"Gunshot Inna De Air"

Three things let me know I was back home and the holiday was well and truly over; I had to do housework, I had an argument with my mum, and there was a shooting in Brixton.

Clarkie and I were shopping in Brixton at the time of the shooting. I had popped down there to look for a new washing machine, and buy some meat from the market. I also ended up buying a new bike. Brixton was mad busy. There were lots of schoolchildren walking in posses looking smart in fresh new uniforms, and eating chips and takeaways on the road(not my child).

The shop that sells washing machines is about five minutes from the main high street in Brixton, and when we came back to the central area to go to Iceland, the road outside Brixton was cordoned off with police tape. A now all too-familiar sight. According to the Evening Standard, a man opened fire on two teenage boys who were in the queue in McDonalds, in front of children and families. Suzie Wong said one of her co-workers daughters witnessed the whole thing, she called her mum from McDonalds.

This gun shit is getting well out of hand. Apparently while I was away there a number of shootings around London. Why I find it so disturbing is because my daughter is at an age where she commutes to school by herself, and to places nearby, like Suzie Wong's house. Now I'm feeling more and more obliged to get a car and ferry her around more, as I just don't feel it is safe for her to travel about on her jacks.

What must the parents of those teenagers be going through. The government needs to do more to get the guns off the street, and to protect the people. But I doubt that they will. Things are so bad, that despite paying a tax which is supposed to provide these services, people are paying out of their own pockets to hire private security firms. Tony Blair owns a £3m house in Connaught Square, just off Edgware Road (ten minutes from Marble Arch). The residents there are paying a security firm to ensure their safety after muggings and burglaries. If these rich motherfuckers don't feel secure on their own doorsteps, what chance do we have.

"Ah Your Name Mention Tonight"

I'm back. I survived the hardest week of partying ever. RJS is like the black people's Ibiza, without the Class A drugs. OK, a fair bit of weed smoking was gwaaning, but other than that, the stimulant of choice was a bottle of Courvoisier. Make that bottles. Damn - black folk have a capacity for drinking on a scale that makes white folk look teetotal. And not one fight did I see after the dances ended. Unless you count the scrum for the chicken shop. After Mistri put on one of his CD's at the food spot, one girl said: "Only black people could turn a chicken shop into a rave." Sho' you right.

As a RJS virgin, I didn't really know what to expect, but there were many highlights during the week.

JAMAICAN ANGELS
Most nights we had a theme for the evening's party. The 'cheerleaders' and 'ballers' night was one of the best nights. Although it was stupid of the organisers to split the dance between two venues. That was also the night I drank the most which culminated in me doing a pretty good impression of dancehall queen Carlene. The fact that for once I was in a rave in trainers, usually a no-no, meant that me and my old dancing partner Suzie Wong (or Swellin' as we renamed her due to her moodiness) could relive our past and buss moves like we used to back in the day. Once the ragga came on, the 'Jamaican Angels' as the DJ christened us (due to our Jamaican cheerleader outfits) while biggin' us up on the mic, danced like no one was watching and let loose with some moves. One of my friends said 'I have never seen you like that before'. Probably because after an hour my hot shoes ah give me hot foot.

SURVIVAL STORY
It was amazing how quickly I got used to the lack of sleep. Once you accepted that with six girls sharing you would always get woken up (especially cos we are not quiet girls) you were better off. My strategies for coping with the lack of sleep were: drinking lots of water, eating lots of protein. Using anti-shadow eye cream, the Lizzie Arden 8 hour cream worked a treat too. And a few hours sunbathing and a swim a day worked wonders.

DA MANS DEM
There were quite a few about, but only one caught my eye. Of course he was the wrong one. Really losing faith in my ability to recognise a good one, so am urging all decent men to step up to the plate. I don't know why guys feel that women should be running them down. In my experience, most men feel intimidated if women have the confidence to talk to them and let them know she's interested. Most men are quite simplistic in their thinking: "If she does this with me, she's like that with everyone." Long. One guy said to me "You're a 'circuit girl'". Meaning I am a regular on a particular scene. Usually this is in no way a compliment. Can I just confirm that this is not a way to endear yourself to a woman you may be interested in. The following night after we danced to a couple of tunes, the man was looking around like a meerkat. So I said: "Why are you looking around like that?" and he said "You're acting like you already own me." Damn son. I walked off and left that mo'fo standing and did not chat to him again. Imagine if I had run it down. I would have felt like a ee-diot.

Other than that fool, I met some really nice guys, especially when I was playing volleyball, and went go-karting, we had a laugh together, and from what I could see (when I wasn't half-drunk) they treated the girls with respect. People were really friendly most the time, and it was good to see my community enjoying themselves.

