Preach Papa Preach

Oh the bliss. A full nights sleep with no wake-up call. My eyes opened at 12.15pm, closed again and opened again around 2pm. Got a call from my friend Ronaldinho (not his real name but he’s learning to samba dance and he plays football) we chewed the fat after which I got up. Lawd, that sleep felt so good. Called the Bobo Dread, he’s usually in the manor on a Saturday and passes by for a cup of tea. He passed by and gave me a download of series 1 of The Wire (my nigga), and dropped me to the laundrette to deposit my service wash (machine bruk down). We chatted about winning the lottery. He would launch a magazine and a TV channel. I would launch myself down Sloane Street and on a plane to Jamaica.

Got myself together to see Mr. Miyagi (my Dad) in Harlesden. As soon as I got off the train I felt like a foreigner. Harlesden is the land that fashion forgot. It’s like the area for black chavs. Sportswear pon top of sportswear. Peacocks is the biggest store on the high street. No name brand shops at all. I stuck out like a sore thumb with my TopShop outfit and big silver Russell and Bromley bag. I may as well have had a sticker saying ‘bougie black bitch’ on my forehead.

I stopped off at the Jamaican food place on the high street, One Stop. I’ve been going there for years, but the girl that works in there, if she ever said please or thank you, she might crumble and collapse in a heap of dust. You know I had to cuss her about it already, so now , ME, I don’t look for it. True you don’t go in there bombaclaating and rassclaating they wanna treat you like you’re some eediot.

What a way some black people ‘fraid of educated, mannersable people. It’s a shame. I know she hasn’t forgot the cussing because she tried to ‘boy’ me as Clarke says. It was blatantly my turn, and she served some men on the right who were not in the queue. Why don’t West Indian men like to queue? They just breeze past you and say ‘Gimme me two pattie, jerk chicken dinner and a festival’ like you’re invisible. Dem get pon me nerves.

So I said loudly, can you order my dinner while your doing theirs...please (what a way people can’t think for themselves). You could almost grab the attitude hanging in the air. That bitch has been working in that shop way too long. What’s that about? Ain’t she got no ambition in life? Or is her only ambition to give people attitude while she serves them curry goat. As Michie Wong says, “Can’t relate”.

It’s been a while, but Mr. Miyagi looked well and was in good spirits. I ate my food, cleaned up the house, and we watched X Factor. Dad rightly predicted that the nig-nog, Dionne would get evicted, you know he was cussing.

“The ting is black people have so much talent, and some of dem don’t even know it. Dem don’t haf fe learn to sing. Dem born and dem can sing. Look at you, you did draw some picture when you was in school, and you had a talent fe it. But you don’t even use it.You have all t’ree talents but you only using one. Yes, some white people can sing. But dem cyaan sing like black people. You can do anyting that you waan to, you just haf fe believe inna youself.”

As I watched Justin Timberlake on Parkinson, and Jay Kay of Jamiroquai on the BBC Electric Proms show, Dad’s words came back to me. They’re good yes, but although they make me move, they don’t move me. I heard a Luther Vandross song in a dance recently and I wanted to cry. Admittedly I was the wrong side of Gina Ling’s quarter bottle of vodka. The man’s voice sounded sooo sweet. I was saying to Wong, why did he have to die so soon?

At least, he got his props while he was alive though unlike many other talented blackies. I just bought his song Shine on iTunes - it’s so wicked. He’s riding the Chic riddim ‘My Forbidden Lover’ - he sounds so alive, and I’m dancing as much to his voice as I am to the riddim. Luther didn’t have to try to change with the times. His voice was timeless.

Look at Omar, the man is stupidly talented, a fantastic singer, composer and arranger. The song he wrote and produced for Mica Paris ‘Should’ve Known Better must be over ten years old and it is a classic. He sung at DJ Swing’s funeral, and it was the best performance I’ve ever seen him give. His new material is fantastic. But I couldn’t tell you the last time I saw him given any raatid airtime on TV.

Rapper Ty has released an album recently, I’ve not seen him on TV (video in heavy rotation on Channel U). As a live act, he has raised the bar for hip-hop performances. But some new white boy on the block like this guy Jamie T will get wall to wall media coverage and hailed as the next big thing for daring to write ‘socially conscious neo-realistic lyrics’. Now there’s a new idea. Whatever will they think of next. Don’t even get me started on Lily Allen.

