Yow!

I read quite a few black sleb blogs, and I just love them. Most journos love gossip, whether at The Mirror, The Times or The Observer, there's always a rush to see the new Hello, OK or Grazia. So I won't apologise for my trash mag habit.

Serena is a favourite for the black gossip sites, because she dresses so spectacularly badly. I cannot get past the strawlike weave, and the ill-fitting clothes. The interesting thing is, is that brothers I know like Serena. Boy, if I knew that I could get it by looking like a drag queen I would've held back on the fashion forward behaviour for the last three years.

Now I see what she's trying to do here, its that beach hair, laid back glamour vibe. Now she actually looks good in the dress, and the colour's stunning, but look at the arm, *sings* "I could just kill a man". This looks like the arm of a trained assassin. Over-hench. I know she's a professional athlete and all, but just relax the arm and don't flex the muscles. The hair, the colour -shades of Worzel Gummidge. I don't understand how a woman who has millions can have hair that looks worse than Suzie Wong's £10 weaves. Seriously, doesn't she have friends? I know she can't ask her sister, cos her headpiece is even more out of control.

People cuss stylists, but I don't understand how she's always hanging out with Kelly and Beyonce and they don't help her out with the damn weave. You know they are not real friends. Rather, they're 'frenemies'. Frenemies don't tell you the truth about shit, they don't say if you have shit in your teeth or a stray bogey, or that your weave is off-point. Its like being the big fat friend, you make them look good by looking bad.

I wish I could be Serena's friend. You done know I would tell her.

Irie!

Bank Holiday weekend was alright. Usually, it's a much bigger deal. A big rave to go to, new outfit, a load of excitement due to the three day weekend. But because we're all gearing up for a weeklong holiday in Malaga next month, everyone's saving themselves. That said, I did manage to pack in a BBQ, Carnival on Sunday and a rave Sunday night. Like I said, it was a quiet one.

Clarke wasn't mad about going to Carnival, but I insisted. "It's your heritage. If you yout's don't go, it gives 'them' more reason to take it away from 'us'." Now that I'm older, I'm not mad about the constant walking, the crush, and the bad boys running through the crowds, but the weather was nice, and we planned to go to just two spots, and stay a couple hours.

There is nothing like raving outdoors, sound systems on the road, and a chance to see lots of brothers in wifebeaters. Mmmm. I gave the jerk chicken a miss (can't beat mama's cookin') and brought my own raspberry vodka tonic in a water bottle. You know dem way dere. We went to Rampage for the kids and there was a white boy beatboxing the Godfather. Suzie Wong was not impressed. When the music started, as is often the case, I was raving more than the kids, and was embarassing mine. It seems that when your a tweenager, it's not actually cool to dance in public. Everyone was having a really good time, and there was lots of Soul 2 Soul type vibes up in the place 'a thumping bass for a loving race'. At Rappattack (I made one of my first tracks with them) sound system on All Saints Road, it was just wicked. Pure 80s soul, big people (adults) and just a really nice vibe. We were stood next to the brother from Corrie who was getting lots of attention, and Kate Moss's babyfather Jefferson Hack walked past with his supercool nose in the air.

My gran used to have a stall at the Carnival, and we used to stay up all night with her as she fried fish and dumplin' to sell with her friend Auntie Thema. I fell in love with a green eyed mixed-race boy who was there with his family selling drinks. I must have been about 11. We walked around together hand in hand, and shared a kiss in the back of his Dad's van. I gave him my number and desperately awaited the phonecall. I waited and waited. Not being a passive type of gyal, I enlisted Shazby to go on a trip to his manor. As we walked out the station, down the road, I saw him. And her. Love fucking hurts. No change there then.

Me and my sister were at Carnival during the riots of the 70s. We had to run across the street into a house where all the windows were shattered to shelter from the unrest. They used to have creches under the flyover, and my mum and dad would leave us there for a few hours, go and rave and come back for us. We would be covered in paint, but happy. They used to sell these helium balloons, and it was such a treat to get one (really showing my age now). We would eat some sugar cane, and get a snow-ice (just ice with syrup). Then we would walk the frontline with our parents, where they would see all their bredrens who would give us money. Not shrapnel, but notes. Real money, which we would give to our mum would hold, which would inevitably end up in our bellies.

Then as a b-girl I used to hang with Westwood under the flyover, where all the whole UK hip-hop scene would congregate. Carnival has been a showcase for all new black music, and welcomed it and it's practitioners into the fold. It's had it's problems over the years, but it seems that these are behind it now. After Sunday, I think I will make a point of touching down for a couple of hours every year, just to make sure this important part of our heritage is being kept intact.

Who You Callin' A Bitch

I write a column called Couchtalk for Pride Magazine. Pride is one of a just a few magazines for black women. It's been going for some time now and has launched the careers of a few distinguished writers such as Guardian columnist and radio host Amina Taylor, author Natasha Walters and me! This piece is in the current issue, and I would urge you to support the magazine, and let them know what you like and maybe what you don't. There's not many spaces where we get to talk about 'our' stuff, so it's important that we own them, and let the people in charge (editor Sherry Dixon) know whether we likey, or don't likey what we read.

Couchtalk

by Butterfly Jones

Who you calling a bitch? If you happen to be a member of the Big Brother house, that would be just about everyone. Wannabe dancehall queen Aisleyne (Ash-lean) was singled out by uber-bitch Grace as soon she entered the house speaking her peculiar brand of Blinglish. She was dubbed a ‘ghetto-ho’ for daring to utter ‘you get me’ and speaking with a suspect ‘sarf’ London accent. It has been called the bitchiest Big Brother house yet, and in Grace’s exit she said: “I know I bitch, what can I say, I’m a girl.”