DA GIRL'S DEM
You know the competitiveness between girl's always rears it's head when man is in short supply, and this was no different. Girl's would just walk past without even a morning 'dawg'. But for once, no one tried to 'chuck it' with us. There was plenty of looking, and 'blanking' going on. But I made a point of saying morning to most people I saw that were part of the RJS group. Anybody black basically. There were some girls that Suzie Wong identified as long time haters, so out of group loyalty tried to avoid them. But this got harder and harder as the week went on because I would be 'lean up' and just forget who was who! Also, some girls would appear friendly, but you know they were just trying to 'eggs up' with your group because we were friendly with certain man. It's not about that.

One guy said 'the quality' of the girl's was the best yet on an RJS trip. So for the man's dem it was cool. It definitely appeared that lots of the girl's made a big effort to look the part, although I would say that some were showing too much T&A at points, but that's their ting, just not mine.

POOL PARTY
We were lounging by the pool one day and it was pretty quiet except for a ipod playing on some speakers. Then one of the DJs, 'T' went and got his laptop and speakers and that was it, bashment. We were out there for six hours in the blazing sun. I rocked my 'retro' skirted bikinis which got props, and felt pretty comfortable doing the walk from the lounger to the swimming pool despite being surrounded by lots of skinny bitches. Mission accomplished. My tan is dark burnished brown and hopefully should survive well into the wintertime.

I always used to think when I travelled to Europe, it would be nice to do this with a group of black folk because we would have the music and the vibes in the evening time. And it really lived up to my expectations.

THE WONG SISTERS
I had a really good time with Suzie Wong's sisters. Pure joke from Gina Ling, Michie, and Gill. I have known them for a long time through Wong, but you don't really know people until you live with them. I was a bit 'fraid because them lot can argue nuff when they're together(I know I can talk) but it was cool. In a way they were my saving grace as Wong spent nuff time sleeping (boring) so we would go off and do stuff together.

One of the arguments Gill and Gina had was the funniest thing I've ever heard. Come like argument soundclash. First of all, it kicked off because Gina's shower gel was finished and she was 'bent' (upset). During the middle of the shouting and screaming (as we were getting ready) Gina started singing: "I ain't never scared, I ain't never scared" and Gill sang back: "Yuh too bad mind, yuh too bad mind". I nearly wet myself. Never before have I heard people 'clash' each other while arguing. Tears did come in me eye. After that we just would sing 'I ain't never scared' to each other and collapse in fits if laughter.

MENTION
One of the RJS organisers came up to me, half-cut I think and said: "Don't t'ink seh I ain't notice you.Me ah watch you. Ah your name mention tonight." (Translation: I'm am the hot girl) Did I mention he is white. Deep. After that, it became the catchphrase of the trip. If we saw a guy that looked alright - we just shortened it to 'mention'.

Day Six: I´m A Soldier

I can´t remember functioning on so little sleep since I first became a mum. This is just stupid.

Wednesday night: 4 hours
Thursday night: 2 hours
Friday night: 3 hours
Saturday night: 4 hours
Sunday night: 5 hours

Red Bull is my new best friend, and I choose alcoholic drinks according to which will make me more lively, hence I was drinking tequila shots last night. Which along with champagne, and vodka did not give me a hangover.

Had a brilliant day by the pool. The soundmen (djs) do not go anywhere without their music. So power was jacked poolside, laptop plugged in and tunes blazed out like the sun all day. The coolie girl tan is on lock. And funnily enough, I´m beginning to function rather well now.

Day Four: No Sleep Til´....

Forget holiday. The raving marathon continues. And so does my headache. Last night´s rave was at Lineker´s Bar, and Rampage flew in the spice things up a bit. I decided to have a ´dry´ night, no alcohol, and stuck with water. It´s not about falling sick from too much alcohol and dehydration.

Have got to know a few people from playing volleyball (mainly guys) and just being friendly in general. The woman to man ratio is high as expected, with around 10 girls to 3 man. It´s not really an issue for me, but it does manage to breed a bit of resentment among the girls, and in the toilets conversations seem to centre on the fact that women are ´screwing´ (eyeballing) each other. So far so good. Bad breed Butterfly has not had to make an appearance. I pray it stays that way as the lack of sleep generally affects my mood adversely making me even more short tempered than usual.

Other than that, there is generally a good atmosphere at the parties, and the men that are there are being respectful. Everyone is drinking sensibly and we´ve had no casualties, and don´t expect to, but this ´holiday´is not for the fainthearted. Because of my headache I really wasn´t feeling staying out late, but just as I was about to leave they started dropping the old school ragga and I couldn´t leave. We closed the dance at 7am....

