Ashley

The Pessimist has anointed the cornflake Ashley, Ashley Cole (Sore). Groan.

Potholes On My Lip

My body doesn't like exercise. Less than an hour after my first run in weeks, I felt the dreaded tingle at the side of my mouth, and then began to check the mirror obssessively for the appearance of the little white spots which signal the beginning of a cold sore. Yep, there they were. Fuuuck. I hadn't been feeling 100 per cent, but dismissed the thoughts thinking myself a bit of a hypochondriac. But obviously that week in France, eating OPF (other people's food), working the night shift, and riding the slopes five hours a day had taken it's toll.

When he first realised I was a 'sufferer', the Bobo Dread said in characteristic non-diplomatic fashion: "I didn't realise black people got dem tings." I guess I have my mum to thank, as she's a sufferer too. And she's definitely black. Or even blick as the yout' dem say. Wrong.

Anyway, the cold sore usually makes an appearance at stressful times like last year at the end of my post-grad. Two days before I'm set to board a plane for Chocolate City, Atlanta, the Curse of the Cornflake Lip struck. And that Zovirax shit does not work. I was PISSED. OFF. I was so looking forward to working my Britishness and hooking up with some US beef. (Until I found out how large the gay population is over there and lowered my expectations). In desperation I scoured the internet for information on how I could make the sucker disappear. Frogs legs and eye of newt were not involved on this occasion.

So yesterday, the night before a belated birthday lunch with my Snow Camp peeps and a meeting with my Aspire network board members, the carbuncle had taken up residence on my face. Not to mention the health spa I'm going to on Friday. I mean who's gonna want to give the girl with the cornflake on her lip a facial?

I just don't feel good with a foreign body in residence on my face. When I went out today I wore my hair loose so I could use it strategically to hide the afflicted side of my face. I was so looking forward to getting my flirt on this week but who's gonna be impressed with a woman who's flirting with the herpes virus on her mouth? Can I at least dazzle the man with my sparkling wit, intelligent conversation, cute looks and big ass first?

I exed all plans today, and put my energy into Project Heal Thyself. This involved eating healthy, drinking an immune boosting raw juice and going shopping down the West End. Which was very healing because I heard The Yellow Magic Orchestra's 'Space Invaders' tune in American Apparel, which I fucking love. I found it very therapeutic to stay in there listening to it right to the very end. AA sell those seventies style shorts, you know the ones Willis used to wear in Different Strokes. I remember when my Stepdad brought some home he bought from someone on road. The next day it was like a scene from Coming to America as all the estate kids were walking around in a pair of the 'knock-off' red or blue satin disco shorts.

The Bank Holiday weekend approaches, and I need to have this bombaseed off my face by weekend. Standard. I guess the one thing in my favour is the fact that I'm still brown(er) from the trip, so it is kinda camouflaged. If you squint a bit. And stand at least a foot away. But seriously it's huge, I can't really smile, and its painful. I feel so sorry for myself, I feel violated, I feel like....Haagen Daz....ok maybe not.

The Bobo Dread used to name my spots when they were quite big. He'd definitely have a name for this sucker. How about Coco Pops?

*knock-off* - moody, hot, stolen

Butterfly V Caterpillar

Although I'm quite a driven, ambitious person. I've found that nothing motivates me quite as much as knowing that my girlfriends are doing something. And this doesn't mean that I follow them blindly into incidents that lead me to jump off a cliff.

Take snowboarding. Two of my girlfriends did it before I tried it. I'd long wanted to since first learning to ski as a teenager. Despite learning in minus 20 degree weather (the coldest in Canada for 40 years) I refused to give up. If they can do it, so can I. I was on that piste taking the illest drops for seven days. Battered and bruised after one particularly bad wipeout, I retired crying to the bar on the mountaintop. But I never gave up, and now I'm lovin' it. I am a woman, and as such have been socially programmed to compete with other women.

Was talking to Gina Ling last night about our impending girls holiday to Malaga. We have four months to get bikini fit, and the other members of the No Check Crew are already in training for the various beach and pool parties we will be attending. Gina is looking fabulous, she's already dropped some weight, and is bussin' the Kate Moss leggings how it should look, with a little junk in the trunk.

Meanwhile, the threat of being seen half-nekkid on a beach looms and what am I doing? Eating chips, rediscovering the joys of Twix (they taste so good), drinking to excess and consoling myself with that sedative in a tub, Haagen Daz. Ah hell fucking no. We're not going back down that flabby route again. It's time to rein in that fat creating behaviour in. So Sunday night I scheduled my new training programme on my electronic diary. A daily, run or walk for 30 minutes.

Monday morning: The sofa wouldn't let me get up.

Monday evening: Butterfly speaks to Gina, and discovers that she and Michie Wong are already running regularly three times a week. Damn, if they can do it so can I.

Monday night: Before I went to bed I laid out my running clothes, and dusted off the ugly running trainers.

Tuesday morning: Butterfly jumps into her running clothes, and heads to Kennington Park. She puffs and pants her way around five times, before retiring triumphantly. She gets a toot from a man in a Lambeth Refuse Truck.

Things are looking up.

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.