Go Clarkie, it's your birthday

Crappin' hell. It's my daughter's 13th birthday on Saturday. Yes, you heard right, her 13th. Hence why I am feeling extremeply stressed out right now. Why? Because she wants a party. And I can't get away with bowling/ice-skating/Pizza Hut any more.

She wanted a party at home - but our place is quite small so I sat down with her and explained that I would do one for her later in the year, a nice BBQ when we could use the garden, yada yada, blag, blag, and I thought she'd accepted it until Suzie Wong came and rinsed me about how come I'm not doing Clarke's party for her, and that I need to fix up myself.

She went and talked to her surrogate mum about how she was upset that me and her Dad weren't doing the party. So now it's on, and I have to just get on with it. So come Saturday I am going to have a whole heap of 12-13 year olds in my yard, with a DJ. Apparently, these youngsters are already going to parties, which they call 'shubs' - a daytime party in someone's yard. Obviously, Clarke has not attended any of these events. So right about now I think the word is travelling around the school that Clarke is having a 'shubs', so I hope that Clarke's dad is up for the job of door bitch to head off the hordes at the pass.

Luckily my girlfriends have come to the rescue to help me sort things. Shazby is getting the cake, Suzette is helping me prep the room and will cook some food, plus one of our DJ friends is playing and Dad will buy drinks and supervise

So come Sunday I will be the mother of a teenager.

I think this might be the time to start lying about my age.

Ghetto Oscars my arse…

It was more like the TV Quick awards. I’ve not seen so many badly dressed people corralled in one place before in my life. Ok, I have, but not of late.

Ladies, just because your garment is made of 10 per cent lycra, it does not mean that you should wear it two sizes two small. Plus, the new fashion for tulip skirts (think of the flower but upside down) and volume is a bit tricky if you are a woman with a sizeable badonkadonk.

Like most of the trends which trickle from catwalk to road, it suits only the few and rules out 95 per cent of sisters. If, like Beyonce, you are blessed with booty and thunderthighs (and I am included in this equation) think veeeerrryyy carefully before plumping for the a miniskirted tulip dress. It's less dress and more vest if you're round as a pound bum is hitching it up as you jiggle by. But that’s just me talking – I’m sure your target audience – the mans dem – love to see an abundance of backside and thighs on show. So feel free to ignore my unsolicited advice.

After all the pre-party excitement, I was pretty bored about one hour after I got there. I think – and don’t faint now – I’m all partied out. Hence why it has taken me three days to feel anywhere near normal after yet another late night on the weekend. Or that could just be old age.

I mean – you go out, and don't see not even one nice piece to rest your eyes pon. All the effort you make to fling on a nice frock (All Saints), pretty shoe (Office), and a fine veneer of no make-up make-up (MAC, Bobbi Brown and Ruby and Millie), and not even one approach from someone that makes you skin teet. It's a damn shame.

Anyway, after the birthday party I’m going to on Saturday (not a circuit rave), I've decided I'm not going out for a month (that includes Chris Sweeney's birthday dance Mention Crew). I’m retiring from the circuit for a bit and am going to enrich my mind, body and soul with other pursuits. What are they? I dunno yet, but I will report back.

VOTE FOR SHILPA!!!

And the Ghetto Oscar goes to...

Remind me not to give the blog addy to guys with ‘motential’ as it means I cannot chat the business if things don’t really work out. Despite my last hope-filled post, let’s just say there is absolutely no fear that I will be off the dating shelf anytime soon.

It’s a tricky thing when you start seeing someone, and I think if you start to fear letting go of your single gal freedom, then you know that he’s not the guy.

Anyway I consoled myself by hitting the shops in time-honoured Butterfly Jones fashion and picking up some shoes. In the last week, I bought six pairs of shoes. The sweetest thing is three of them I’d had my eye on them from way back when, but couldn’t afford them, or didn’t need them so managed to restrain myself. And as a result I saved myself hundreds of pounds. So when I feel a bit crap, I go put on a pair of the sparkliest, twinkliest shoes I own, and sit on sofa looking at my feet. I kid you not. Pure unadulterated Rabbit-free joy.

It’s been a busy week socially, but tonight is the big one. The 'Ghetto Oscars' as a friend of mine called it. Big birthday dance on The Circuit, one of the name-brand DJs from Hyper crew, so it’s a bit of a ‘duty rave’. Basically, if you don’t represent, mans is going to be upset. Why? Because throughout the year, more time we always get squeezes (freeness), or discount to go to dances, but when it’s the birthday dance, everyone’s supposed to represent, buy a ticket (no freeness) and make sure the dance is ram. We didn’t go to his New Year’s dance and apparently, as we found out when we passed a rave at Illusions a couple weeks ago, mans was screwing. Ah so we name mention. Gossip on the circuit is that we didn’t want to pay. Deep. After we all ah work, and have money inna we pocket. Chat bout.

So today I went to Groom and got waxed and plucked. It's a beauty salon in Selfridges where you have two therapists working on you at the same time and you can pick and choose what treatments you want. I had a half-hour waxing package, leg, bikini line and underarm (plus lip wax - shame) and it cost £70.