We had a fantastic period in the 90s with Black British soul music, now you’d be hard-pressed to name any black British soul singers. And when they do release stuff, it’s just like X-Factor, it don’t matter if you have a great voice like Dionne, man like Simon ‘love a black gyal’ Cowell want to tell you that you’re just a backing singer. Luther Vandross was a backing singer. Dionne, big up your chest, you tried a ting, but no one can deny your talent. You brought it to X-Factor, and you leave with it. Fuck bombaclaat Simon Cowell (yes I am halfway through a bottle of rose as I write this).

I talked family stuff with Pops and about the new job and Clarke. “Make her know she must get a h’education or else she will not get nowhere in life”.

He said my Mum had been down to see him the other week (they split up when I was about 9 after he went to Jamaica for three years and word came back he had shacked up with a woman with four pickney). He said that she looked so pretty that day, he had to tell her. And that the older she got, the more beautiful she looked.

When I got on the train to go home I remembered what he said, and had to blink back the tears that started welling up in my eyes. These days it seems that youth, and maintaining it is the most important thing in the ‘mainstream’ world. Me, I don’t worry. I look at my mum and my Dad, and I know my genes are on point. But working in the media, so many ‘stories’ focus on how people look, do they look bruk down , have they had plastic surgery, are they ageing gracefully. And here’s my Dad acknowledging my mother’s beauty as she approaches her 60s. It was so moving, I couldn’t help but think, I hope one day, I’m fortunate enought to meet someone who will think the same way about me.

P.S - Omar is at Plan B the first Sunday in December. Represent. Ty is at Jazz Cafe later this month.

Butterfly Goes on a Mini Adventure

On my way out of the plantation, I grabbed a copy of one of the free London papers. My chauffeur driven ride home was comforting, and even though I was yawning once every 30 secs, it was Friday night, and I felt haunted.

Clarkie is off with her cousins, and so I have a very rare whole, free, weekend with no responsbilities. Except maybe to take out the rubbish and wash up the dishes that had been stinking out the kitchen for the last two days. What was a girl to do?

I read the paper with a cup of tea, and a small item alerted me to the fact that legendary hip-hop DJ Cashmoney, from Philly, was playing at a bar in Brixton. There was no point in calling Suzy Wong, she was baby-sitting for her sisters, it was 12.30am, and I guess probably too short notice for most people. An hour later, I clip-clopped out of the house in my grey suede ankle boots, skinny jeans, and grey pleather Primark jacket to catch the number 2 to Brixton. I guess that hip-hop blood still runs hot through my veins.

Inside it was ram, and there he was. The Legendary DJ Cashmoney. I got a vodka tonic, found a ‘kotch’, and just jiggled my hips to the music. Saw a few peeps I knew, the comedian Toju who plied me with compliments about how good I looked (always welcome after a week on nights), ‘glowing’ he said (that Nars loose powder is the bomb) and ex-RPM dancer and filmmaker Mark, who was sporting a cool new 'black punk' haircut. I touched his head, and as I moved away from him, a ‘plainers’ girl (i.e. not pretty, but not busted) came from behind and looked at me as she made an exagerrated grab for him, as if to say ‘ah my man dis’. Daaam girl. Well everyone have to watch their man, but I understand the plainers girls definitely have to work harder. Plenty manteef deh bout. And in that relationship, her man is definitely the main attraction. I’m just saying.

Cashmoney played a good set, unfortunately the majority of the crowd were quite young, or just people out on the piss, so he couldn’t get that deep. But it was nice to hear some Main Source, KRS1, Eric B, Tribe Called Quest, Nas, Lupe Fiasco and Roots Manuva. I mean hearing any one of those tunes would normally make my night , but all of them?!? I was transported back to that teenage flygirl who wore C17 jeans (a black British flex), purple and white Patrick Ewings, and a purple leather goose jacket in a hip-hop jam all night and never felt hot.

When Cashmoney came off the decks he came and stood right by me, all my London cool went out the fucking window, and I was shaking his hand and telling him how I saw him when he first came to London in 19-long-time. He was cool though, very humble and didn’t act like I was trying to dash him some coochie like Rakim did when I met him. As if. I mean, if you were gonna go the hip-hop ho route, you wouldn’t choose Rakim would you? I mean, he’s a god! It would have been LL. He was the hip-hop pin-up, and didn’t disappoint when I met him. Damn fine ass big-wet-lipped motherfucker. I most definitely would have back then. And I would have broadcast it myself to MOR (Man On Road - copyright S).

