy it. It will only make her a target for crime. Muggings of schoolkids are rife as de pickney dem too bad mind inna London. She was happy with the recycled 3G one she got from her Dad. I received two texts from her today while she was out with Dad. "In the flicks, see you Saturday, love Clarke x", and "We are out of the cinema love lots x". Bless.

Christmas holds bittersweet memories for me. Mainly because I remember the ones spent with my brother's father. Not exactly the life and soul of the party shall we say. When I was nine my Dad went to Jamaica to work (I know, who does that). In the four years he was there, he never sent my mum any money, just some records (quite a few by Lou Rawls) to which her response was: "What 'im tink we fe do, eat de record dem?". By the time he came back my mum had a new man. Dad never fails to mention how heartbroken he was by this. Conveniently failing to mention the woman with four kids he was shacked up with.

Strangely, mum's new man was the brother of my best friend at primary school, which I discovered, early journalistic instincts kicking in, when I questioned him one morning as he lay in my mother's bed. I discovered they shared the same surname. For some reason, my friendship with her faltered soon after, as her family didn't think my mum was good enough for him, and discouraged our friendship. "What a facking liberty!" (copyright comedienne Catherine Tate, buy the DVD). My brother's father was not big on the whole Xmas vibe. I recall one particular Xmas when he ate dinner in his pyjamas. I recognise now that he was probably hung over from spending Christmas Eve in a shubeen, but still that's no excuse. The man was misery incarnate most of the time, and Christmas was no exception.

I liked the Christmases I spent at my Grandma's until she moved to Florida when I was 11. She lived in a house in north-west London, and had a colour TV in a cabinet. You had to slide back the front of the cabinet to turn on the TV. The room was filled with cabinets and ornaments. Hundreds of them. And she had a collection of Beatles albums, and reggae 45s, the one by Tapazuki sticks in my mind. I would stay up all night watching Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire musicals with her. Then go to sleep in her big round bed.

One year she gave me a Sindy ballet doll and a skateboard. Sindy was the bastard sister of Barbie, but as I wasn't really into dolls big-time I didn't care. She nicknamed the doll 'Spooks'. By the end of the night Spooks had no tights, was missing an arm, and I had taken off the head. Like I said, I wasn't really into dolls.

We would all sit round Grandma's big table which filled the whole room, dressed up in our Christmas clothes, hair did in some terrible 'only to be seen at Christmas' hair-don't, wearing black shiny patent shoes (I always remember the shoes). The table was filled from top to bottom, and we ate until we were stuffed like the big-ass turkey she'd cooked. My Gran would drive us home in her grey Vauxhall Viva. She wore leather driving gloves, and some driving shoes which she would put on in the car. And would always wipe the windscreen with her chamois leather. My gran, she's in her 70s now, is so cool, but boy was she cantankerous, yet somehow she always made the magic of Christmas happen.

It's Murder On The Dancefloor

Five days of intensive gym training led me to believe that I looked great in my floor length floaty chiffon, halternecked beaded under the bustline print dress from Ms Selfridge (forget ToSho it will be the store for 2006). A million bucks in fact. I turned up at the Etiquette Christmas 'Ball' unescorted, as my friends had gone elsewhere ( I was joining them later) and spent a couple of hours wafting as elegantly as I could on my spindly heeled Karen Millen sandals. I don't think the shoes were designed to be worn by heffers as they have an unstable heel. But hey, they look fucking good. The trick is to walk slowly - unfortunately it means you look like you think you're 'too' nice. Not a problem for me though.

It's taken me two months to get my ass back in the gym, and even then I had to be nagged and given a free gym pass as I no longer have a membership. M has been my coach for the last two weeks, as I attempted to make myself look halfway decent in time for his ball last Saturday.

When I don't exercise, I feel fat. Whereas when I do exercise, I'm still the same size, but feel slim. Does that make sense? Anyways, on my first day back at the gym, I decide to run for 30 minutes, just to see if I can. And I do. And it was, dare I say it, easy. Even after two months of hanging on the sofa eating all manner of things that would be rejected by anorexics and bulimics. I guess that's what happens when you don't smoke.

