Girlfight!

While mum was out getting drunk and disorderly. Mini-me was getting into a beef of her own. I blame the parents. She went on a day trip to France with school on Friday, and when she returned home solemn faced on Sunday evening after spending the weekend with her cousins, she spilled the beans about her eventful day in France.

As well as treating herself to some black, rainbow trim pumps from H&M, and me to a lookey-likey Faberge egg/jewellery box, she managed to be late back to the coach, and have a fight in full view of the teachers. Duh! First rule of school fights, wait until you leave the gates. Although I’ll admit I often couldn’t.

I shook my head, said she needed to do some damage limitation in the form of a written apology, and accept whatever punishment was coming her way gracefully. In her favour, the other girl struck the first blow, Clarkie said she was egged on by her peers "oi you got violated cuz", and responded. The old headlock and t’umps to the head manouevre. That's a good look.

Not sure I was supposed to laugh at that bit, or the news that she has been given two days in the ‘sin bin’ or ‘intensive support’ as they call it these days for lessons on anger management. LOL! I wonder if they can fit me in too....The other girl got excluded (again). This is Clarke’s first ever secondary school fight. It’s amazing how they grow up so quickly. Just thinking about it makes me crack up. First school trip and you have a fight on the coach. That's just madness cuz. Am glad I cancelled the week-long trip to Spain. After desperately trying to maintain serious Mother mode, and trying my best to show her that I didn't condone that sort of behaviour, I had to ask the question.

“Did you win?”.

Brothers and Sisters...

Birthday drinks at Blacktronica passed in a blur of spritzers, vodka tonics and champagne. Charlie was stressed because the sound was malfunctioning so we chatted about my blogging and writing. My wine-soaked mouth ran away with me as I spoke to Daddy Dark and James Yarde dropping broad hints about the present I really would've appreciated for my birthday. As Rakim Allah once famously rapped: "It's been a long time". And as my friend The Pessimist says, 'ALCOHOL IS EVIL'.

My little bruv CJ aka 'The Afterthought' came out with me for the first time. He's 18 years old, and he's cool. Contrary to what the media would have you believe about young black boys, my brother does not run with a gang, nor carry a weapon, he doesn't hang on street corners, rarely wears a hoodie (that's late man), and feels no way to shop at The Gap and Uniqlo while he's a strapped for cash student. He has his sister's eye for style, and in his own words says 'I make Primark look good'. Yes, he's definitely my brother.

I proudly introduced him to all the people I know, and he did well hanging out at one of the 'Niggarati's' (copyright BJ) main music nights. Despite the eighteen year age gap, we get on wicked. We don't have the same Dad, and I must admit, I wasn't overjoyed at first when I knew he was coming along. I watched him come into world, forced by a West Indian midwife who dragged me away from watching Prisoner Cell Block H in the waiting room. You know that was the programme back then. Bee baddin' up the gyal dem in the prison.

The midwife scolded me in that manner that has long since died out as older people are now afraid of admonishing young people for fear of abuse or a bus-stop beatdown. "Come on! It's not every day you get to see a baby being born." CJ wriggled and practically flew into the midwife's hands, my mum gave birth 'Katie Holmes' style, silently, and in the end I was glad I saw it as it made me fear giving birth much less when my turn came. My 12-hour labour was pretty uneventful until the midwife said I was being, and I quote, 'too ladylike' and that I should make some more noise. Not sure if me screaming 'WHY WON'T IT FUCKING COME OUT!' was what she had in mind.

On Saturday, after CJ slept most of the day away, I asked him if he'd like to register with the African Caribbean Leukaemia Trust to be a bone marrow donor. He said yes, so we went to the clinic at Southwark Fire Station. It was funny, because when I walked through the door I saw people that were at Blacktronica the night before. Thankfully they were not as hung over as I was.

My brother was cool about signing up to the register, and happy to give a blood sample. "CJ are you afraid of needles?", "Nah sis, dat's simple tings to give blood." In that moment I couldn't have loved my little brother any more.

When Things Fall Apart

Celebrating your 37th birthday is as pointless as it sounds. It's not a landmark birthday, it's an odd number, and I dislike odd numbers (I like things to be easily divisible by 2), and if you're single you have to do it all yourself. "Whoo-hoo people, look how much fun I can organise for myself". Long.