I got talking to this stout looking 'red' guy Jason. “Did you used to rap?”. Oh no. My cover was blown. Now I look like a sad has-been bitch in a rave on my jacks. “Yes”. “What group was you in?”. “She-Rockers”. “Oh shit. Yeah.You look the same man.” Why is he lying? I'm nearly three stone heavier, and I have shoulder lengths dreads as opposed to the flygirl cut I rocked back then (Just for the record, Monie copied me). We got talking about music, and he recommended Lupe Fiasco and Omar’s albums (I know. I’m late). We talked about food we liked, in particular Japanese, Chinese and Indian restaurants. And as I live in Vauxhall he said I should go to the Sunday market and visit the Tate Britain, which I haven’t. Ever. Unfortunately as cool as he was to talk to. I didn’t fancy him. I have Mandingo syndrome. I like them tall, dark, and bigger than me. And he was short, red, and bigger, but in girth, not height. So I’m shallow, fucking sue me. But we hung out, danced, and I said I would see him back there in a week when singer Horace Brown (One For The Money) comes to Plan B.

A squat African man walked by me purposefully a few times. I could see he was on a ‘eggs’ flex. He made a beeline for me so I gave him ‘me back, me back, me back, me bloodclaat back’. Translation: I turned away and started to talk to Jason.
“Why are you turning away? The man wants to talk to you.” “He’s not the guy.” “What are you looking for?” “I ain’t looking (lie), and if I was, he still wouldn’t be the guy.” “Why not?” “Because, I know what I like, and dat nah mek it.”

Man blaze women on a regs because of how they look, and I’m sure I don’t escape judgement, hence why I have been single for three years. There’s better looking, slimmer, finer chicks out there than me, no doubt. But I got what I got, and I’m sure it will be enough for someone.

So a couple of V and Ts and a glass of wine later, I leave Jason (“so you ain’t gonna give me the digits then?”) and head towards Morley’s chicken (bwoy come just like Gina Ling). Damn that alcohol. And then the cab office, which is shut.
By now the New Look fashion boots ah kill me to bloodseed and I’m walking like a bimbo with constipation. I head back to Plan B and get a cab off the road. I know, that was a bad move but my foot was so bruk I couldn’t walk no further. Me did look good though. Made a mental note not to argue about the fare. Anyway, I get to my yard then the man tells me £9 to blow’ole. As comedienne Gina Yashere says: “I. Don’t. Fink. So”. I had a £10 note which would weaken my case, but I didn’t care. I was not paying £9.

Butterfly: “You must tink seh me born yesterday! Where are you going with £9?” “
Teefin Cabdriver: Ah, it’s late. So the price goes up.”
B: “Don’t chat foolishness. It’s not bloody Christmas or New Year’s Eve. Do I look like a tourist to you?”
TC: “You know how much petrol I burn to come here?”
B: “Fumes. That’s what you burned, Brixton is at best a mile from here, you can get here on the red.
TC:“It’s only £2, you gonna argue over £2”.
B: “You don’t know my situation? If it’s just £2, then why are you trying to overcharge me.”

I guess he couldn’t take the noise because I paid the £7 with my £10 and got my change. To bloodclaat. Dem nuh ready fe dis yet bwoyyyy.

Just To Get A Rep

It's been so disorientating working nights. In the morning I just want to sleep, so I barely do anything before I leave for work, and when I return at 12.30am it's too late to do anything, so I eat, watch something on E4 and then go to bed.

I can easily go a whole week and not see any of my people, although I speak to them on the phone. I got into bed, but I felt like I needed to talk to someone, it was 1.30am so I texted Suzy Wong "r u up?". She calls me back.

We chatted about the dance at Dillusions on the weekend, nice rave, ram, ram ram (Hypo you did reach?) We saw one of our friends Coolie Girl, and she was with 'Hedgehog' from the 'Eggatons' crew. We call them the eggatons because they like to latch on to people that they think can make them look good and they're blatantly on a beg friend tip.

Hedgehog got her name because she has a 'fauxhican' hairstyle (think Estelle). You know the hairstyle that looks like its been done by someone that's shares Stevie Wonder's challenges in life, but not his genius. There's a long bit here, and a short bit there. It's quite a popular style with girls on road, it's their way being a bit 'different', but in fact it just means that they end up getting called Hedgehog by rude gyal like us.

Anyway, Coolie Girl is a nice girl, but since we went Malaga, Hedgehog and her twin sister have been 'underneath' her. "I call dem gyal dere Mattress Gyal". What?!? You call her Mattress Gyal?!? Liiiie. Why???'. "Because man treat gyal like dat like a mattress fe dem to lie down pon"...HAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAA! Cue the tears rolling down my face.