This is my fourth week as a ex-smoker, and I've finished attending my smoker's clinic (Obi - how are you doing? *raises eyebrow*). Patches are definitely the way to go. I have six more weeks of them, and that's it. It was funny giving up the evil nicotine. The first week I was depressed. By the second, I was missing me 'old mucker' (friend), the cigarette. It was like it was a real person who had blown me out just when I needed them most (and do I know what that feels like). By week three I was starting to feel like a born again human, real live clothes had replaced the pyjamas and long cardigan I was schlepping around in, and I felt able to venture outside. No wonder people stay addicted to crack, the withdrawals must be a motherfucker.

Now that I don't smoke, I feel more elegant, and...clean. Cos lordy, the first thing you notice when you've stopped smoking is the stench from those that do. It's like I'm a blind person and my sense of smell is compensating for the absence of vision. Having long dreads means anytime I'm out, in a bar, pub or club, by the time I get home, I smell like I've been bathing in ash. To think I smelt like that for 17 years. Boy I was one deluded bitch.

I left the ball after 2am and got a cab to Pikeytown aka Croydon to meet the girls at DJ TLC's birthday bashment. I had an Absolut Kurrant vodka tonic, to which TLC added pink champagne, and then someone sloshed in some brandy. New found demi-sobriety meant I threw half into a potted plant near the dancefloor. After I slurped what was left I knew I couldn't drink anymore on top of the champagne cocktails and V&Ts I'd had at the ball, so just drank water. Can't do high heels and drunkeness anymore.

A couple of guys tried to 'pull' me for a dance, but I weren't up for it. I don't care if it's Christmas, so I politely turned them down. It can be done you know. Then there was the guy who sent his friend to ask me out for dinner. Although he looked like a man he could have been an hermaphrodite, because he definitely lacked balls. And people have the cheek to ask me why I'm single.

M and I had planned to check out the broken beat/future jazz night Co-op the next day. However, the fact that I got in at 6am proved to be too much to overcome. It's official, I can't do two party nights in a row anymore. All day I was busted. I lay on the sofa and drifted in and out of sleep. I bought Sunday dinner, but was too knackered to cook it. Clarke said she was happy with the leftovers from the big pot of chicken I cooked on Friday. God that sounds absolutely terrible.

I could've pushed myself to go, but I would've needed some legal drugs to get me out the door, and I was out of coffee. I guess my years of being first on the dancefloor and last to leave may be about to draw to a dignified close.

Yeah right.

Grudge Dread

Some people say I like to hold a grudge. And you know what, I'ma have to agree with them. In the last week, I've seen two women that I used to go secondary school with. One of whom I had a fight with, and another who was a sheep and sided with the girls in my year who ganged up on me and my best friend. I saw one in the street, and I know she saw me. I had to laugh because she looked busted. Ok, not everyone goes out dressed to the nines, but you know somedays you ain't looking hot and you pray that you don't see peeps you know? That's how she looked. Meanwhile I was rocking my casual 'indie' look, reefer style navy wool jacket, striped pink and black Fred Perry scarf, and jeans, on my racer, looking lo-key f-ly. Got you bitch.

To this day, trust me, I would NEVER, speak to any of them bitches. The other, I saw at another friend's christening party recently. Ditto that. Me just look pon her. Why? Because these girls were part of a gang of girls at our school who bullied me and my best friend.

Bear in mind, all the drama happened about 20 years ago. But when I was hanging with my best friend and baby Mimi today, both of us all grown up and shit, we both realised that even now, we never talk to any of these people if we see them. The people that bullied us, the one's that egged them on, or the ones that just stayed silent in the background while we were being physically or verbally abused on a daily basis for a whole year of school.