On Sunday Michie Wong was celebrating her birthday, and it was a pre-birthday celebration for me too. She hired a limo, we had three parties lined up, and buckets of champagne. First stop Bar HQ, or should that be Bar Ho-Q because it's always full of gyal. After an hour or so we moved on to Buppy C's birthday bash. He looks how he sounds, small, marga, and deeply unattractive. This is when things started to unravel. We had to meet a DJ to get the complimentary tickets. But when we got there around 1.30am, there was a massive queue leading up to the entrance of Brixton Rec's bar Slammers. As Suzie Wong says 'try know' it weren't about queuing. We had a fucking limo! So me and Gina Ling (the two bad breeds) 'excused' our way through the four-deep wide Brixton queue, until we got to the top. People were screwing but we just pushed our luck and got through. Obviously the champagne had taken effect already, as we had no fear from the mampies in their bashment finery.

About 15 minutes later we were all inside, raving in a leisure centre. Black people will rave anywhere. Except maybe fields, which is more white people’s style. We must have been in there half an hour at the most, and suddenly we were on the move again. After a stop at the jerk chicken drum downstairs. Jerk and champagne, a winning combination. And you know it tasted good at that time of night. Some man tried to jump the queue. Who told him to do that? Gina Ling blazed him so badly, I started to fear for my life. We were in Brixton after all, aka The Wild Wild South.

By the time we got back to the limo, Michie Wong was vex (cos we took so long getting food), so was Suzie (cos she didn't want to leave the dance), meanwhile me and Gina were oblivious, and just trying to avoid getting jerk chicken stains on the garms. Pass the champagne please.

We arrived at the next dance in east London with bare vibes, and attitude. It was Wong's friend's 40th, and an incident had already put a dampener on the situation. One of the guy’s friends phoned Wong and asked her why should she come to the dance without paying, and that when we see his friend we hug and kiss him up like we’re all ‘grin'in’ (fucking) him. That's fighting talk. Wong told him to ‘go clean out your foreskin, it’s dutty’. He brought the street out in her. Click, dial tone. My man was baffled. You know he got a stiff blank from all of us when we saw him.

Suzie Wong was obviously was not feelin’ it. The place was full of ‘cobwebbers’ (another Wong-ism). People who look like they just dusted off the cobwebs off their old garms to come out for the night. LOL. Bare oldfoot people in the dance. You know when you walk in the room you come like ‘puppy show' because you stand out so much. Michie still had a smile on her face then, and was up for it. Suzie went and sat down. Bad move bredrin. I raved for a bit, but the 20 hour coach journey from France the day before, the tiredness and now the champagne was doing me in. So I sat down. Sorry Michie. I don't remember how long we stayed there, but the ride back in the limo ended in a classic Wong sisters argument (violent but not physical, last witnessed a year ago in Great Yarmouth). It's best not to get involved. Once they all stopped, I assumed the position and fell asleep.

Next year I'm going away.

Calamity Butterfly

This relationship stuff is mad tricky these days. In fact, forget relationships, because if you mention the ‘R’ word you can be guaranteed that most men will think you’re getting too heavy. I have absolutely no idea what I should be doing where men are concerned. It used to be so simple. Girl meets boy, likes boy, and tells him. You hook up and start going out, until you break up and it all starts all over again. This worked all through my teens, and my twenties. Except this time round, in my third decade it nah work no more.

Girl meets boy, boy seems interested, tries to hit the coochie without so much as an alcoholic beverage, then disappears when it doesn’t happen. Trust me, my coochie don't get popped without the proper courtships rules being observed.

Recently I met someone who I find very attractive, and is great to talk to, a killer combination in my book. But I just can’t bring myself to do anything about it. I just don’t think I can take the knockback right now, and I’m not sure enough about whether he is interested in me. In fact, I’m almost sure that he’s not. Then again, since when was I an expert on men who like me. I almost never notice the ones that want more than friendship, and they rarely make themselves noticed. It’s only years later when a friendship has blossomed, and they are practically hitched to some other bitch do I hear the words: “I used have your picture on my wall back in the day.” Or as the line I shall forever treasure spoken by the legend that is Big Ted goes: “There was you, and Monie.”

More recently someone felt the need to take me to task for going out with The Bobo Dread. He felt it necessary to share with me how I had dropped a notch in his estimation by going out with The Bobo Dread. Sometimes I wonder why exactly some people feel it is necessary to share their opinions with me concerning my love life which is none of their 'raatid' (not a word that can be used in Scrabble) business. I mean how do you get from hello to "why did you go out with that loser" who incidentally I broke up with almost three years ago. This is a nigga whose phone number I do not have, whose email I never use and in all the years I've known him I speak to for a period of around un minute. Why is he all in my grill about my ex?