Now I know people are free to choose their friends, but I thought that Coolie moving with Hedgehog and Mattress was just a holiday flex. So I was asking Wong 'what's up with Coolie Gyal', how come she's rolling with the 'eggs' crew?'. "It's because Coolie knows all the top shottas on the circuit. So they're trying to get close to them through her." Deep.

The Eggatons tried to 'eggs' with us on the trip (if you ever see me make the egg shape with my thumb and forefinger - I am alerting you to the fact that someone is on an 'eggs flex'). They tried to talk to Wong. She said she just went 'uhh'.

And even worse, they tried to talk to Gina Ling. Silence is golden. I know it sounds dark, but them girls are on a beg friend tip, and we know, if we give them an inch, they will try take the whole of Brixton high road and Acre Lane combined. And then they will be like Klingons - blocking with us when we're at the dances to try and get some shine off of us. That's why blanking is the only way to treat them. You got to be cruel to be kind.

The word is now, them girl's is upset. Wong said they were complaining to Coolie Girl: "We have tried to talk to them, but why won't they talk to us, why are they like that, it's like no one can penetrate their crew". That's right. Why are they begging friend? Is their crew not enough for them? It's not a mean thing, as in, we giving them cut-eye or trying to start 'arms'(a row) with them in the dance, but we are not up for opening the lines of communication, because we know, once we say hello, they'll be trying to rush in like Russians.

Coolie Girl set them straight, 'That's just how they are, I only just got past hello with them myself'. I first met Coolie Girl about a year ago, and Malaga was the first time we said more than hello. She's a friend of a friend, so she got the basic level of respect. Hello and goodbye.

Women's friendships are too transient. One season Karen is the flavour, the next season it's Jade. I have fallen into that trap myself. My ex, God bless him, used to try and talk to me, but I wouldn't listen. I have many stories of female friends I've fallen out with.

It's only when I found myself walking down Dulwich Common Road at 3am on my own, after being left by the girls I was with to make my own way home despite two of them driving(the row with the ee-diot cab man who demanded I pay in advance didn't help) that I made the decision, I would not leave my house to rave with people that were not my 'bredrins'. Road code violation. You come together, you leave together.

So these girls are barking up the wrong tree, and they shouldn't take it personal. Suzy Wong's best friends are her sisters, and me, and Lou. We've known each other since we were teenagers, and have been friends since we were 23 years old. That's 14 years of friendship. That's it. That's how we roll. We ain't looking no friend, especially 'beg-a-friend' just trying to get to know the shottas on the 'circuit' through us.

I may not go to celebrity parties anymore, West End clubs, or to the most trendy London events. But whereever I go, as long as I'm with my people, I know I'm gonna have a good time, and more importantly I know that they ain't gonna leave me to make my own way home. Can you say that about your friends?

Ah Big 'oman Like You

We Ain't Never Scared

You're Too Hostile!

I’ve not worked in a morgue before. But I reckon it might be something like the evening shift at the Big Time Newspaper. Somehow I got conned into working 3-12am for a whole month. A month where I see my child for 30 minutes in the morning if I can get up after going to bed at 3am, and then on weekends, squeezed in between spending some time with adults that doesn’t involve working like Kizzy for Missy ‘lisbet.

They pay for my midnight taxi ride home (you know they’re always shocked to see my black face walking up out of there), and I’m usually having a natter with the driver. Imagine my surprise as I’m talking about raving, and how some women compete with each other so ferociously for the few men in the dance that they end up fighting. Not me fools.

The cabbie said to me in an emphatic tone: ” The problem is, is that the black men are all going for the white girls.” Tell me something I don’t know. “Because black women are too agressive and demanding.”

Note to cab driver: Just in case you hadn’t noticed I am one of those aggressive and demanding black woman. I said, in an incredulous voice: “How do you know?” And of course, black men have been blabbing this to him. And oh yeah, the whole fucking world. Which is why a white cab driver from Canning Town can come and tell me this like it’s gospel, because of course the man/men that told him have been with every single type of black woman there is to go out with. Or maybe just one or two.

He said this like it was no big ting and of course didn’t stop to think that this might in anyway hurt my feelings. Which it did.

He continued: “They know what they want when they go out, they want to meet a woman and get their way with them that night, and they know they can’t do that with black women, cos they’ don’t put up with any shit from anyone.” Ok, feeling less hurt now, because he’s basically saying black women have respect for themselves and white women are ‘slack’. ‘Nil point’ for white women from their white bredren.