The round robin of bitching which culminated in housemate Sam’s hissy fit was a classic schoolgirl bitchfest, one which many of us have either been on the receiving end of, or have participated in. The show’s shrinks dubbed it ‘informational warfare’ as the women competed for the scarce male specimens (sound familiar).

This kind of behaviour can be seen repeated in clubs, bars and barbecues up and down the land, overpopulated by women, all competing for that increasingly elusive mate. A visit to the club is a war zone of wombs, weaves, and unevenly distributed weight perched on stiletto heels. This breeds an insecurity and mistrust of women outside your immediate circle which is often sated by the discreet or oftentimes indiscreet bitch.

College lecturer Juliet Walker admits she is often on some Alexis Colby style bitching. “I think like a lot of women I can spend a lot of time scrutinising other women looking at their clothes, their shoes, and checking if they’re hair is real or not. I just can’t help it. God forbid I’m with my girlfriends, if we’re in the club and it’s a dry night, it can get really ugly.”

“If I’ve had a bit to drink, my tongue gets really loose, and I start making up names for guys, like ‘waistcoat’ or ‘bad shoes’. I mean, who wears a waistcoat to a club? You’re asking for people to cuss you!”

The ways in which women can cut each other down leaving a barely visible scar is something Sharon Sinclair has experienced firsthand. “I was at a party with some friends wearing a close-fitting dress. A woman I vaguely know through a mutual friend came up to me and said ‘You’ve got some hips on you’. At first, I was oblivious to the rudeness of this statement, and just laughed it off saying “yeah, childbearing hips”. Her cold response was ‘ow you know?’.

Most people when bitching, try to be discreet about it, choosing to ‘su-su su-su’ in friends ears, or use that favourite gossip’s weapon, the telephone. But there is the odd occasion when a good bitch, goes bad.

Public relations assistant Susan Palmer is more of an ‘incidental’ bitch, and had a moment while at a friend’s barbecue. “I was talking to a friend about another girl’s man. As you do. And I said, ‘don’t you think he looks like Bluto, you know, the big fat dude from Popeye’’. But she didn’t acknowledge me and was giving me this blank, glassy-eyed stare back. So I repeated it, but this time, I said it even louder. She still didn’t respond to what I was saying, and was looking off into the distance, over my shoulder, so I turned to look in the direction she was facing, and to my shame ‘Bluto’ and his girlfriend were standing right behind me. All I could say in my defence was ‘but he does look like Bluto’!

We all have a bitch now and then, but to see it daily in glorious technicolor on television exposes the ugly truth about women. We can be some spiteful daughters-of-bitches.

All I Want For Christmas...

...is this motherfucker giftwrapped and delivered to Chez Butterfly Jones.

"You Better Think!"

I didn’t quite understand what Jackie Collins meant when I read the book ‘The World Is Full Of Married Men’ for the first time. All I knew was she wrote some very graphic sexual scenes, talked about something called cum, and the women always wore silk shirts and had erect nipples.

If Butterfly Jones wrote a ‘bonkbuster’, it would be entitled, The World Is Full Of Taken Men Who If You’re Up For A Bit Of How’s Your Father Wouldn’t Nine Times Out of Ten Say No’. It seems to be a hazard of 30-something single life to keep bucking these men.

The deli where I go to get a coffee after a morning run is fast becoming a no-go zone, especially if I’m wearing the Nike lycra, as my married Portuguese barista is always up for the full-on-flirt and when I say no, I don’t want any sugar says: “Is it because you’re sweet enough already?”. Cheese factor 10, but the motherfucker can make a dope coffee.

The same goes for my local wino shop (Two bottles of Pin Grig for £10) run by a very nice Ghanaian man, who last week whispered “Hello beautiful” in my ear as I sat in the net cafe. Again, very married, but a bit too friendly at the same time. You know when a man is skinning teet’ with you till they cyaan skin no more. If I was like, fuck it, I can’t tek this Rabbit ting no more, and made it clear I wanted piece, dem man would be on it like Pete Doherty on a bag of rocks.

If men feel that they are often tempted by women, trust me it’s the same for us. The forbidden fruit of the hamdsome married man, or the very much attached man is sometimes enough to set pum-pum pulses racing, and a hazard that has to be routinely negotiated.

In these somewhat lean times for 30 something single women, the temptation to fall on some attached magic stick can sometimes be too much to bear. Especially if the attached man whispers sweet nothings in your underused ear. I mean, the Rabbit might make you howl like the wolves as many times as you want and never fall asleep on your ass without making you see the Northern Lights in glorious technicolor, but it can’t whisper in your ear, and there’s only nine inches of it.

But sharing a man just wouldn’t work for me, because I need a whole dick to myself. I guess I'm just greedy like that. I am possessive even when it is just me in the relationship, so that shit would never work if two bulls were trying to reign in the same pen. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not on some Glenn Close shit, I am very secure when I’m in a relationship. Ain't nobody got what I got and as Suzie Wong says "You ain't got no tree in your face". But what’s mine is mine and I ain’t trying to share it with no bitch. You’re welcome to look, flirt, even do the surreptitious touch on the arm ting in my presence, but try know as Biggy said: “I’m fucking him tonight.”

Also, sharing a man is long. I mean, you have to be on their time schedule. Oh, I’ll see you after I spend Christmas Day with the family. Long. I am stupidly impatient, and a bit petulant. I’m not trying to hear, I’ll see you in a week’s time around midnight and I can only stay for an hour. Fuck. That. Shit. I dunno ‘bout you, but when I want my tings, I want my tings, and I ain’t trying to wait until your missus is asleep or she’s gone to her mum’s for the weekend. I want it now! I already operate on Mummytime, which means I have to do things according to the needs of my child - that’s hard enough, so having to operate on Cockytime would wind me up good and proper. No dick can be that good.