Some men just can't handle the fact that you were never interested in their tired ass. Being that we were at a funeral, I decided not to curse out his BC and just said 'The Bobo Dread is someone that I still consider a good friend. It is inappropriate for you to talk about him or me in that way, and quite frankly none of your damn business.' It was only because of where we were, that I held it down. The next time I see that motherfucker he will be talking to Butterfly: The Ice Queen. He'll get served the Butterfly Jones 'shiver your timbers' glare, and not a word will pass my lips. Revenge is a dish best served cold.

Anyway, as for the object of my affections, for now, I’m opting for the pussy's way out. I’ll be doing absolutely fuck all. As one of my movie heroines once sang: “Once I had a secret love” and "Que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be."

Next Year I'll Be Doing This

Oops! I Did It Again

It's official I am a crap mother. Not as bad as Britney 'driving with baby in my lap' Spears, or as I recently read on a celeb gossip blog mother of baby with 'fractured skull' Britney WTF?!? (don't quote me on that). But I wasn't sure if school started again today, but sent Clarkie anyway. Half an hour after she left I found the school newsletter with important dates. It says school starts tomorrow. Funnily enough, Clarke has not bothered to return home. The crafty scoundrel. Her Dad said not to worry. That's a bit hard because the child is like my arm, when she's not there I feel a dull ache like that experienced by amputees. Methinks someone is trying to run game on mommy dearest. Boy is she in for a surprise when she turns up. And I ain't talking birthday cake either!

UPDATE: Clarke returned home safely after stopping at the shops (and waiting outside HMV for 45mins) to buy her mother a birthday card and a Sean Paul CD. 'Skillartee!'. So I guess I can put the 'beats' on hold.

Happy Birth Day!

To me. This age thing is one thing that's got me trippin'. It's like those old movies where you see the years flying by on a paper calendar. The sheets flying off quicker and quicker. As much as I hate to see the numbers going up and up (37 and counting), I like to revel in what I can do, still. I snowboard, and I only started in my thirties, and it is (apart from rapping) the coolest thing I have ever learnt to do. Period. I run the bridges, cycle in London (many people won't consider it) and can still dance till dawn (just not every week). I've increased my learning, attained a postgraduate degree, studied journalism, written for national newspapers, and I reckon at 37, I'm sharper mentally than I've ever been.

I'm also calmer, more introverted, at ease with my own company. I've taken a few hits on this journey called life, but I always get back up. One thing the trip to France taught me is that for some people, getting up is not that easy. Changing patterns, and how you react to setbacks is something that is so necessary to progressing in life that not to learn is to create greater hardship for yourself. I don't want to be alone for ever, but I'm content to be alone for now. I love children, but am happy to have just the one. I love being a mother, a parent. I enjoy cooking for my daughter, baking cakes, doing nice things for her, and just generally ensuring her mental and physical well-being. I'm happy that I realised a long time ago that nothing was more important than her, and have arranged my life accordingly.

So today, I acknowledge my 37th birthday with thanks to the Lord for allowing me to see another year. This year, I plan to do nothing much, I have a piece to finish for Pride, and Suzie Wong's popping over for tea and cake (if I can be arsed to go buy one). It's what I want to do, and believe me I'll be happy doing it.

P.S. Happy Birthday to Sarah Jessica Parker

Awesome!

I'm so mashed, I can barely keep my eyes open. A week in the French Alps with 48 children has taken its toll. Nights spent watching them until 3am, playing cards and (ultra competitive) Scrabble with the youthworkers, then up at 8am for breakfast and practise on the piste. The weather was brilliant, most of the white kids got sunburnt, and the black ones have tan lines from the goggles (which I tried desperately to avoid).

There are stories of success, triumph, and then stories which made your blood run cold. The BAP (Brixton African Princess) who almost glassed another girl at dinner on the first day, the 15 year old boy (and father to be) so distressed by the loss of his mobile that he got a kitchen knife and planned to 'approach' the other young people until he located it and the bad breed girl who cursed out one of my colleagues so badly she was afraid that she was gonna get 'banged' and had to leave the hostel for the night. The revelation for me was that the 'young women' were the worst behaved, created the most drama, and needed the most surveillance.

But then there is Max, who looks like a snowboarder but decided to ski. He's smart, funny, polite and happy go lucky. Roti, who was articulate, super intelligent and never gave up, and Jefferson who looked like he was born to snowboard. Florence who always had a smile and a joke handy, and sweet boy Jurvaine who was wicked on ice skates. Not forgetting Ishmael (aka Nyam Food) who cracked us up all week with his jokes. The majority of the young people were fantastic, but as I said to Queen Bad Breed, when she was good, she was really, really good, but when she was bad she was horrid.

To be continued.

Give Blood To Save A 'Blood'

Clarke and I have 45 minutes before I get a coach with 40 teenagers to the French Alps for a snowboarding/ski trip. Just wanted to squeeze in a quick blog about DJ Swing's funeral yesterday.

