Football Crazy, Football Mad

I was really scaring my friend Devs last night as I screamed throughout the Champions League final. Despite opening the scoring, Arsenal, following the unfortunate sending off of their goalkeeper, were eventually worn down by the self-belief of Team Barcelona led by Ronaldinho. Henry blames the ref, but what about the chances he squandered? At this level, every chance counts, and he can shoulder some of that blame after missing two golden opportunities.

I felt sad for Arsenal, as everyone knows that this could be the last game for Henry who looked decidedly cosy post-game with Barca goalscorer Samuel Eto. Eto looked like he was speeching Henry to join the new holders of the Champions League Cup. Ronaldinho didn’t score one of his amazing goals, but was instrumental in making chances and continually driving the game forward in attack. Special mention to the man like Henrik Larsson, Swedish international, former dread turned bal’ead whose late entry to the game set up the Barca goals that crushed Arsenal’s European Champ dreams.

Certain Arsenal man are so hurt, they're trying to get out of bets by saying they never shook my hand. There’s just no honour these days.

I do go deep occasionally on the old footie, but what do you expect. I grew up on an estate (Hovis music in the background peppered by gunshot) where the most expensive toy you had was a football. Everyone grew up kicking ball. Most of my friends were boys, and the girls I grew up with played football, 24-7. We used to have games with other blocks, and no day was complete without a kickabout until your mum screamed across the block that it was time to come in. When the World Cup came around we played our own version with everyone fighting to be Brazil. No one wanted to be England.

Adil and Chukri my Moroccan neighbours had the silkiest of skills. Sadly in his early twenties, Adil had a heart attack and died while playing football in Morocco. A slight teenager, he'd been weight-training intensely for a couple of years and completely transformed himself.... His brother went on to become a professional goalkeeper. Jimmy McClure, was one of my earliest boyfriends, you know the type you don’t even kiss, but you just argue with in the playground. He was the black Kevin Keegan, tiny with a massive 'fro, and ran rings around everyone. Him and my other friend Lawrence were so committed when they played one of them would cry if they lost, and this was just in the block.

West Ham were my childhood team, I will shamefully admit that it was purely because I liked the colour of their strip, Claret and Blue. Luckily for me, I never ventured to one of their games, not sure I would have been that welcome back then. My friend Pam whose Dad owned the chip shop near QPR used to take me to the games, Antonia took me a few times to Arsenal, where we used to drink Whisky miniatures in the Clock End to keep warm in the cold, and I also went to Wimbledon a few times and saw Vinnie Jones and the Crazy Gang. I schmoozed at Manchester United’s ‘Field of Dreams’ as a guest of their financial services PR’s, and trekked to the Maracana Stadium in Brazil to watch the local derby, but the boys who were s’posed to organise it (aka cock it up) got the time wrong and the game was done when we got there.

Next month sees the start of the biggest football event in the world, the World Cup. I'm planning to ‘freelance’ my way through that month, as I plan to be in close proximity to my sofa and non-widescreen TV.

Anyone care to join me?

War...What Is It Good For

Last week a British woman soldier was killed in Iraq when the helicopter she was in command of was shot down. This week a female Special Constable was stabbed outside her home and died on the night of her third wedding anniversary. Reports in today's Guardian suggest she was disarmed and stabbed with her own kitchen knife.

I believe that women should be in the army and police force if they wish to be (I sure don't) and face the same dangers as their male counterparts, but why all the furore when they're killed in the line of duty? Surely as a soldier you are aware that at some point you may be called upon to go fight for your country, and that you may not return? No one wants to die, but again, no one forced you to sign up.

When I was at The Observer newspaper, I had the grim task of researching the deaths of all the British soldiers killed in the Iraq War, all 98 of them at the time. Some of the stories were very painful to read. Soldiers who left behind pregnant wives, or who were coming to the end of their tour of duty. Lots of teenagers who came from depressed towns with high unemployment and had little choice but to join the service, with others following in their parents footsteps. It's great fodder for newspapers ready to create martyrs which grab headlines and shift papers. The comparison is easily drawn between the way our newspapers parade the dead soldiers, and the suicide bombers whose video messages surface following their atrocity. Each revelling in the martyrdom of the slain.

I feel a certain amount of sympathy for them and their families, but also despair at the tone of the coverage. Yes, Iraq is a dodgy war, but like Muhammad Ali, each soldier has the opportunity to be a conscientious objector. Ali spent some years in prison because he refused to fight in the Vietnam war which the US lost. Soldiers are not invincible, or X-Men, they are simply human. And it is highly likely that some of them will die in action. Why do people sign up for army life if they don't expect at some point to be dodging bullets?

How Ya Like Me Now

Was having a bit of a shoe problem when getting ready for my graduation. Shazby had ruled the red vintage peep-toes as too outre, and I'd sold my black Prada courts because they were starting to give me some Hammer-time toes .

I decided on a brown patterned wrap dress, and pale pink Poste Mistress suede courts with a grosgrain bow on the side. Forgive me for sounding like an episode of Sex and The Absence of Black Folk in the City, but it's the little things that make a difference.