So sistas before you get all bent out of shape about some brother whose ‘woman doesn’t understand him’ as Vicky Edwards sang: “You better think. THINK.”

"This Is My Story, A True Ghetto Story"

I went to the premiere of DJ Supreme's documentary 'Turntable Trixters: The Story of Hijack', (available from djsupreme.com) yesterday at the National Film Theatre on the South Bank, which was shown as part of Blacktronica's club night. Big up Charlie Dark.

The old school grapevine had been buzzing for weeks, and the film was sold out in advance (unprecedented for a 'black' film as we tend to be lastminute.com bookers). The Screenwriter said: "Mans is coming out the woodwork to see it like snails in the rain!". Unfortunately because he is tardiness personified, he was a snail still in the rain waiting outside the cinema with his late black ass while we were all inside watching the 'flim'. Shame guy.

Watching it again made many of us involved in the halcyon days of UK Hip-Hop realise even more the importance of documenting those times. Trust me a few people are now on a mission to get going on their own productions.

The film is not just a look back at what was a pivotal moment for UK b-boys and b-girls, but it's also about one man's journey to create a legacy within music, and what happens when things fall apart. For him, it wasn't a vanity project, but an attempt to set the record straight and dispel the myths and the rumours surrounding the demise of the group. Not to mention, the man had a ridiculous scratching talent which was embraced, and copied around the world. He was one of the UK's finest hip-hop DJs and could definitely hold his own against the yanks.

The ‘Grime’ music culture and current hip-hop scene have been quick to embrace new technology and have been putting their own DVD magazines out for some years now. There's a real admirable entrepreneurial streak in that scene, yet our generation of hip-hoppers have been gazing (me included), and letting our legacy gather dust as we lock our memories away from the sunlight. But after last night, the light switch has gone off in many people’s heads because of Supreme’s tenacity in documenting his own story. The trickle down effect will be interesting to watch.

It had been years since I had seen Supreme, fourteen at least, and back then we never had much to say to each other. As we had lunch today, it was funny to think that the conversation we were having was probably the longest we'd ever had in all the years we'd known of each other, yet it felt like we’d been friends for years. I attempted to dispel some myths and rumours of my own surrounding my group the She-Rockers and our much talked about collaboration with Professor Griff from Public Enemy. He was openmouthed as I set the record straight for him (and for the last time I did NOT fuck Flavor Flav!).

Want to know more....well, you’ll just have to wait for my film for the truth about that.

It’s juicy for sure.

Vote for the Ghetto Princess

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YOW!

Everybody's seen or heard about Janet Jackson's 'amazing' weightloss/plastic surgery/diet/existing on a lettuce leaf/body tune-up. But judging by the pictures I've seen, I'ma need that bitch to either stop wearing them goddamn ugly ass clothes she insists on wearing or just do me a favour and regain the weight. I really don't see the point in her being slim if she is going to insist on exposing her midriff like an eight year-old (cos you know my 12 year old is not exposing any midriff), and 'queezing her plastic puppies together in a too small bra. WHAT THE FUCK?!?

I can almost excuse Nicole Ritchie's emaciatedness, because she wears some fantastic clothes, and has great hair. The fact that she looks like she couldn't bench-press a Krispy Kreme doughnut is neither here nor there. But if I were a man, I wouldn't want to fuck her: *sings* 'Dem bones, dem bones, dem jutting out bones.' Hell to the no!

For a long time the quest for ultra-thinness has not really affected black slebs (ce-lebs) but it seems that now that is no longer the case. Where the once bootylicious Beyonce leads, you can be sure others will follow. I've seen pictures of singer Monica recently (www.ybf.blogspot.com) with legs like pipecleaners.


It upsets me when I see someone like Janet looking about as stylish as her man Jermaine Dupree, is handsome. This is the problem with women approaching 40 who are slim. Yes, I'm talking to you Toni 'Always selling haddock' Braxton. Just cos you slim it don't mean errrbody have to see what you got! Hire a frickin' stylist, do you have a REAL friend?

Take Vicky Beckham, she looks terrible at least 98 per cent of the time. The only time she looks good is when she wears something that covers those margaton legs like a full-length Cavalli evening gown. What is quite scary, is that she's quoted as saying: "My body is my career". She knows that being slim, wearing tiny shorts and overdone extensions keeps her in the public eye. It is her reason for existing. She made a career out of that shit. Who knew.

I could have saved myself five years of studying and gaining and losing thirty pounds. Instead I should have made attaining 15 per cent body fat and marrying a footballer my one goal in life. But then changing colour would have been a bit difficult (Ambi anyone) as finding a footballer in the premiership willing to marry a sista is probably about a million times more difficult than finding a regular brother to marry! Can I get a witness!

Little Black Nig-Nog

It’s the school holidays. Hurrah. If you are a kid. Booo if you’re a parent. For some reason, since I was last a child (oh so long ago) it has become de rigeur to plan your children’s lives as if it were a perpetual holiday, five star at that. Fortunately I am a direct descendant of Ye Olde Jamaican Mum. Get thee to a playcentre child, and enjoy fighting over the table tennis table, playing football on a concrete pitch no bigger than a parking space, and make friends with the local aspiring hoodlums. Thank god for the unsung heroes that run these places. These people out there paying £200 a week for some child-centred childcare are wasting their money - where better to learn how to hold your own in the concrete jungle we call London than at a local playcentre.

Clarkie loves hanging out in the ‘hood with the boys dem - especially when they big her up for how well she plays football. Wonder if they’ll notice her breasts this year? The girl’s already wearing one of my cast-offs. Those of you that know me will know that this is no big ting, as I don’t have big bres’. If there was a way (other than weight-gain and cutting yourself open) to pump the little suckers up, I surely would. If only to balance out the bottom half. I digress.