The whole day was like a mass spiritual experience. I've not been to an African funeral, or an Asian one, or even a white person's funeral, but West Indian people's funerals are fantastic, and this was no exception. From Beverly Knight's gospel turn in the church, to Omar and Victor Romero Evans live PA by the set, the whole day was a fitting tribute to the music loving, people loving DJ, Brian Daley aka Swing.

At times, when addressed by Orin Lewis (of the African Caribbean Leukaemia Trust) we were reminded of the reasons why we were here, it resembled a political rally. Stirring speeches were made by Orin and family members to rally the troops to keep the message alive, even though Swing no longer is. As one of his fellow DJs said in ghetto eloquent fashion "Give Blood, To Save A Blood". Sounds like a campaign in the making.

As we stood by the graveside, the young people not knowing the hymns, and not confident enough to sing anything else, all we could do was watch morosely as Brian's friends and contemporaries, many wearing white suits or adidas tracksuits, grappled with the mound of thick earth they were shovelling to fill the grave. As Orin de Gale said, it is not acceptable to not register to donate what amounts to half of a plastic cup of liquid called bone marrow. If you are black, asian or mixed-race, make it your business to register, and then register someone else. Not being registered should become a shameful thing. Consult your GP if you have any concerns regarding your health or call the ACLT they can answer any questions you may have. I have done it, and it took maybe 30 mins of my time, and most of that was spent listening to information.

The whole day was a great tribute to a special man and Swing would have loved it so much. It is such a shame that we had to have it without him.

CLINICS - (http://www.aclt.org/)

The following information highlights the forthcoming ACLT registration clinic date and location:

Saturday 22nd April, Time 10am to 6pm at the London Fire Brigade Southwark Training Centre, (Sir Frederick Delve Suite), 94 Southwark Bridge Road, London, SE1 OSD.

Wednesday 26th April, Time 2pm to 9pm at the Waverley School - Homestall Road, London, SE22 0NR

Sunday 29th May and Bank Holiday Monday 30th May, Afro Hair & Beauty Show - Alexandra Palace, North London, N22 7AY. Time: 10:00am till 7:00pm

New dates are constantly being added to the 2006 list of registration clinics. So please keep checking the registration clinics page.

So Have A Nice Day

I am so busy at the moment finishing off job applications, following up contacts, ignoring Clarke while on half-term holiday and preparing for a trip to France on Friday that I have no time to dress myself properly, it's just fling on the nearest outfit and pray to God I see no one I know while out. Of course I always do see someone I know.

I bumped into 'cute man with dreads' who is also coming on the trip to France. With teenage daughter. Not that I'm interested but I'm getting that 'not married but attached' vibe from him. Not to worry, I was wearing huge Mekon head cycle helmet, and my baggiest jeans which make my bottom look ten miles wide. There is no danger of him giving me a second look. Maybe I can wow him with the 'damn she scrubs up well' look on Friday. Like I said, not that I'm interested.

Clarke is also coming on this ski/snowboarding trip to the French Alps which means mummy cannot act like a ho while she is in the vicinity. HA! Chance would be a fine thing. This will be the first trip I've ever been on which will be completely 'dry'. No alcohol can pass my lips as I'm going as a volunteer with a youth group, along with 40 teenagers. Happy days.

Since I have stopped smoking and as a result drink less, I've noticed how much I talk. My gums will run a mile a minute if I don't check myself. It's like some sort of nervous tic. Why has no one alerted me to this fact? I thought y'all we're my friends? It's only after I've been running my gums for five minutes straight that I realise, um, maybe I coulda taken a breath and not revealed the knickers I'm wearing today are to' up, or some other such nonsense.

My wardrobe seems to have shrunk drastically. That's the ebay effect as I've sold loads of my stuff, but haven't really replaced it. I have actually lost the will to shop at the moment. I guess it will return when my pay packet does. On Sunday I dragged myself up West to return a dress I'd bought while under the influence of hormones. Beautiful red and black strapless, tulip skirt floral number. The style was so lovely, but so wrong for someone who has enough booty for two people. It was the monthly hormone overload that made me do it. They're also responsible for making me buy a dress twice. I returned a lovely teal blue military style dress to TopShop on Sunday that had been hanging in the wardrobe for a couple of weeks. By today I was frantically calling my nearest ToSho to see if they had the dress in stock.