I was well impressed with myself (´llow me) as I was wearing some of those fashionable short shorts. I have not worn shorts out in public since....19 long time. All that work did pay off as I felt good, and wasn´t feeling paro (noid) about my big thighs. I wore them with my jewelled TopShop wedges (last season) for added height and a nice black silky wrap top from ToSho (two seasons). It is nice to get dressed up everyday and go somewhere, that´s one of the nice things about holidays. You don´t really have a ´butters´(ugly) day.

I´ve had 2.5 hours sleep and we´re going on a day trip to the beach. I have my yellow polka dot bikini on, and the coach will be here in 15 minutes. I´m going for a full english now (sorry personal trainer). OY OY!!!

21.56pm

I went to bed with a headache brought on no doubt by the high level of alcohol consumption and over-exertions on the dancefloor. And then I woke up with it. I swum with it, sunbathed with it, and despite the 3.5 Panadol Extras ingested, have still not managed to shake it. It´s my third night here, and third party. Last night I must have got in at 6am, and was still called a lightweight.

There´s Karaoke at 11pm, suffice to say, they will not be seeing my black ass. Black people take karaoke too seriously. People act like they´re on American Idol and Simon Cowell is judging them. I´m only going to watch, so I´ll just try and sleep, something I´m finding hard to do for long with five other bodies our ñiving quarters. Someone gets up and starts talking (loudly) and that´s it, you´re up.

It´s gonna be a struggle to stay looking human on this punishing schedule. But tomorrow´s the all-day beach party. Gotta fix up and look sharp by then *yawns*.

The Malaga Diaries: We Run Tings, Tings Noh Run We

Finally got to Malaga after the journey from Hades. Stupidly early flight meant we were awake for twenty-four and then some hours. Some people didn´t handle it well.

The first two days Suzie Wong was acting like the baddest bitch. Sleep deprivation made her a monster and we were all suffering. Michie Wong is filming the trip and when she played back the footage of Suzie Wong acting up, she couldn´t believe she was really going on like that.

We got to the first night´s rave around 2.30am. Everyone really looked good. Grown and sexy in dresses. I was wearing a full length halter necked number from Miss Selfridge I bought last year. It´s a style that´s become very fashionable this year. And yes I am bigging up myself for being fashion forward. I teamed it with a pair of snakeskin print open-toe wedges which I found in East Street for £5.99. The shoes dem look good, and for once I did not complain of foot pressure. Praise Jesus.

Everyone was sleeping before the dance except me because I was restless. So I went and ate some food, found a Baskin Robbins and had a sundae, and made like E.T. Phoned. Home. We´re in Fuengirola a real English people´s holiday spot. The Spanish like to stare a bit, but it don´t really bother me. Some English tourists have been a bit funny. One of them said as some of the girl´s we know walked by¨"Don´t ever let me go out with one of them." As if you bombarass. And why is it the English always have to wear an England football shirt on holiday? What´s that about. Then they act stupid and everyone knows, it´s the English football hooligans.

We had a sports day yesterday. After doing a bit of sunbathing, I played volleyball for a couple of hours. It was really good fun, and there were lots of buff guys playing. Heh heh heh. But unfortunately despite my efforts at marshalling ´my´ team. We lost three times in a row. The girls on the team let us down because they couldn´t play at all, it was embarassing. I love sport, and was always the captain of the teams at school. My pet hate is girl´s that can´t catch or throw a ball. So you know I spent time with my babygirl teaching her how to catch ball. And she´s very good. Some of these girls don´t seem to know what their hands can do other than apply make-up.

Last night we had our ´cheerleader´theme night. We went as Jamaican cheerleaders. We had these Jamaica vests and short black skirts. (I had some black adidas boxing boots too). The djs bigged us up nuff on the mike. As soon as we got in the dance we were ´brukking out´like we were in that David LaChapelle film ´Rise´. Well I was anyway. Because we were wearing trainers, we were able to really dance properly for once, not just do the ´foot pressure´ two-step. All the dances I usually reserve for my living room in front of the TV came out. I felt like 18 again.

The alcohol measures out here come like when you go house party. Half the glass is filled with alcohol, and I´m talking tall glasses. So as the night wore on, and we got merrier and merrier, the dancing got more and more outlandish. When the dancehall music came on that was it. The Jamaican came out in me and I was bending down backways in a half-crab, and dropping down on the floor booty-shaking. Shabby. I hope the big black knickers did cover my modesty.