But I said: “Come on now, that’s not strictly true...black women put up with plenty of shit from men too...” sorry my white sisters but you gonna have to defend yourselves on the ‘slack’ claim...I can’t speak for a white woman “but if you’re saying that brothers think we’re too demanding because we would like more than a pint of Snakebite before dropping our Love Kylie knickers, then I would have to agree. I am demanding. And I don’t raasclaat apologize to no bombaclaat banachecka (old time sleng that means someone who checks white woman/man).”

Ok, I didn’t cuss the bad words dem, but I wanted to. What has it come to, when a white man can come and tell me something like that, like ah nuh nuttin’. Like it don’t hurt me when I hear that shit coming from a brother’s mouth, let alone coming from a white man. When a cabbie is telling you that, that shit is common knowledge. Cabbies are the salt of the fucking earth, the man in the street, the fucking common people. Who live like common people do. Why is it the fault of the black woman if the black man is with a white woman?

When I went out with a white man, I never said: “Oh black men are wotless, all they wanna do is breed you and then left your ass, don’t gi you no money, but then keep coming back to wuk you when they feel like.” And yes I am deliberately stereotyping. No, I just happened to meet someone, he was white, and surprising to me I liked him. (Even though on a scale of 1-10, 1 being busted, and 10 being hot to death, he was a 2). Who says I’m superficial.

However, I’ll admit we’re both at fault here, black women have been cussing black men, and black men cussing black women. But, black women are not turning away from brothers in droves despite some of their shortcomings. But to be honest, I doubt many of them would miss us.

All these black men that say: “White women are easier to get on with, they’re easy going.” You stay dere, white women ain’t no pushover. Remember they are descendants of that bitch that threw herself under a horse to get the vote for women in this country. Don’t underestimate them, they are some tough flat ass bitches. When they’re ready to stop taking your shit and acting like it tastes better than the ackee and saltfish she forces herself to eat at your beloved Mum’s house, she will take your ass to the cleaners and leave you in just the namebrand clothes you’re profiling in. Have you forgotten what happened to Frank Bruno?

As far as I’m concerned some black women have got more reason to desert brothers. Well, the one’s that are left holding the baby/ies have. No money ah month time, no visits from Dad, no involvement in their kids lives. Just walk away and don’t look back. Go somewhere else, drop some more sperm, and repeat the wotless babyfather cycle. But does this turn black women off black men? Noooo. Those same women would prefer to be with a black man, despite what has happened previously, in fact, they would not consider anything else. Usually it just turns them off the wotless ones.

Those big mout’ jackasses who go around saying this foolishness, getting sex easy from some white women, and dissing us sisters, truly, I am not interested in them. Goodbye and good luck, because you are right. I am demanding. I demand that you have a fucking brain, that you look for more from me than what’s between my legs (I mean that’s cool and all but I only fuck for love as Suzy Wong says), that you treat me as an equal and not a subordinate, that every sentence does not end with ‘blud’ or ‘nahwhatImean’, that your favourite restaurant is not KFC, that you don’t go to Ayia fucking Napa every year for your holidays, that you do not have five children by the age of 25 by three different babymothers, and that when you buy a diamond its for the ring finger on my left hand and not to put in your raatid teet’!

Further I would like all black men who exclusively lust after white women to say after me: “I *nigga/footballer* prefer white women because I have accepted the dominant ideology and believe that white women are the ultimate prize in life, and I will never truly believe that I have made it in life until I have a white/asian/latina/japanese/brazilian/chinese (ah fuck it, any bitch with naturally straight hair that isn’t sewn in and can wash n go) woman hanging off my arm. “

Never gonna happen is it.

Shame and No Grace

Today I went into the kitchen, and the sink was full of dishes. Washing the dishes is Clarke's job during the week so I was really not impressed. If me and my sister didn't wash the dishes before we went to bed, when my mum got back in from the night shift, she would wake us up, blaze us, and then make us do it before we went to bed. Don't bother saying it 'wasn't my turn' she wouldn't care, and you would have to do it. Knowing that this would happen, I don't actually know why we forgot to do them.

I was so 'vex' about the dishes I nearly didn't cook the lasagne as planned, but after calming down decided to give her a 'bly' and just let her know, 'it nuh go so'. I have my mum's temper no doubt, but I try hard to use it sparingly. So that when Clarke does see the Wrath of Mum, it is really effective. I don't need to beat my child, because in my house, I AM THE BOSS. That has been made clear since she was a lil whippersnapper, and is not going to change. Yeah she gets the sulks, and acts up now and again, but she knows bad behaviour means consequences. And she still fears them. Unlike the bad breed yoof of today.