Of course the lazy-ass sales assistant said they didn't, but my refined 'fashion sense' told me she was talking out of her frying pan ass. I spoke to the lovely Esther who knew what I was talking about and she held the dress for me. Clueless sales assistant then served me with way too much attitude. She was American too, and I'm afraid I just expect better from the country that coined the phrase 'Have a nice day'. Maybe she was expecting a tip. She was getting feisty because I handled her on the phone. She couldn't be bothered to look for the dress and said 'I should come down and have a look'. "That's why I'm talking to you" idiot so I don't have to! "I-M B-U-S-Y!". Lucky for that bitch I was not in a fighting or complaining mood (rare I know) I just ignored her slightly above minimum wage ass, and thanked the lovely British Esther for her excellent customer service. And fuck-a have a nice day.

Black People Don't Like Black People

Late last year DJ Swing was given a bone marrow transplant which was a 90 per cent match. Not ideal, but the best chance in the circumstances. The operation was deemed a success and he returned home. A few weeks ago he developed an infection, his condition deteriorated rapidly, and he died in a hospital bed surrounded by his family. It was remiss of me not to post this earlier, as it happened last week. But somehow, I just couldn't bring myself to start writing about it. I could just feel the cliches forming, and wanted to just muse on it for a while.

Swing was not someone I was especially close to. I wouldn't presume to say I was his friend. But he was someone I got to know from going to the club nights he DJed at. I don't remember when or where I first met him. Once I started raving I met him, and then always knew him. He was a safe bredda. Along with the rest of the Boogie Bunch he entertained me during my misspent youth, and as we both grew up, he moved into the west end and I would see him at 'industry do's' and Trevor Nelson's Back In The Day club nights. When raving on a Monday didn't seem weird. By then I'd reached my late twenties, and Swing brought the house down with his retrospective swingbeat and hip-hop, and convinced you that you could still buss the old moves, especially if he dropped that Rob Base tune.

When he disappeared off the scene, it was noticeable. What happened to Swing? And then the rumours began flying, and they were sadly confirmed. Swing was diagnosed with a rare bone cancer which required a bone marrow transplant. For a white person who requires this operation, the chances of getting a match are one in five. For blacks, it's one in 100,000. Not enough black people have been prepared to give a blood sample. Excuses range from "Bwoyyy me 'fraid ah neegle" to "I don't wanna catch AIDS". Bare ignorance. Maybe if you got some Nikes, or a set of rims with that test we might get some more takers. Yes, I said that too.

But his premature death has been all the more painful because it has highlighted an ugly truth. Black people don't like black people. There, I said it. This can be the only explanation for the dire odds that anyone who has this illness faces. We just don't love each other enough to bear a pin-prick and then maybe a small life-saving operation further down the line. We however willingly participate in our demise. We shoot and shank (stab) each other, fuck without condoms risking contracting HIV and AIDS, and abuse drugs which some of us unfortunately overdose on. But participate in activities which might save lives, hmmm, a bit of a tall order. Special shout out to the so-called COMMUNITY RADIO station who opened their doors in a 'tribute' to Swing. Once he had DIED. So what, the key never work when he was ALIVE?

This is one instance for those that like to blame everything on THE WHITE MAN, that it can't be. And it is not something that can be solved by a fucking DIVERSITY PROGRAMME. Black people need to step up to the motherfuckin' plate, and take the test NOW because it could be a member of YOUR FAMILY that needs help one day.

Despite his natural reticence to keep his illness to himself, to his credit, Swing decided to speak out, not for himself, but because he wanted to help others that shared his situation. He knew that this was bigger than him, and throughout his no doubt painful illness he did what he could to change a hopeless situation into a hopeful one. His friends from the Boogie Bunch campaigned on his behalf to raise awareness. And as a result more people registered and gave blood to be tested.

So my memories of Swing won't just be about how jiggy I got when he was DJing. I will never forget that while he was staring death in the face, he thought not of himself, but of others suffering as he was, or those yet to be diagnosed. He thought of your mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, and their children. He thought of black people, and showed his love for them. And despite his illness, he reached out and tried to help them. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

Big up ya chest Swing. Facing death, as in life, you were a good bredda.

Talk To The Ass

My bottom has been a source of fascination for men long before anyone had ever heard of J-Lo. And yes, I am putting myself in that category, cos some of us was here long before she was. But I must agree, her ass is impressive.

I was 19, and a regular fixture on the hip-hop scene, flitting around lots of clubs which were populated by hungry teenage boys when I realised what an ass-et it was. My ass would get grabbed on a regs. All the time. Till I ended up becoming friends with the ass-grabbers just because that's just how I got to know them. I would of course ask them to refrain from doing it. I didn't like being touched up, but what had once been a source of embarassment - the bigness of the booty - I soon realised was in fact, a good thing where the opposite sex was concerned. So I stopped wrapping the jumpers around my waist.