The playcentre even take the kids on a week’s camping trip. Clarke goes with Suzie Wong’s son, so she’s not on her own. Boy if she goes this year she best wear two sports bra on a daily basis to strap them suckers down. It’s really not about the ‘kiss-chase-game-which-is-just-an-excuse-for-a-feel-up’.

I am planning to go away with Clarkie but the weather’s been so good I don’t feel any urgency. Last summer her Daddy took her to Paris for a few days. How sweet is that? I never went on holiday with my parents, we did day trips and parks and stuff like that, but never a plane, or abroad. The closest I got to a holiday was *cue Hovis theme* a week’s visit to stay with some random family somewhere outside London. And later school trips. It was the weirdest thing, in fact I need to talk to my mum about it. My sister and I would go and stay with strangers for a week, in some town where we’d be the only little nig-nogs for miles around. I say nig-nogs because that is what you were called back in the 70s....and also it just sounds funny! LOL.

I stayed with a family in Maidstone when I was about seven. It was like something I’d seen on TV. Mum, Dad, Daughter, Son, Grandad, Grandma. And they all lived together. Mum laid the big wooden dining table at night with plates, cutlery, linen and condiments. You know jam and shit. I remember we had Rose’s lime marmalade, I had never had it before. I had had Robinson’s marmalade before, but just not that one. I liked it very much. They didn’t have dinner - but they had tea at around 4 or 5. And before you went to bed, you were given some bread and dripping...ok I’m lying about the dripping. No actually I’m not - but I never liked the look of it (beef fat leftover from the roast dinner). Bleuch.

It was lucky for me that I wasn’t one of those children who pined for my mum. If it was an adventure, and I was having fun - I clean forgot about back home. It was on that trip that I learnt to ride a bike. Surely a defining moment in any child’s life, especially one whose Dad wouldn’t buy her a bike because “Girlchild not fe ride bike.” And that was the end of that until I bought my own when I was 18 (off Joe for £50 - I don’t know where he got it but it was a Muddy Fox).

They lived in a cul-de-sac (you know, like in Knots Landing), and when I went out, I had to face the barrage of racist abuse from the Bisto Kids who hadn’t seen a real live nig-nog before. However, they were soon more curious than hostile, and stopped the abuse and wanted to get involved in the games I was playing with my hosts who by the way were lovely to me. In the end everyone helped me to learn to ride the bike, and we played and played and played like our lives depended on it. Everyone came and said bye to me when it was time to go home. I think I reached some hearts and minds back there. It was a classic fish out of water scenario, but I know that those experiences have just served me so well, even now. I often feel a lot that I don’t fit in, just like the little nig-nog back in the 70s, but after a while, once people get to know you, you soon realise, it’s more curiousity than hostility.

Street Life

As well as the melanin deprived, shirtless pregnant men and park exhibitionists, summer seems to increase the number of ‘care in the community’ (CITC) (see mental health cases) cases on the streets of London. Usually dressed in layers of grime encrusted clothes, holding a tin of something liquid, legal and powerful usually called White Lightning accompanied by a small well-fed dog.

I’ll be honest, I never give them any money. Although I was tempted to give this old Chinese guy we saw in Putney something because he reminded me of my Dad. Clarke accused me of being racist. She pointed out that if he were the usual white male beggar I wouldn’t want to give him any money, it was just because he is Chinese. She did have a point.

One of my favourite stories is one my mum tells about walking past some boys who were begging money close to Guy Fawkes day (Nov 5th). Back in the 70s, kids would beg for money to buy stupidly powerful fireworks that sometimes ended up exploding in their hands or the faces of people on road. It was a legitimate enterprise, but obviously not one I was ever allowed to do. As my mum walked past them, these boys said: ‘Penny for the guy, penny for the guy’ without pause she replied: “I’ve got two guys of my own waiting for me at home.” I just love that story. It kinda sums up my own attitude. So as one of the few Londoners who has avoided the street mugging, and sexual or racial assault, I only open my purse to shopkeepers.

So a few days I'm 'promenading' near the local shops. It was around 8.30pm, but it was a balmy London evening, just beautiful. It was one of those moments where you just experience pure happiness. The weather is good, you're not wearing five layers of dark clothing that makes you hot on the train and look two sizes bigger, instead you're wearing a little dress and you're tanned and healthy looking.

Then, out of nowhere this wild-eyed yout ‘ appears. He’s all in my grill, grinning like a sleazy politician and says: “You’re mine, you’re mine.” Ah hell fucking no I'm not. First of all, you stink, and secondly, you look cracked the fuck out. Of course I just said: "No, I'm not." And shrank back as he got closer to my bright white shorts with his grimey self. I tried to side-step him. But he kept blocking my path. He was so close I could smell the stench of weeks, make that months without 'hol'ing a fresh' emanating from him and see the grime that caked his dark, heavy clothing. As I tried to back away from him, he just kept moving closer and closer to me. I didn’t want to touch him, but had to as he bore down on me with his overbearing self. My finger was all that separated us. This motherfucker looked trigger happy, I couldn't get away from him without running. I started to get worried.

Feigning confidence I said: “I’m going to stand still, and you’re going to back up and give me my space.” I stood still, but he kept coming towards me, I couldn't get past him and just felt this intense fear that he was going to touch me. Intimately. I shouted: “CAN SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP ME!” Out of nowhere (ok he was standing near Blockbusters) this Irish guy came flying towards me, and took control of the situation. He asked me where I was going, took my arm and walked with me. The Winston Silcott looking Somali yout’ tried to follow, so the Irish guy went right up in his face pressing his forehead against the other guy's, showing him he was not intimidated. I pulled him away, I was afraid he would get hurt, and that stink yout' might have a knife. My legs were like jelly, and I was close to tears. In those few moments I felt completely vulnerable. I know he would have assaulted me if I hadn’t called out for help.