The Spanish people working in the bars have been wicked. And lots of Spanish people have been coming into the bars just to rave with us. They are so amazed by the whole scene in the clubs, and were baffled when everyone was singing along to the popular tunes. Chris Sweeney, one of the promoters for the trip said they wanted to know how everyone knows the words to the songs.

That´s one of the things I love about these type of dances. It´s very Jamaican. For some people it´s too old-fashioned, and they say it hasn´t changed in years. But that´s what I like about it. Even though my parents are Jamaican, I was born in England. But going to these dances I feel I get to express my Jamaicanness to the full. I mean, I can hardly start singing and dancing and saying ´wheel´when I´m working at some newspaper can I!

We're All Going On a Summer Holiday

Despite my recent blog big-up in a free London paper, I have not actually been posting anything for new readers (wishful thinking) to digest. Duh.

Apologies for the MIA behaviour, but Butterfly got a grown-ass gig, still freelance but some regular hours in-house at one of the big papers. It's all good, a bright shiny building in one of London's ritziest areas. It's a small 'hack' (journalist) world, and I keep bumping into people I studied with at City – aka the 'hacks' finishing school - as well as others I just know from around the journo way.

I have to do my usual BPHC (black people headcount) just to see who is about and how many. There's actually quite a few outside the kitchen, and not wearing the uniform of the cleaning company.

The brothers in the staff cafeteria are being their usual interested selves. I'm polite and stuff, but one of them pissed me off when he asked me where I was from. I said my parents are Jamaican. "You don't look Jamaican." I said: "What does Jamaican look like?" And the man pulled a 'screwface'. Whatever.

"Where are you from?", I asked. "Nigeria". "Are you Ibo or Yoruba?" He said: "Yoruba". Eh heh. "How do you know about Ibo and Yoruba?". I said: "I might be Jamaican, but I am not ignorant." And tried to walk off in as dignified a manner as I could muster which was quite hard in my too tight pencil skirt.

A summer of freelancing at home has taken its toll of my office fashion. Lots of raving garms, and not enough work garms. It doesn't help that it coincides with the change in the fashion season, and we're having an Indian summer. Que nightly wardrobe trauma as I put aside an hour to get something half decent together. It's not that I care that much, but it's mainly because I will end up being late if I do it in the morning.

Every night I go through the wardrobe and try to pull together something which is not too revealing, not too tight, doesn't make me look fat, and doesn't crease too much when I fold it as I ride to work. As you can imagine it's a lot more pressure than my usual style choices, 'thigh-skimming' or 'boob-flashing'?

Next week I'm off on my holidays to Malaga. Yes, it's finally here, the trip I have been wanging on about for some months now. I ran, biked, jumped and humped. Ok, forget the humping. Got a personal trainer, and took up cycling in a big way. I dropped a dress size, lost inches, and two chins. Unfortunately the holiday coincides with major tummy bloat and extreme body dissatisfaction. But the first heffa I see bigger than me will soon put that into perspective. Trust me there's always someone on the beach fatter than you, wearing something they shouldn't, and looking like they're having a better time. So don't watch that.

I have 'molto' bikini's (many), some cute Kelis style skirted ones and some skimpy triangle ones for when I start feeling brave after I've had a few days in the sun to cover the old cellulite. Although the word is that some brothers like cellulite. Thank god for pervy brothers.

It's a group holiday, a black 18-30 (more like 18-50) and I'm sure there are will be plenty of 'saga's' to tell. Although the mantra is: "What goes on in Malaga, stays in Malaga." And I shall be keeping a diary. Web addict that I am, I will probably update at least once. I have three aims for the holiday:

1. Nothing will happen on anyone else's time except mine. I will not rush for no one, and I do not response to no one but me. ME ME ME. For a whole week I will not hear: "Mummy can you...can I...can we..I need...my hair..where are...what's for dinner...". Sorry babe - but mummy be back soon.

2. I will enjoy spending time with my bredrin Suzie Wong who made this possible for me, her sisters and Lou. Grown women with wildy different personalities and it will be a challenge at times no doubt. But, it's all about enjoyment, so hopefully any negatives will not last long. The less said about the last set of women I went away with the better. Let's just say, they didn't know the 'road code'. Man was the be-all and end-all and certain gyal did lose their mind over a 'wotless' boy.

3. I will make time for myself to go and explore the town, have some authentic Spanish tapas, buy some shoes (it is Spain after all) and find some vintage clothing. I always did love the flamenco look.

Other than that I'm gonna rave it out, and come back bruk up with a 'coolie girl' tan. Wish you was dere!

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.