But it's like women who have big breasts, sometimes men just talk to my ass, and they just can't wait for me to walk ahead of them so they can get a good look. Yesterday I was on my bike, and I stopped to talk to a friend. The first thing he said to me was "Wow, you have a big bottom" - with descriptive hand movement. This is hardly news to me. What the fuck happened to hello? Now this conversation could only happen with a black woman, cos I know some of my white sisters would be on some Project Ana(rexia) shit quicker than you could say Krispy Kreme. I know my ass is fat, but damn, can't a nigga keep it to himself! He emailed me today and said: " I was only joking?" Yeah right. How can it be a joke, if it's true? And also said I shouldn't go near any drawing pins (and that was a joke too). Whatever.

The other week, a hooded youth ran down the road after me and grabbed my ass. Yes. The man ran after me and grabbed the booty. The funny thing is I was wearing the same outfit both times (grey cotton puffball dress). Note to self: re-ebay. I was so shocked that all I could do was just stand there with my mouth open catching flies. I continued walking down the road, and then this stupid ass had started to follow me. I just said to him "you'd better not come near me again" and gave him my best 'don't fuck with the I' look.


Now I don't think my ass is all that, but with a little work I'm sure it could do battle with Buffie the Body, Melyssa Ford, and Ki-Toy Johnson (thanks for sharing the knowledge S). These are 'models' (LOL) that feature their 'talents' in the videos on MTV Base (never a truer word spoken). I know it's hard out there for a pimp, but had I known that I could just make a living out of having a big ole butt ten years ago maybe I could have just saved myself £6,000 debt in student loans and bought a ticket to the US to pimp my phat ass on MTV. "Go Butterfly, it's your birthday."

Someone complained that I bash men on my blog. I read plenty of blogs where sister's get called out for they're outre behaviour. Some of y'all are assholes, likewise some of us are assholes. It doesn't mean I don't love y'all still. If you want to read about how great y'all are 24/7 - write your own blog, and don't read mine. But on this blog, if mans don't know how to act I will expose their ass. Yagetme?

So this 'peenywarny'* man (LOL - one of Suzie Wong's phrases) comes up to me as I'm staring at the cakes in the window of Esca on Clapham High St. That's usually enough for me - I only go there once a year, on my birthday (yet I still have a fat ass). "Are you French?" he says. Recognition for the the effort I made to put on my high round-toe boots with my denim gaucho pants just to buy a birthday card in Clapham. 'No, I'm from London.' Why? "Because your style is kinda different." 'Okay, that's cool'. "Can I take your number?". I'd been talking to him for approximately two minutes, I was wearing heels, he was shorter than me, wearing a baseball cap, weighed less than me and looked like a hardcore weed smoker. "Sorry, I'm seeing someone." Freynights. Then here's his last ditch attempt to seal the deal: "Do you date men and women? You've just got this different vibe about you?". Oh, you mean the 'get the fuck out of my face vibe that I'm trying to transmit to you'? G'long with your stupid ass.


*small, lacking body, marga man.

Main pic: Buffie The Body

Non-Poetic Justice

For a country where people say sorry as often as they say please or thank you. It took an extraordinarily long time for Duwayne Brooks to get an apology from the Metropolitan Police. Even though the MacPherson inquiry established seven years ago that the police had failed to properly carry out their duties in investigating the crime. The police treated Brooks like a criminal on the night his friend Stephen Lawrence was murdered after they both had to run for their lives to escape a racist gang. The gang were never convicted for the murder because the police didn't investigate the murder properly, because the victims were black. Also Brooks could not give a reliable witness statement. Stephen, who wasn't quick enough in escaping was stabbed to death in the street, just because he was a black yout' in a white boy's manor (area).

The murder of Stephen Lawrence happened when I was in my early twenties, and it was the first issue that I ever joined a rally or march for. I was hurt and angry at his death. My brother was a toddler then, but it was all too easy to imagine him in Stephen's place. Things may have changed somewhat, but Anthony Walker's death still happened last year. An axe in the head for the god-fearing teenager who was walking his white girlfriend to the bus stop. But, the lessons of the Lawrence case learnt, a proper investigation, a conviction likely, and widespread media coverage. Hopefully small comfort to Walker's family.

These cases may be exceptional, but for me there is still a fear about going to certain areas which are heavily populated with the wrong sort of white people. Eltham, Woolwich, Bermondsey, and Essex spring to mind. Black areas have always been feared by some white folk, until they realised 'there's gold in them thar hills' and started buying up all the property in the grittier areas of London like it was going out of fashion. And now it has. And yes there are some black areas I ain't looking to hang about in either. But trust me Eltham, the area where the murder happened will never have the pleasure of my company.