I dug up the graduation robe I wore seven years earlier, dusted off my sister's mortar board, and trotted off to Central Hall, Westminster, just opposite the Houses of Shouty White Men, Diane Abbott and a few brown folk. It's only when I get there that I start to feel the shine of graduating. Everyone's looking all fresh, dressed, like a million bucks, parents are skinning teet, and graduands are posing for pictures with everyone from family to the security guards in the foyer.

As I sit in the audience waiting for my name to be called, I think about the hours I put in, the nights I worked until 5am and still made it to my shorthand class for 9.30am.

I recalled the fear of not having a good idea to pitch to David Roper, whose entertainment masterclass on Fridays made your stomach do windmills, as I rode the train 30 minutes before the class started. And the final week of the shorthand tests we had to pass at 100 words per minute. I managed it with just two days to spare. When you're studying with 20-somethings, the majority of whom are fresh out of Oxbridge, failure is a swear word and those bitches were ultra-competitive.

I remembered the migraines which hospitalised me after Exorcist type vomiting episodes, and the virus which left me out for the count for three weeks. My lecturer Paul Dunn gave me extra tuition during his lunch hour to get me up to speed with sub-editing even though his lecture day came straight after an overnight shift at The Times where he was deputy night editor.

Then I recalled the satisfaction when I'd written something which was praised by Linda 'Darth Maul' Christmas, our course director who trained a vast majority of Fleet Streets 'finest' hacks. Linda derived great joy from sending us to a part of the city she picked from the A-Z and telling us to come back with a story. The off-diary exercise was not generally the highlight of anyone's week. And it was not cool to have 'rubbish' scrawled on one of your stories.

It shouldn't really be a surprise as I was always a naturally bright, competitive girl at school. One of my mums favourite stories is one where I chastise a childhood friend by saying: "What do you mean you cant read?!?". But when I was younger if whatever I did didn't come naturally, I moved onto something else. I didn't get maths for years in primary school, so concentrated on English. I got my O Levels without revising, but not the A's. My degree was tough, but there were no final exams. But this time, I had to really study, politics, media law, sub-editing, teeline shorthand, newswriting, and keep going over that shit until it sunk into my dreadlocked head, and do exams at the end. Crap.

So yes, on my graduation day I allowed myself a big swell of pride in my achievements. This gyal from White City Estate. The estate whose address meant you couldnt get into a decent school in West London, only the ghetto school on your doorstep where the deputy head had been stabbed by a bad breed pupil, the school that sent you to do work experience in a nursery when you said you wanted to be a journalist.

But luckily for me I had a mother who taught me my alphabet before I started nursery, and always bought newspapers. It's the little things sometimes that make a difference.

Like taking the time to consider what shoes you're going to wear. I should have taken a bit longer as I nearly popped my raas walking across the stage in them dorothys.

But they did look good though.

Welcome To Jamrock

Jamaica has a new Prime Minister. The new leader of the PNP party Portia Simpson Miller has succeeded PJ Patterson who held the post of Prime Minister of Jamaica for some 14 years. Simpson Miller is the third female political leader of the English-speaking Caribbean elected to office in recent times. There was apparently some criticism of the legitimacy of her candidacy as unlike the other Prime Ministerial candidates she does not hold the title of Dr. However, the new Prime Minister said to tumultuous applause in her inaugural speech: "Each individual is sacred. None is more important than the other. Money should not make one person more important than the other, learning should not make one person more important ... nor should class, colour or gender. We are all equal ...".

What a ting? Who would have thought that the country that brought us "women in ya batty rider" and "eye spy what do I spy, p-u-s-s-y in da tight neegle eye" (memories) would elect a female Prime Minister? Bwoy, big tings ah gwaan fe real. Jamaica has serious problems with unemployment, poverty and crime, not to mention the money it owes the rass teef World Bank, so here's hoping Mrs Simpson Miller will be able to do the work needed to uplift Jamrock, and spread the dollars more equitably among the darker-skinned ghetto dwelling bredrins. As my countryman Bob Marley once sang "time alone, oh, time will tell, think you're in heaven but you're living in hell."

On a completely superficial note, Prime Minister Simpson Miller is 60 years old. Yes that's right, 60! I want some of what she's raatid drinking!

The Graduate

Wednesday morning will see me getting dressed up for a different kind of occasion. My graduation ceremony takes place at Central Hall, Westminster just opposite the Abbey, and right near the Houses of Parliament.

I didn't actually have any idea of where Central Hall was until yesterday when Clarke and I happened to walk past it after walking back from Horse Guards Parade where we and a few thousand others watched the Sultan's Elephant outdoor art performance. The elephant was actually the sideshow to our real mission that day, trying to locate some Krispy Kreme donuts in the nearby Tesco Metro. They were completely sold out. Clarke was gutted, and I was relieved as I wasn't sure I would have been able to stop myself from tearing them from her hands to stuff down my own throat.