How must Damilola Taylor's parents feel to know that the killers of their innocent 10-year-old son will be released in three years, after receiving an eight-year jail sentence for his senseless murder. Their 'supporters' turned up at the court wearing t-shirts saying 'Free the Preddie Brothers. These boys killed a child by stabbing him in the thigh with a shard of glass. For fun. Why are their 'friends' asking for their freedom? It's like they are totally glorifying what these people have done.

I got over feeling shame any time I saw a headline in the Evening Standard about some brutal rape or murder, and it turned out to be a black man, but when I saw those bad breed youts' in those t-shirts, it returned. Shame, shame, shame. The fact that Damilola is African, and these youts' are of Caribbean descent is something that needs to be addressed. So I'm gonna say it.

There are too many darkhearted West-Indian yout's (born here of course) with no ambition, or goal in life out there willing to take someone's life for nothing. Once they did it for financial gain. Now they do it for 'respect'. I have said it once, and I will say it again, black people, no Caribbean people are failing their children. I'm sorry but you do not see African children going on so. They are usually the one's that are being picked on by the 'boasty' Caribbean children who think that because they are descendants of people from a little island in the West Indies that gives them a licence to big up their chest on everyone else.

And I know who is to blame. It's the mothers. Yes my sisters, I'm talking to you. Yes, the absentee fathers are to blame too but the boys are left with the mums. We all know boy's need a man in their lives, but if they don't have it, they have mum. Let's face it, it's not a new phenomenon, Caribbean families breaking down. Caribbean men never been the most monogamous types.

Lemar is one of many celebrities who attributes his success to his mother, who sadly passed away. If we can take the credit for the success, we have to take the criticism too. It is the mums, who because Dad has not been seen since 19-long time, spoil their precious sons stupid, allow them to do what they want, when they want, and never say no to them. Anything they want, they can get. Failing at school? 'Ah de school fault', poor grades? 'de teacher dem racist', he's bullying kids? 'ah dem start pon 'im first'.

Equality aside. A child fails or succeeds by the will and strength of its mother. Once the man is gone, 'im garn'! And us women have to 'tan up inna it. Don't fucking keep moaning on about what him did do, and what him never do, it's not the childs fault, you have to get on with it. But what you don't do, is treat your son who has done nothing in his life except be born with a piece of man muscle hanging between his legs, as some kind of raatid demi-god who must be plied with riches beyond his wildest dreams. You are not helping your child when you make them think that everything in life must come easy.

Too many women spoil their sons with the wrong things. Too much focus on material possessions. Never spending a penny on their child's education and don't take no interest in it. The teachers they say 'are racist'. Their children can do no wrong. Many of them are living 'loose' lives themselves, drugs, alcohol, or they work too hard and leave their children to fend for themselves. I know what it's like, I come from the same low-income, council estate background as a lot of these kids, but my parents generation were different. That whole generation was stronger, whereas my generation seem to think deprivation is not being able to buy your son some Nike trainers, and the tracksuit to match.

We are not equipping our children to make a decent life for themselves when we don't have any higher expectation of them than going to school looking better than the neighbours kid.

Something has gone awry, and it is our own kids who we need to be fearful for, because they share the streets with the bad breeds, and these youts' 'don't response' to 'say it loud I'm black and I'm proud' it's more like 'shank a man if you know you're bad'. I am afraid for my daughter and my friends children, who are unwittingly mixing with children coming from 'wotless' homes like this. I don't know what it's like to have a son, but if I am lucky enough to have another child, and it turns out to be a boy, I only hope that I do not become mesmerized by his penis and make the same mistakes as the mother of these two heartless boys has obviously made.

A Tale of Two Dances

Ohmigod. What a weekend. Not only has working out regularly trimmed inches off my body. But the workouts have equipped me with the stamina body for some serious all night raving. A rather flattering chap likened it my physique to 'Venus de Milo'....his words not mine. Damn son! Now that's what I'm talking about, some original sweet talk. Not the same old, 'bwoy, you look tick eh?'!

Any man that can slip those words into a conversation is either a Class A lothario or just someone I need to have a proper chat with. I digress.

Saturday night was a marathon two-party raving session. Not for the fainthearted, and strictly for the stamina mummies. Hence why I was tip-toeing in my metallic gold LK Bennett sandals (4"), due to some serious 'fuck me' foot pressure, out of a club deepest east London, Canning Town, at 7am on Sunday morning. Praise the Lord.