Travelling outside of London alone is another thing I am wary about. Especially on my own with my child. I'd rather go to Jamaica on my own, than pitch up at some northern towns. No offence, but when I was touring with my group, we went to a lot of those towns, and there was a whole lot of staring going on. As a mother, I just don't want to take the risk.

When I was in Atlanta, some good old boys shouted nigga as they drove by at myself and a guy I was with. I was in a southern state of America for the very first time. An army surplus store I was shopping at was flying the redneck Confederate flag so when I was on my own in an all white suburb, I was gripped by a fear I had never experienced before. An extreme fear of white people. I did not feel safe among them and I desperately needed to see some black people. If those men had not racially abused me, I wouldn't have been so scared. Where there is abuse, the violence usually follows.

So back to Duwayne, he's come through it all. Stephen's dead, but his life was changed forever. He's been harassed by the police, and feels blamed for Stephen's death by the Lawrences. But in an interview with The Guardian he has remained a positive man. He fought the good fight, and thirteen years later, got his sorry, and £100,000. At least, he lived to tell the tale.

THE APOLOGY

Dear Mr Brooks

On behalf of the Commissioner I would like to apologise for the manner in which you were dealt with by police, following the murder of your friend, Stephen Lawrence, and the attack on you. You were let down. The Macpherson Inquiry identified police shortcomings and I wish to reassure you that important lessons about the proper treatment of victims and witnesses have been learnt.

It is also a personal regret of the Commissioner and I that those who attacked Stephen and you have not yet been successfully prosecuted.

Yours sincerely

Assistant Commissioner Godwin

READ THE ARTICLE HERE
http://www.guardian.co.uk/crime/article/0,,1732542,00.html

Rugby Is The New Football

Rugby is the new black. Please kill me now for using that phrase. I guess this is something that the middle-class 'gels' knew long before us working class football loving types. But since the Rugby World Cup a few years back, I've been giving the rugger-buggers a closer look. Of course the mighty All Blacks always held a fascination for me, much like Brazil's national football team. I love any team that has a drop of ethnicity which manages to dominate a sport. Just like the Chinese and table tennis. Fantastic.

But last weekend I spotted a new darkie playing for England (surely I don't have to be PC on my blog - plus I am a darkie, but white folk just for your information, as I know it can be quite confusing these days, no, it is not okay to call black people darkies, niggers or quelle horreurs - COLOURED). A quick google turned up the name Tom Varndell. He's fast, he's young and he could make me come given half the chance. Scored four tries for England. Didn't see the tries but noticed his body. Forget Tyson Beckford, the man's body was like WOAH!

Then there's the former All-Black captain (I think he just retired), Samoan Tana Umaga. Now, the boat-race (face) looks a bit beat-up. Not like those over-primped and pampered millionaire footballers. Rugby players get down. Full contact, broken limbs, bruised ribs every week. He looks a bit like my Chinese-Jamaican pops (don't we all want to marry Daddy), and he has dreads. That's it, he's on MY team.

Now sportsmen have always been a trusty source for crushes. David Beckham, Totti, Henry, Daley Thompson?!? But their prevalence in my life at present could be linked to the fact that I am not getting any, not seeing any, so can only fantasise about strapping young, unattainable, nubile (can men be nubile) sports stars. In much the same way that a number of my male friends like to look at pictures of 'video models' with unfeasibly large bottoms. Even the hooked up ones (some men never satisfied). Why can't I say 'video models' without laughing. I'm sure some of my friends are going to say, 'aw hell no' when they see my crushes. But there's no rhyme or reason sometimes to why you're attracted to certain people. You just are.

Tell me who you're attracted to so I can laugh after you too!

p.s. Blogger is bugging so will post pics later.

No.1 Pon De Look-Good Chart

I have been tagged by Nneka. I thought I'd do it and wait for the 'your so unrealistic comments' to flood in. Before you post a comment, you might want to chill the fuck out, it's a wish list, not the 10 frigging Commandments!

If I tag you, you do the same. Well not the same as mine, but your version!

RULES:

1. The tagged victim must come up with 10 different points of their perfect lover.
2. Need to mention gender of target.
3. Tag 8 victims to join this game and leave a comment saying they've been tagged.
4. If tagged again, there's no need to post a 2nd time.

The perfect lover for me, in no particular order would be:

1. Articulate: He needs to be able to hold a conversation during which he does not exclaim at my command of the English language, it does not revolve around whats happening 'on road' or doesn't ever start with: "The trouble with black women is..."