Of course people were walking past like I could possibly be having a lovers tiff with someone who smelt like Pig Pen and who's face favoured Stig of the Dump. Irish guy (quite fit I might add - obviously I was not too upset to notice) and his lovely Zimbabwean girlfriend (shame) walked me back to my bike which was locked up at the net café. The guys in the net cafe said 'Stig' had assaulted a woman earlier in the week.

I called the police.

They never came.

The Hotness

It's official. London is at the centre of a heatwave and most people done lost their minds. At the moment I have the type of tan usually only seen after a week abroad on a lastminute.com holiday, and am happily surviving on a diet of fruit and salads due to a lack of feening for 'big food'. The parks are full of picnicing people burning the grass with their disposable bbqs. However, most yout's under the age of 21 can still be seen wearing head to toe black sweats and trainers. Mine included.

Usually as insecure about the purity of my African heritage as I am (don't ever call me light-skin or browning) at the first sign of a temperature above 50 degrees, I fling my beach mat out in the back garden, dig out the batty riders and the years old sun oil bought in Brazil for that orange carrotty look (CARROTTY I said not GARROTTY!) and make sure to roast the back of the legs (instant cellulite concealer). However, I've just been enjoying getting on with things, and enjoying the fact that it's not raining. Shit, I shouldn't have said the 'R' word. I'm up early to get my run in before the heat starts lickin' and I must say, this is when my admiration for my fellow white runners kicks in. How they run at midday when the sun is reaching its peak, with that pale translucent skin, burning quicker than a burger on a barbie, I'll never know. I've succumbed to the skin cancer warnings (and premature ageing ones) after reading in Essence that black women shouldn't wear less than factor 15 - but some of my white friends still seem very unconcerned about skin cancer, and tend to favour the lobster look at the best of times.

All this heat as led to increasing PDS - Public Displays of Swimwear. I do not ever want to hear anyone say that British people are reserved. Reserved my big batty. Walking through my local park you see women stripped down to their thongs as they catch some rays in their lunch hour. And in south London's gayest park - Kennington Park - it's Speedos and men rubbing oil on each other all the way.

Meanwhile some black folk who have obviously lived in this country too long won't leave their house unless absolutely necessary because 'It's too hot'. I despair. Yes Suzie Wong, I'm talking to you. And the Pessimist will only sit or walk in the shade. No meaning. I won't even allow myself to think it's too hot. Like my other namesake Goldilocks said, this summer is "just right".

Doing Bird*

I'm walking through the shortcut past Brixton Prison after spending the night at Suzie Wong's house. We went to Plan B on Sunday for her Gina Ling's birthday, where we had a wicked night dancing to old school soul and hip-hop, trying to recreate the old moves (The Wop anyone) in 3 inch wedges and heels. A fit guy I've seen before was there. Could have potential for a midnight panty raid. I don't think he'd have much to say though, but he sure did look good on the dancefloor. The only thing that let him down was he got his friend to give me his number. That hasn't happened to me since I was in secondary school and my boyfriend Vincent told my friend we hadn't kissed after 'going out' for two weeks and he was gonna chuck me if I didn't free up. So I didn't call Fit Guy for that reason. So when he tried to give me the number himself I said I had it. So he's like so why didn't you call me. So I says to him: "My name is WOMAN. So your name must be MAN." I was a little tipsy.

As I pass the prison, the huge doors open, and a big van used to transport prisoners rolls out. Mr Slick Black Man is wearing his crisp white shirt and CHiPS style shades, as he drives past me, he slows down his HMP people carrier to get his mack on. "You are really beautiful. I like you, when can I see you again?" It's honest, it's direct, it's not rude. But it's around 8.30am, I am wearing the clothes I wore the night before (with flip-flops), jeans and a sparkly t-shirt with shades, and am in desperate need of a toothbrush, hot water and strong coffee. Which means I cannot talk to him. So he gets the Mona Lisa smile as I'm too wounded to speak after only 3.5 hours sleep.

The man's on the Queen's business, but he's still got time to holla at a sister, while driving a truckful of human cargo like he's rolling on 'doves'. I had to give it to him, the brother was smooth and respectful. And I in turn respectfully turned him down.

It seems that the prison theme is the subject du jour as a new live show started yesterday from HMP Cardiff, a Category B Prison. The BBC are using our tax dollars to show us the reality about prison life. And who's face did you see first onscreen? As The Pessimist said when we talked yesterday, and I quote: "Nig-nog. Niggy-niggy nig-nog.""Did he have plaits or cornrow?" Plaits. Shame and grace.

The prison is the cleanest looking prison I have never seen. Pristine, looked like you could nyam off the floor. They showed you the inside of cells, took you through a cell search, spoke to other prisoners, a mampy white girl who obviously worked in the kitchen and was teefing all the pies, who was in for drug offences. A woman who used her kids to shoplift to support her heroin habit. Deep.

I hate programmes like this. In my opinion they act as a PR exercise for whatever service is being shown. Oh look at what a hard job we have to do. It's all just too black and white, with very little contextural analysis. I think in many cases it just serves to reinforce stereotypes about the alleged criminality of certain races. And for anyone who thinks I'm being unduly cynical, lest we forget, the Prison Service stands accused of 186 failings following the racist murder of Asian prisoner Zahid Mubarek in Feltham young offenders institution. Mubarek, who had a three month sentence for theft, was killed after being deliberately placed in a cell with known, racist psychopath skinhead Robert Stewart who battered him to death with a table leg. The Prison Service failed to protect him. I doubt this subject will be touched upon in the cosy chats between the TV presenters and prison officers.