To all those wondering, how do you do it?

Butterfly Jones Raving Survival Guide:

Don't overdo it during the day
I went kickboxing at midday, and then took a leisurely stroll up to the South Bank, past the London Eye, where I took my daughter and her schoolfriend 'K' to lunch at Wagamama's. It was the first time she had had one of her schoolfriend's over and she was a bit nervous because let's put it this way, mother's home-making limitations would be on display. My plans to get up early and tidy up were scuppered by the late shift at work, and sleep was my bed partner. It was one of those sleeps which feels like the sweet love-making.

Clarke's friend had never been to Wagamama's before, but he was up for trying the food, had lovely table manners, and could hold a mature conversation. It was a really nice lunch. He definitely gets the thumbs up and is welcome round our house any time. Oh yeah, I noticed he is a boy, but it's not a problem for me, as I had a lot of boy friends when I was at school too as Shazby pointed out. She said she had thought it was a bit weird when she first met me and I was always hanging round with groups of boys (who I knew from my estate - or just met at school), with my socks rolled down to my ankles, kicking a ball against the wall at playtime.

Apparently lots of people are jealous of their friendship and are now frantically trying to find opposite sex friends of their own. Ah my daughter dat ya know. Trendsetter. No idea where she gets that from...Apparently, their 'names are round the school" because of their friendship. And a girl went out with Kadeem because she wanted to get 'her name round the school." Deep.

I just love talking to the youts' and finding out what's going on their heads. The non-verbal communication between Clarke and 'K' was very subtle too, lots of knowing looks, and lowering of voices when they wanted to say something I shouldn't be privy too.

The lunch happened as a result of something that happened in Malaga. Wong introduced me to a guy she knew, and we were hanging out by the pool, as he watched his young son swim. We were talking about our kids and stuff and he mentioned his son's school changed uniform. The same thing happened at Clarke's school. I enquired which school his son went to and we realised they were at the same school. I asked his son's name and nearly fell over when he said 'K'. That's why I can't go on shabby (slack) in London. My name would be round the 'school'.

Have a nap
After the kickboxing in the morning and the hour-long walk, I felt a sudden urge to lie down when I got in. So if you can, a nap before you rave is ideal. What is not ideal is waking up at 6.50pm realising you have 10 minutes to get to the dry-cleaners to pick up your frock for the night's activities.

Eat well
I made a light repas of roasted chicken, vegetables and potatoes. A small amount of carbs is essential to hold at bay the sensation of alcohol gnawing at your stomach at about 3am in the morning which is usually followed by a visit to the jerk chicken drum outside the dance or a Dixy fried chicken shop. And drink a fair amount of water to help offset the nights imbications (see dem big word deh Pessimist).

Don't leave home before midnight
Gina Ling picked me up around 12am and we set off to meet the others. We went to a big dance at a bar in the city. It's was what I call 'a duty rave'. Some nights you rave because you want to go out. But on Saturday night we all raved because Michie Wong wanted us to go out. So you do it out of duty to your friend (and I'm glad I did). But I got nothing but love for Michie Wong so I dug up a four-year old sexy little French Connection dress, and my hot gold shoes from LK Bennett which Beyonce would love, and represented. Cos ah Michie Wong name did mention Saturday night.

Don't rave with pickney
When we got to the bar, it was like a scene out of a house and garage video. Pure hottie hottie gyal, wearing tops as dresses, big batty girls fitting themselves in shorts, and some gangster lookin' yout's in jeans and fitteds (caps). Everyone was dressed in their ravin' best but it was clear, they were not our age-group. After 'queuing', yes, 'queuing', we went inside. The atmosphere was slightly tense. Too many 'hot gyal' inna de one place, and when a girl tried to flare up with Suzie Wong, we knew we had to just chill on the sidelines as it was the type of place where it was too easy to get into beef. And it's not about fighting in public, for us anyway.

Forget testosterone, estrogen was running tings up in that place, even the man's dem knew it as they clung to the walls, each man holding a bottle of Laurent Perrier just stood watching the girls as they whined and screwed (as in looked) for supremacy.

Thirty minutes into the dance, two eediot gyal started fighting. The DJs got the crowd to boo them, and security threw them out. Ten minutes later we left. When we got outside the police had arrived, as the girls had continued fighting once outside. Apparently they were being arrested. The police brought a van with dogs, and they shut down the rave early. Libs.