2 Confident: Self-assured, flexible (more on that later) and not all in my grill.

3. Funny: the fastest route to getting the coochie. Even if you're not that great looking.

4. Tall and broad: Been there, done that with the small-medium sized men. I want a big bastard next please.

5. Physically fit (or trying to be): as Capleton once sang, I want 'the stamina body for de gyal pickanny'.

6. Considerate: Someone to whom considering your needs as well as their own is not an effort akin to brain surgery. Someone who thinks your goals and ambitions in life are of equal importance to theirs.

7. Worldly: Someone who doesn't consider travelling outside the M25 risky, has tried more than one cuisine (his mums), doesn't consider eating out a worthless and expensive activity, and knows a mini-break is not a chocolate you have with your elevenses.

8. Sociable: If I'm not around other people (I don't have to know them) at least once a fortnight, in any social arena whether that be cinema, theatre, restaurant, football match, concert, art gallery (if doesn't have to be a rave) you can be guaranteed I will leave your boring ass. I'm not called Butterfly for no reason.

9. Child friendly: I already have one, she means a lot to me. How you treat her how will determine whether I will allow you to plant your seed, impregnate me and stretch my cervix to the size of a small melon to push out your brat.

10. Handy with tools: I will gladly do all the cooking (those that know me will know this is a big deal) if I meet a man who knows how to put up a decent shelf, build a fitted wardrobe, and lay wooden floors. You know, someone that can do 'man stuff'.

I will tag these people: hangthedj, she always made a new mistake, chubby chocolate, jacquelyn, gooders girl, zesty, sarah jane, and jamie (ok you know I was strugging for the eight peeps cos jamie has a man)

Lets Get Physical

It's cold. So cold. I just want to curl up in my bed, and forget the gym. Clarke asks if she can borrow my lovely fleecy Burton hoody. Hell no! That hoody is my protection from the howling wind while on my bike. It doesn't help that my gym is a 10 minute cycle down the road. I got a cheap deal to LA Fitness by collecting tokens from The Daily Star. Can you imagine. The most trashy paper in Britain. But the celeb news is quite good!

It's a really nice gym in Victoria, definitely nothing like that 'orrible Fitness First I used to go to in Brixton, full of neanderthals dropping weights very loudly. And they were just the people that worked there. It even has a swimming pool. However, I keep forgetting to ask Clarkie where my goggles are. If I swim without them I end up looking like I've been smoking a bong as my eyes go blazing red.

When I get there around 8.30am, the changing room is busy with all these women who've already finished their workouts. These skinny bitches have been up since God knows what time, and while I've been debating with myself whether to go or not, they're already sweating off the half a pound they have to lose, and getting ready to go to work. Different. I mean, I'd read about people like that, but I'd never actually seen any.

Another unnerving thing about my gym, is that there are very few fat people. Why you looking at me? I'm not fat, I'm curvy. Believe me, everyone looks like they just stepped out of a fitness magazine. They all wear the latest hi-tech workout gear, and look pretty slim. It's like the gym for Stepford women. No one speaks to one another, or barely makes eye contact. This is so unlike when I used to go to Brixton Rec. The ghetto gym.

Each aerobic class was like an American style workout, and we would start whooping and hollering to the garage music, singing and shouting, encouraged by the teachers. It was like you would see in American films, everyone going for the burn. People used to come and watch the classes just to see what the fuss was about. You know how we do black people, we loud. Well everyone was loud in the Rec, black, white and asian. Some women used to come to classes in full make-up. I'm talking red lipstick on some fat-ass lips. I used to wear mascara and lipgloss. It was just that kind of place. Everyone knew each other, we'd do two classes back to back, and then go shower, chat, laugh, run joke, or go in the sauna for some man-bashing, I mean girl-talk. We did a class every day, so got to know each other pretty well. It was all really friendly and there were even a few men that came too.

On Sundays, we had a two-hour step class, which was full of the fittest girls in south London. Bodies like WOAH! It was advanced step aerobics, but you would always get a beginner sneaking into the class. Everyone would just look at them thinking you should really leave now while you can. The teacher would ask, are there any beginners, or anyone who hasn't attended this class before. They would stay silent, even though no one had seen them before. After the warm-up, the class would speed up and about ten minutes later you would hear this BU-DOOF as the beginner fell off the step onto the floor. Shame guy. Many a regular ended up in a heap when the class picked up pace, so beginners had no chance. It was some ghetto workout at your own risk shit. I had to stop when my knees started complaining, but boy I miss those classes. I like to have a laugh when I'm working out and at the moment my LA Fitness women are dry like crackers in comparison, but hey, I'm gonna try and take the Brixton Rec ghetto workout vibes in there. I can always start some whooping and hollering on my own.

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!