* Bird = Doing time, and is also a euphemism for a woman, e.g. chick.

Oi! Jagger! Hush Yuh Noise!

Well. For reasons of preserving my elderly Grandma's dignity, I shall have to self-censor and cannot fully describe the circumstances under which she first met her great-granddaughter. But it will not be an entrance she will forget in a hurry. Seeing her again, it was like the past 25 years had passed in less than a month. The woman that greeted me, was not very different from the one that left Englan' a quarter of a century earlier. The only obvious sign of aging was the thinning of her hair which I noticed when she had removed her *'syrup' the next day.

Even in her 70s, my grandma is still a very attractive woman. Strong like a coconut tree, with limbs that look like they could operate heavy machinery for another fifty years. Her skin is smooth, and looks as tight as that stretched over a drum. The giveaway sign that she had long been in 'foreign' was her complexion which has deepened conker like, due to her outdoors job (as a school crossing guard - Lord help the drivers). Or it could have been due to the Max Factor Pan Stick No.2 compact which she applied to her face to 'titivate' herself for the funeral. From the look of the packaging it was as old as Clarke if not my 21 year old art student cousin 'Flin'.

The funeral passed without incident. Aunty Reka was appointed Granny's minder for when she said her last words about her daughter Sophia, and thankfully she kept them short and sweet. Uncle T videoed the whole event. Isn't that bizarre, but people do nowadays, it's just like weddings and christenings. Unfortunately, I think some footage of us laughing might turn up on it, as Granny's singing was making us crack up. Aunty Reka said: "She always did want to be Dusty Springfield."

Back at the house, faces old and new mingled, making small talk, drinking brandy with some smoking 'doobies' in the garden to the surprise of Flin. Uncle Sonny, or as my very un-pc Grandma called him 'The Cha-Cha Man' (Indian), Uncle Courtney, visiting from Florida, Don (My Dad) and others congregated in my mum's new house in Siberia a place in London which takes longer than 30 minutes to get to aka Forest Gate/Ilford/Acton and feel free to add your own).

I think I must have asked Gran a question which set her off on a journey down memory lane which took in her getting her first house in Jamaica after a hurricane, which she paid £25 for, but many people didn't trust the Government, so didn't join her in getting the house. She told of how she took on Catholic schools to get her children educated, decided against sending one of the kids to boarding school, and made them special 'combination' pants to protect them from child molesting teachers. They buttoned at the front and the back. The black people she didn't like were referred to as 'niggers' and she would hear no argument against that. She was a 'higgler', a seamstress, and a hustler, and was very proud of her good looks, loved clothes and shoes, and the dancehall on a Saturday night.....

In West Hampstead they lived in the same street where Mick Jagger lived or came to rehearse (after first living in Kilburn with the Irish as everywhere else was"No blacks, no dogs, no Irish and no children"). He used to make so much noise that she says she would go round to his house and tell him to "SHUT YUH NOISE". By this point we were all in tears. The woman is such a raconteur, she should have been on the stage. My Aunties rolled their eyes, but for me and Clarke, we got a whole new set of memories of this batty old woman. Because she fought Mick Jagger, and she won.

Cry Me A River

My Aunt Sophie died on the weekend. She's my mum's youngest sister, and only five years older than me. It's the first funeral in my immediate family, and the most unexpected. We were closer when I was younger as we spent a lot of time at my gran's, but she was someone that was always around, until I grew up and started making my own life away from my mum, and then as happens, you see less of each other.

Sophie, as is my cousin Tyrone, was born with a genetic disorder Fragile X, "Fragile X syndrome is the most common inherited cause of mental impairment. It's second only to Down Syndrome as a cause of mental retardation." My mum isn't a carrier, and neither am I. But there but for the grace of God go I. As one in every 250 women is. She had learning difficulties, and always seemed younger than her years. We always knew she was different (but not sure why until much older) and even though she was older than us, we used to boss her around, tease her and bully her. Basically we treated her like one of us. There were no kid gloves in our house.

So my mum's gone into Big Sis preparation mode sorting out the funeral of her youngest sister, helped by one of her other sisters. Whenever we go to a funeral with my mum, she says, in a series of asides, which hymns she wants, and what songs we should sing by the graveside. She doesn't want the horse and carriage, but would like the American style casket. My Dad says don't bother with the casket just put him in a cardboard box and cremate him. That man never wants to spend any money on himself. Mum drags us to the funerals of her friends so we'll know 'how to do things properly'. It's like Funerals: The Cliff Notes Version.

The big news is, the Matriarch of La Famiglia, my Grandmother, Clarke's Great Grandmother is flying in from Florida for the funeral. I haven't seen her for 20 odd years, and she's not met Clarke. She is the most cantankerous Jamaican woman you could ever wish to meet, and I am quite afraid of her. I think my mum is too. Like my mother, you can never be sure what mood she's going to greet you with. Trust me it's a Butterfly Jones novel waiting to exhale.

It will be the long overdue family reunion we all hoped for, but under circumstances we didn't wish for. Hence I'm struggling with mixed emotions. Tears of sadness for Sophie, and tears of joy at seeing my Grandma again.

A Dad Is For Life

Went to see Mr Miyagi* (my Dad) in Little Jamaica, aka Harlesden. Not because it was Father's Day, but because a visit was long overdue. Clarke was happy to tag along as she was looking Grandad pocket money.

The first half an hour of any visit to see my Dad is usually spent being lectured to, and being asked the same three questions he asks me every time I see him:

1. How is Clarke getting on at school? "Make sure, she gets an education, and don't grow up to be no dunce."
2. Why haven't you got a job? - "You need to believe in yourself and don't give up."
3. How is your boyfriend? - I'm single, but he suspects me of seeing the Bobo Dread and hiding it.