Now, you may all know by now, that I'm no pushover. But we were up against practically a whole year of 15 year olds, some 14 year olds and they older sisters who jumped in now and then too. The whole thing was sparked by a feisty comment, surprisingly not made by me. But by my best friend. She said to the main bully while we were doing a trampolining lesson: "Move, 'Bully' you stink." It was typical of the throwaway disses we bandied around at that time. Like saying 'shut up you tramp'. Except this girl took offence, probably because she really did stink.

A whole crew of them followed us to my house, to beat up my friend. Now my best friend was the most bookish person you could meet. She'd only ever had little foolish fights with me, not full on ones with the school bully. I told that girl: "If you want to fight, let's go to your house and do it, cos we ain't fighting outside mine." There was a whole massive of them, the dummies looked at each other, and then said how I shouldn't be sticking up for her because she was African?!? (err she's Nigerian). The 'stink' girl wasn't even Caribbean, she was fucking African too, but was Ja-fakin' it. No. Meaning. Dem gyal was eediot, you think that was gonna make me abandon my friend?

Admittedly, when I first met my best friend, she had a threaded African hairstyle, so I used to call her Spiderwoman. She spoke RP English, unlike me, and knew the answers to all the questions. So I didn't like her. But not because she was African, but because she was smarter than me. But by the second year of school, I bagged a desk next to her, and we became friends. If you've ever read the book The Friends by Rosa Guy, that is me, and my best friend's story in print. Fictionalised of course. She was the good girl, and I was the rebel. Teachers used to warn her about being friends with me. I was a 'distraction', and she should 'choose her friends carefully'. But she never listened to them.

Our friendship was too strong for any such nonsense to come between us. I fought them bitches toe-to-toe, for her and for me, so allow me my little digs at them. They tried and failed to come between something that they knew they could never have. True friendship. I didn't need people like that in my life then, so why would I need to speak to them now? If that's holding a grudge, guilty as charged motherfuckers.

As I sat with my best friend today, after changing my goddaughter's pooey nappy, chewing the fat, and watching the last episode of a cheesy show we're both addicted to (Our New Life in Everwood - 1st series on ITV) I thanked God we came through those tough times together, and that 25 years since we first met, just like old times, as my girl CC, I mean Jill Scott sang (on Beautifully Human), 'I'm Still Here'.

In The Company of Men

Usually my weekend shenanigans (now there's an underused word) involve me and Suzy Wong. But my girl's all blew me out for one reason or another, so I was rolling with my boy M.

I was celebrating on Friday night. No. Not just because it was Friday. But because I finally got the results of my masters. I PASSED. I GOT IT. I have the bit of paper that says and I quote: "This bitch gave up work full-time, slogged her guts out for nine months, drove herself and most of her peeps crazy, fed her child on junk food so she could finish assignments, and busted her ass to get a second degree." Okay it didn't say that, but damn near. Thank you Jesus.

So I was looking forward to an evening out at a new restaurant opened by a friend in Holborn called The Terrace. A nice little place in the middle of one of London's historic architectural landmarks, Lincoln's Inn Fields, which is an enclave for barristers. It's in a park area, which will be lovely in the summertime, as it's light and airy in decor.

My sister met me there and we sat on a table with some people I knew, including some lovely un-smug married couples I know. The food was dope, good portions which didn't leave me feeling like a beached whale. I even managed dessert. We then went to a bar pretending to be a club, Torts in Holborn. Yeah the same place where the gangster heffer threatened to glass me. In my corset dress and pink ballerina style satin Kurt Geiger heels, I wasn't exactly dressed to fight, but decided to assume a defensive position (focus please boys) and stand in one spot all night. Opposite the bar.

Some other guys I knew turned up, and we hung out in the bar area watching the people go by. They forgot I was there, and soon had me rolling up with their withering put downs of women and men (but sadly mainly women) dressed in ways they shouldn't have been, showing parts that didn't need to be seen. There was a woman with huge 'baps', wearing a cheap white halterneck top, and no bra. Her nipples were like headlamps. And she stood all proud and shit just illuminating the spot. Tramp. There were so many badly dressed people in there, they made me feel like I was wearing couture and not high street Karen Millen.