Pace yourself
Drink sensibly and don't do drugs. No drugs are needed to last all night, just the high of some alcohol to make you feel nice. No mixing, getting off your face, vomiting in your nice clothes, over your shoes. 'llow. Dat. I knew it would be a long night, so I started the night with a vodka and red bull. Followed by another double. Oh, I forgot about the premixed vodka me and Gina Ling drank in the car on the way to the second rave. House party measures. Oops.

So by the time we got to Rave II, we were feeling 'nice'. Walked in the place like 'woah'. Greeted old friends, found a spot, and started raving. Music was heavy, people were grown and sexy. No attitude, no bad vibes. No scrum for the bar, no queue for the toilets.The DJs were up for it and were reaching for the hot tunes missed out in Malaga. At no time from 3am onwards did I think, I want to sit down. I danced and sang and shook off my week at work.

Dance with a fit man
If at some point you start to think about the pain in your feet, you know it's time to take a load off. You should identify your target early and surreptitiously position yourself in their sightline. Don't beg a dance, but be open to being asked. Strategy worked, and I had someone to lean against for the last couple of hours of the dance, which helped me to forget about the pain of not having my spare shoes (Mich) plus the vodka took the edge off. He was lovely to dance with, look at and good to talk to. Neither the man nor yourself must dance nasty. Decorum, decorum, decorum!

Know when it's time to leave
It's a dance not a relationship. Thank him, leave and go to the car and rub your foot bottom dem. Or as actually happened, leave. Man follows you to the car to talk with you and the girls and after feisty Gina Ling brazenly asks him for a foot rub, rubs your foot bottom for you too! Result.

Don't Call Me Babes!

This is why as an attractive, educated, ambitious, party-loving black woman. You can't win. If you look good, people say you're intimidating. If you look mash-up, people say whappen to you! If you go out a lot, people label you 'circuit girl'. You know, I've achieved a fair bit in my short life, and I don't like to bang on about my achievements (did I mention I have two degrees, both earned after having a child), but maybe I need to, because some people are starting to tek this ting for some joke business (excessive use of patois due to a week spent with the Robb sisters).

Yesterday as I turned up to work at The Big-Time Newspaper, I saw one of the chefs from the staff restaurant. Hear him to me: "Alright babes." BABES?!? Like me and him was friend from long-time.

Babes?!? Like we did roll out of my bed together that morning after some hot-loving and toe-sucking.

Babes?!? Like we did deh innna something and he was trying to hold it down at work but couldn't help himself. Ok you get the picture.

That's why you just can't win. If I went to work at The Big-Time Newspaper, and blanked all the brothers, they would think I was a bougie black broad (which I am of course, but I'm not stuck-up). But because I say hello, answer their stupid questions (where are you from? You don't look Jamaican) this leaves me open to a strange man calling me 'babes' in my place of work.

It's not like he was even standing next to me, he was a good six-to eight foot away from me. He grinned his yellow tombstone teeth like a Cheshire cat and called me 'babes' like me and him really 'knew' each other. Me nuh know 'im! I wanted to slap that man. Hard.

Just because our skin be the same colour, don't get it twisted. Trust me, when I go in there today. That man will be saying hello to thin air. I am going to blank him so hard, he's gonna feel like his woman left him. And I'm sure he has got a woman, because the ones that talk to you the hardest usually have.

You just can't win. You work hard, get an education, get a career, get published in national newpaper's, raise a child, and man's that don't know you wanna call you 'circuit girl' or 'babes'. Where's the fucking respect?

Champagne For My Real Friends

Holidays are great. But coming home sucks. I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't say it, being a mum and all, but I wish I was still there. I guess that's the sign of a good holiday, when you wish you were back there. Try know, there are holidays that I'm not so keen to revisit.

Just two days later the euphoria wore off, the glitter of the memories begun to fade, and it's back to reality. It's raining, I have to do all those things you don't have to on holiday, like cook, wash and clean, and I'm getting the sniffles. Not to mention having to return to the plantation.

Plus I miss my girl group. It was a really amazing feeling to be part of a group of such powerful women. All five of them. Some people said to me: "I don't know how you do it, I can't do that sort of thing anymore." How quickly these people forget. It must be nice to be a 'smug married' but I hope I never become that. I'd always like to have a little space where me and my girls can hop on a plane and have some fun, maybe not as intense as the last week, but it can still be a time where we get to let our 'hair' down, and a chance to share our opinions on parenting, our parents, life, and of course, the man's dem.

I learnt a lot about my friends, and have a new found respect for them after hearing all that they have coped with in their lives. The holiday wasn't just about raving. It was about much more than that.

"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.