Whenever I see my Dad, I'm conscious that our time together may not be long. Usually because he insists on telling me his funeral arrangements (cremation) and showing me where he keeps his papers. He's 70 next year, so I always try to probe him about his life and family, as regretfully I never met any of them. His mum was Chinese-Jamaican, as was his sister Pearl. His Dad was called Wilfred (he never met him until he was 18 and all he gave him was a 'fowl' - he tells me this EVERY time I see him, and every time I laugh), and he had a brother called Oswald. Oswald had two children, and his sister had one called Pamela. They should still be alive.

My Aunt's name was Pearl Lee Shiu, her mother (my grandmother) was half-Chinese, and her father was full Chinese. The Chinese accepted him because his sister was considered to be Chinese. They would invite him into their homes, but not his full black friends, and he had a job in a Chinese store, where he picked up the language. Dad says he could speak fluent Chinese when he was younger. Me and Clarke were creasing up when he said this.

My Dad never thought he was better than his friends though. And he never raised me to think I should be extra proud of being part Chinese. Everything I know about his family, I've had to prise out of him. He loved his sister Pearl because she gave him anything he wanted, and paid for him to go to school. I really wish I'd got the chance to meet them.

Although my Mum and Dad split up when I was young, I've always had a relationship with my Dad. I cannot imagine what life must be like, not to have that person to refer to. To always wonder what they're like, to wonder if you look alike and not to know where they are. It makes me angry that so many men find it so easy to walk away from their children's lives, or to be in their lives and still let them down by not giving them the right support instead of the newest trainers. Not forgetting the women that hurt their kids by spoiling them rotten and not letting them see their dads. On Father's Day, and every day, big up the Dad's that are doing the right thing, under whatever circumstances. It takes a real man, to be a Dad.

*I know he's Japanese. Japanese-American.

Blogger Be Thy Name

I and I has been busy spreading the gospel of blogging (that’s not blasphemous is it?). I was invited to speak on a panel about Black Creativity in digital media by B3 Media at the ICA. And there’s you lot thinking all I do is buy clothes and shoes, and talk about ravin’...tsk, tsk. (It was just the one pair of shoes last week).

I've not done much public speaking of late, but took the gig, as it’s something I need to work on. I managed to firm it in front of the small audience that showed up despite it being the weekend that both the World Cup started and high summer came to London.

After the event, I was approached by a college lecturer who asked me to speak to his students about blogging at the College of North East London. So on Thursday I went up there. I thought back to the time I re-started my education at a similar college in north London. And when I got there, I bumped into Nicky, a woman who was on the course with me all those years ago. I've literally come full-circle.

The group knew nothing about blogging but were enthusiastic and asked lots of questions. I really enjoyed the class, and sharing the knowledge I’ve gained from almost a year of blogging, and my knowledge of media law when it comes to defamation and libel. The nerves didn't make an appearance at all.

Afterwards the Lecturer took me for a drink, which turned into dinner as I was hungry due to the fact that I can’t speak on a full stomach so hadn’t eaten for hours. We tried and failed to watch the big match - England v Trinidad and Tobago, as the one pub in the no bredrin’s land that is Tottenhale Hale lacked a TV. We were having such a laugh though, it didn't seem to matter. And lawd the food was good. By all accounts it was the usual disappointing England performance. You know, the one that’s been seen at every World Cup since 1966.

The way England play football is painful, and always has been. I can barely bring myself to watch any more of their games. It’s not that I don’t support them, I do, but not the blind support that’s been going on which does not take into account the team's failings. I guess I’m more of a realist than your average white van man. With their bloody chav England flags everywhere. I’ve even seen a man with a St George’s flag arm cast, and a people carrier with four flags? Why the hell do you need four? Beckham cyaan see dem!

World Cup fever has overtaken my house. As perfectly demonstrated by the broken window in my kitchen courtesy of Clarke ‘Bruk it like Beckham’ . To say I was VEX is an understatement. Both she and the other kids hanging around my kitchen door listening to her getting told off, got the Alex Ferguson hairdryer treatment. I swear my meighbours are on the verge of calling social services as every other day I am blaring that child out for some misdemeanour. She's lazy, hard of hearing and draining. If she doesn’t get a degree I’m going to make her pay back all the money I’ve spent on her. With interest.

I think I need a holiday.

Hot Dis Year

The long hot week and weekend was very welcome. I upped my cycling quota, and even ran into work one morning (to Tower Hill/Wapping) doing my best Kelly Holmes impression (and no I don't mean looking hench in an evening dress). Its quite amazing the difference a year makes. This time last year I was moaning about my turkey legs, and dying to wear skinny jeans.

Well the thighs are going down, slowly but surely. I finally gave up smoking, and I am pretty fit (and don't I know it). But it's not enough. The next phase is the targeted summer wardrobe slim down. I've bought the frocks (all size 12), and it's on beeyatches. It seems like it gets harder to maintain your figure, let alone lose weight as you get older. I went to my friend's 40th birthday party recently though, talk about holding back the years. She looks absolutely fabulous at 40. But then she did at 20, 35 and 39. Some people just have that real determination to stay fit and healthy. And they feel better that way.

But as much as I feel good being able to run, jump and wine and go down (rarer and rarer these days), I feel well happy with some apple pie and custard, I feel irie with some bun and cheese, and I feel nice 'to bomba' with a big plate of 'ard food! LOL. But I guess sometimes, you just haf fe say no. Cos I feel nice in a pretty, short-ish, frock. And I feel irie in some white jeans, and I feel nice to bomba in some battyriders. Forget that last one, never had the bottle even when I was slim, and prob won't when I am again. Then again. I might be feeling irie.