The hall is around ten minutes from my house so I may even cycle down in my robes on my bike. Yes, I already have a set of robes which I never quite managed to return after the last ceremony. Oops. And I have my sister's mortar board. How funny would that be? I'd look like something out of a Joyce Grenfell movie, flying down Pall Mall on my old school Raleigh racer in my black robes. Except I don't think there were ever any darkies in Joyce Grenfells movies. They were fun though.

I wasn't going to attend the ceremony, but was kind of persuaded it would be good for Clarke to see her mummy and maybe help inspire her to similar heights educationally. Mama ain't raising no fool. You know all that positive role model stuff.
Unfortunately I found out after I had paid for the tickets (yes paid) that Clarke has exams for the next two weeks, and won't be able to come. Bollocks. So kind of feels pointless me going now. She can look at the pictures I suppose.

It always puzzles me when people say Black people don't have any role models. When I was growing up, yes there wasn't loads of black people on TV, and when you did see someone black you would always phone a friend to say "there's a black person in an advert on ITV", but I remember No Problem, Empire Road, Babylon, Trevor McDonald, Love Thy Neighbour, Rising Damp, Lenny Henry, Zeinab Badawi, and Moira Stuart. And then why do your role models have to be black? I've always wanted to be a journalist, since I was in school. I didn't know any black journalists, but I was fascinated with television news, so looked to Trevor McDonald, Anna Ford, Zeinab Badawi (I remember seeing her driving a Maserati in the 90s, LL Cool J had rapped about them). But my role models came from all races, Depeche Mode, David Bowie, Riyuichi Sakamoto, Gary Numan, Kraftwerk, Roxanne Shante, Jeffery Daniels, Michael Jackson, The Supremes, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder, The Bee Gees, Salt and Pepa, Public Enemy and many others.

My best friend Shazby was a role model because she was the perfect student (when she wasn't trying to beat me up in French or slamming a locker door into my head) I sometimes wished I could be, but my class-clown tendencies wouldn't allow me to. My natural competitiveness meant I would try to equal or better her grades, but as I tell my daughter Clarke now, she put in the hours outside of school but by my teen years I was preoccupied with music, the youth club, boys, clubs, music and boys. Now my daughter wants to be a barrister like her Godmother, Shazby. Well at least she doesn't have to look too far for her role models.

N.B: The pic is of Joyce Grenfell, one of Britain's finest comedic actresses.

Ashley Does Champneys

Took Ashley Cole (Sore) on a mini-break to Champneys Henlow Grange health spa. It was a 40th celebration for the sister of my best friend. I've known them both since I was 12, where did the fucking time go and how come I'm still broke!

What with the sore on my mouth, and a sleep deficit (due to watching The Soprano double bill the night before) I was surely looking forward to some R and R. Although as I was reminded several times, it was not about me.

I asked Shazby before we left if we were gonna be on some starvation rations, because I would have brought some supplies with me. But thankfully the food was just healthy and well-cooked, three courses, no rabbit food. Plus we had a bottle of champagne I'd smuggled in for Beany before dinner, and some contraband chocolates too.

It's only when you try to relax, that you realise how wound up you really are. As I lay on the table being massaged by Zara (lovely therapist who recommended Elemis products and politely reserved judgement on Champneys ones), my mind raced, thinking of a million different ways of how I would write this up for my blog. In the end, I just tried to focus on the part of the body she was massaging, and kept repeating it in my head to get my mind to stop it ticking over, "leg, leg, leg, thigh, thigh, thigh, cellulite, cellulite, cellulite".

The whole place was an oasis of tranquility. Especially the smokers lounge where the birthday woman encountered another guest smoking the old waccy baccy. Yes. She was smoking a spliff out the window like an old lag in Holloway Prison. At a fucking chi-chi spa. When Beany incredulously called the woman out, as all the other people sat ignoring her in that quaint British way, she said: "I smoke it every day. I can't do wivout it." No decorum.

On Saturday morning Shazby and I decided to go for the burn. We were up at 7.30am for a group Powerwalk. Unfortunately we got there in true black people style, late. They had already set off. Hence we were running to catch them up as they sped off down the road. Once we'd caught up, the walking pace was quite fast. Try as we might Shazby and I could not beat this white-haired old lady that was leading the pack. This woman must have had a bionic hip replacement op because she was walking at some Lindsay Wagner (Bionic Woman for my 80s babies) pace and we never got close to her. My fitness kick ain't looking too good right now. Thankfully she gave the hour long gym circuit workout a miss. I don't think my ego could have taken another beating.

The instructor Marcus was dry like crackers, but he knew his stuff and took us through a challenging workout which left us turned out like a pimp's new trick. Shazby retired but I regrouped with Marcus for the Rocky Balboa finish, a one mile run. Adrien! We had a great time, the birthday girl had fun, and saw her 40th in in some style. Well, I don't know if a mud treatments stylish but it was very relaxing.

Arrived back in London all refreshed and looking shiny and new. So of course I decided it would be a great idea to go to Club D-Illusions, rave until 6am and promptly lose that sheen. I guess I wanted to show it off. In the dark. I was wounded for the next two days.

Is that a fucking spot?

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.