When I did move from my spot to the toilet, there were some hardfaced women in there. The conversation went. "I just pushed her out the way, why should we care about them if they don't care about us". Her friend said "I'm going to be sick." When she came out of the toilet her mate said to me. Let me rephrase that, she shouted at me did I want to use the toilet. No. Thanks.

Saturday night, M asked me to 'follow' him to a club. And before you ask. No, we're not fucking. He picked my up at 2am, or rather his friend Beemer Brother did. Is he trying to hook me up? So there's me, and two fine looking men, out on the town and I'm feeling like a pimp mama. We go to Yeungs. A chinese restaurant trying to be a club. Anyone that's been there hates it. Including me. It's just wrong.

So I'm thinking, what's the protocol when you're with a male friend, and his friend looks a bit 'tasty'? Bearing in mind, me and M are definitely not fucking. But I decided not to flirt. A tad tacky? I went against type (forward and flirty) and played it cool but friendly. BB and I got talking about music, he likes the broken beat/nu-soul scene so we arranged to go CO-OP on Dec 18th, the daddy of broken beat clubs for a proper dancefloor workout. Cos Yeungs be dry like crackers. Trust me, it's gonna be a roadblock. He asked me for my number to hook me up with some broken beat CDs. Cool. But you know, I have a feeling he's not single. I call it 'singlemandar'. It's like 'gaydar', I can just tell.

It was refreshing hanging with 'da man's dem'. Reminded me of my misspent hip-hop youth when often I would be the only girl rolling with a posse. When you're with guys, there's less trips to the toilet, no one's complaining their feet are hurting, and you don't get approached by skanky chancers. Or anyone for that matter. But contrary to popular opinion, judging from Friday night, they are way bitchier than girls. Dem man is 'arsh.

The Family Girl

I really hate being told what to do. Especially by my family. Despite having a child, a home, and a fledgling career in journalism, none of this ever matters once you pass through the threshold of your childhood abode. As soon as you're there, in their eyes you are Don-dons, aged 10 or whatever juvenile age has stuck in their mind.

In two weeks time, I have a party on the same night as my mum's friend's 60th which she's asked me to come to. Even though I planned to go to my party weeks ago. She said: 'It will be nice if we go as a family." In otherwords, if you don't come I will hold it against you for all eternity and constantly refer to your selfishness when we argue. My sister has already started applying the emotional pressure "I'm sure we can make excuses for you if you don't come". The two of them usually join forces against me. But my sister has totted up enough 'no shows' (including Christmas Day 2003) for her loaded comments to carry no weight with me.

If my mum ever 'asks' me to attend anything, I always make the mistake of thinking I actually have a choice. If I say I'm not coming, she gets vex, cusses me out and attempts to makes me feel like the worst daughter in the world. I know I don't go out that often with my mum (mainly because she rarely goes out, and will rarely make the effort to organise anything. What are children for?) but I just hate being made to feel obliged to do it. If I already have plans, why should I change them? Why can't they just accept that I have plans without trying to make me feel guilty about it? Don't get me wrong, I like doing family stuff. I take my mum out on her birthday, organise theatre or cinema trips, or invite her to stay, when she feels able to make the journey from west to south. My mum is only in her fifties, looks younger, but acts like a septugenarian. I attend the funerals, and weddings of her friends, and church occasionally. But the one time you don't attend something is the one time they always want to bring up.

Also, there seems to be a double standard that operates in my family. If my sister says she's going to something and doesn't turn up, it passes with little comment. But if I say in advance that I'm not going to come, all hell breaks loose, and I'm accused of being selfish. Go figure. Obviously, I need to learn to tell a white lie. But I don't see why I should have to do this? I mean, I'm grown, I have my own committments in life, why won't she understand this? It makes me so fucking crazy sometimes. Like today. *Breathe*.