Shame and Grace

I was watching BBC News the other morning while runnig late and struggling  into my cycling gear. It should really include body armour as I was almost knocked off my bike three times yesterday, including once by a yardie who jumped the lights (bombaraas). I thought I'd give Big Brother (the morning repeat) a break as my inner snob was berating me about the amount of trash/bollocks TV I'm currently consuming.

There was an item on a headteacher who has come up with the novel idea of going round to his pupils yards and confiscating their Playstations/Nintendo GameCubes/ or Xboxes, as he realised that some of them were turning up at school tired, lethargic and disinterested from staying up late playing computer games.

The headteacher was sat on the sofa with Exhibit Number 1: The Cheeky Looking Black Kid. Shame and Grace. Back in the day, we used to laugh about how slack white people were at parenting their kids. One of my white school friends Dawn used to tell her mum to shut-up. 'Try know', (as Wong says) I would not be here to tell the tale if I'd ever told my hair-trigger temper of a Mum to shut-up. Even now.

So this little 'butter wouldn't melt' (enjoying the cute phase before teenage spots land) yout' was telling Dermot Murnaghan how his teacher came to his house and took his games console. All THREE of them. Black parents hang your heads in SHAME! The yout' has THREE games console, which each cost around £200, not to mention the TV in his bedroom. He said: "I didn't think he had the right to do that." Well son, if you had a REAL parent instead of the spineless, non-boundary setting one that you live with, he wouldn't need to come to your yard and do that.

What a shameful day (among many) for black people. We are so lax with our youts' nowadays that a teacher can go on national TV and talk about his 'initiative' to go into people's houses and remove his pupils toys. The interview also revealed that this child was outside of mainstream schooling. So, even though the child is basically failing at school yet his parents/parent still felt it was okay for him to have THREE games consoles. No wonder my daughter hates me. Last week she was on a TV ban, before that a clothes shopping ban (one too many eediot detentions) and if she ain't acting right her FATHER removes the Playstation. And try know, an unexpected slap works wonders.

It's a state of affairs someone recently christened 'loving neglect'. A phenomena which affects all classes and creeds. We live in a society which is no longer afraid of debt, and has embraced the 'bling' mentality wholeheartedly, to some parents, saying no to their child is almost akin to being cruel. It's not just the single parents who try to make up for the absent one by buying lots of stuff, but as seen on the programme Don't Mess With Miss Beckles, some middle-class parents she encountered didn't agree with her strict boundaries, goal setting or making their children study when they didn't want to. They didn't agree with her 'methods' they said. Well at least she had some in comparison to their 'let's just let Little Johnny shit all over us and do what he wants when he wants to' approach! Dyam fools.

As Spike Lee said some years back, some parents need to: "WAKE UP!"

Leaders of the Old School

Apologies for the blog silence. Am having problems with my home connection (see disconnection) and the wireless network I manage to latch onto every now and then is somewhat unreliable.

Blogging is my first love, and it will be my last. But I must confess, MySpace, forever known as MyPipe has become my concubine. Just like with my blog, I've met some interesting people such as JElbourne, Josephine and Son of Dan. But MyPipe seems to have become an ante room for British hip-hops old school, and I have spent many a night reconnecting with some of them.

In particular I’ve been having a long dialogue with Hijack’s DJ Supreme. He was definitely, apart The She-Rockers own DJ, Streetsahead (a sick white DJ), one of my favourites. The scratching on Style Wars is legendary in the UK and US. The She-Rockers and Hijack both released their first singles on the same record label Music of Life. Our's came first, produced by Public Enemy's Professor Griff. We were the act with the buzz on the street at MOL because of that, but Hijack: The Terrorist Group, always did their best to give us the impression that they considered us silly little girls and that they would soon blow us out the water. And so they did.

Hijack, were the hip-hop group that made the US sit up and take notice. Handpicked to be signed by Ice-T to become part of his Rhyme Syndicate (I know you heard of these niggas Zed) they were British hip-hops great black hopes - that included the pasty-faced white boy who hung with them - can someone please tell me what he actually did?.

Supreme and I laugh about it all now, and how tough we all thought we were back then, with us girls giving as good as we got. Last month he sent me a copy of DJ Supreme presents: The Turntable Trixters. Which is to all intents and purposes the story of Hijack. Despite the fact that I appear on it (with the shiniest face ever to avoid pressed powder), it’s a really good movie (available to buy on www.djsupreme.com).

The story follows the classic music documentary narrative structure, the groups creation, battle against adversity to become recognised on the scene, their ascent to musical glory, and then their descent due to internal conflicts and eventual sad implosion. For anyone who is into hip-hop, it’s a must-see. If you were down (that's so old school) and are interested in the genesis of Hijack, how Supreme got into hip-hop, the beef between DETT (Pogo and the rest) and the Trixters, you have to see this. Minor grumbles about the length aside (by The Pessimist), it’s fascinating and if you're a hip-hop trainspotter, like me, you'll be glued to the screen. Each Hijack track heard sent me hurtling into worlpools and vortexes of long forgotten hip-hop memories (that sounds so Kool Keith).

Supreme is in exile, well he may as well be as he lives in Switzerland, he's a successful club DJ, still showcasing his trademark scratching techniques, happily married, but best of all my homie's a snowboarder like me! YEAH BUDDY! Next year we’re gonna link up and terrorise the slopes with some new tricks of our own. Get me!



P.S. Watch this space for release of The Story of the She-Rockers: British Hip-Hops Destiny’s Child*.

P.P.S: Don't get it twisted. I am in no way comparing myself to Bouncy, but am merely making a comparison between our frequent line-up changes.

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?