And went to Scholl to see the podiatrist to sort out the 'hooves' my feet were fast turning into. I think even she was shocked at the amount of hard skin she had to remove, because she said I MUST rebook for three months time!

I had my nails done on Thursday, so I'm good to go. Just need to decide which out of the six new pairs of shoes I can wear, and last the whole night in. It's not about changing into flats.

When keeping it real goes wrong....

At the top of my road. A woman was murdered in her workplace. I saw the police and crime scene Saturday night when I went to catch a cab to meet the girls for a drink in Brixton. They had the tape and a big tent up and there were a dozen people milling about, so I knew it was a murder. The next day I saw one of our reporters up there.

Incidents such as these happening right on my doorstep do not fill me with confidence, especially when it comes to my daughter walking around on her own, even just to local shops - which is right near the crime scene.

My friends always rinse me because I will happily take night bus, walk street late at night and generally do my thing with little fear. But trust me my street instincts are intact. When you grow up in the hood - you always take that hood mentality with you, but obviously you only expose it when you need to.

Recently this woman at work was jarring me so much, as Wong says 'I let the street come out in me'. It's like that Dave Chappelle sketch 'When keeping it real goes wrong'. You always get those people at work, and you know you shouldn't rise to it, but on the wrong day, lack of sleep, food or sex makes you short-tempered and the real you is closer to the surface than usual. Speaky-spokey Butterfly done left the house.

Anyway this woman, let's call her The Hurricane (can you work out her name), decided from dot that she didn't like me or my lovely friend at work Irish Dave. I only realised this when my news editor told me that the bitch had complained we were both bullying her? What the fuck?!? I think I had worked two shifts with her by that point, and she had only been there three weeks. This didn't really bother me - but when she was being blatantly rude, obstreperous (there's a word for you to look up), difficult and argumentative while we were working together, it started to bother me.

I thought to myself - this bitch is trying to take food out of my pickney's mouth. If I asked her to do something she would ignore me, or act like I was harassing her, but she wasn't like this with other people. Anyway, I made sure I was polite, and kept it professional, while she continued to be a cow. But then one night, when my colleague asked her to do another story - she said 'oh I've done 9 stories and BJ has only done 1' the mist descended and the street came out in me. I said to her 'Why you watching me, don't watch me. Watch what you're doing. I've only done three stories because I've had to spend the rest of the time re-checking everything that you do.' Bitch.

We had a bit of a set to one night in the newsroom. It was one of those passive aggressive arguments, where no one raises their voice, but everyone knows that you are arguing. Thankfully the paper had gone to press and the newsroom was half-empty, but those that were still there were riveted. I said 'why are you so hostile, and she said 'you were rude to me the very first week'.

'So why didn't you come to me and say something instead of carrying on like this for the next five weeks.' She said 'oh maybe I'm just tired'. Bitch I know all about being tired, I worked nights for a straight month when I started, never finished on time and didn't complain. Then after going to bed at either 2 or 3am I would get up at 7am to cook breakfast just so I could see my child who was fast forgetting what her mummy looked like. Yes, I know about tiredness.

Luckily for me, no one has any complaints with my work, and I get on fine with the rest of my team. And the fact that she accused Irish Dave of fucking with her completely weakened her case because he is wicked, and everyone thinks he's cool. But I knew she was getting to him when he texted me referring to her as 'slagface'. Ha ha.

Anyway, the bitch decided she couldn't handle the nights and decided to leave. Thank the Lord for that. Funnily enough, there were no leaving drinks for her, and no whip-round.

And then he kissed me

A rota fuck-up meant I got dragged into work on Sunday evening when my roast dinner was halfway done, and my hands were trying to make sense of Clarke's freshly-blow-dried afro. Not to mention the date I had to cancel. Yes. A date. Draw closer my friends. Yes, I started the new year with the prospect of a date. A first date. But sod's law, I had to fucking cancel it. 'I'm so sorry, I have to work'...while he's thinking, yeah likely story! Muy bad Cockoach Brown (yes - we have names for each other, mine is D-Nice).

It's quite funny, because even though I usually have one eye halfway-open for a potential prospect, when we were introduced, I barely noticed him. No, not because he is a butters - but because when we met I was more concerned with the big white security tag I still had stuck to the back of the new dress I was wearing. I came straight from work (where else), was slightly frazzled, and I'd been wearing a clingy blue shirt-dress, but had a 'butters moment' (fit of insecurity) about how big my bottom looked in it, so decided to go buy something big and tent-like to wear to Blacktronica.

He was with peeps I know and we were all talking. When he left to go to the bog (toilet), his friend says to me - 'he's a really nice guy and he's single' . I looked at the nigga as if to say 'do I look fucking desperate to you' and said 'how do you even know that I'm looking' (thinking fuck me - is it that fucking obvious?!?). 'Oh I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything....'it's okay, I am actually quite single' I said, climbing down off my high horse.

So when he came back, you know I looked at him properly. I looked at his clothes, nice. His shoes - dem mek it. Basically, there was nothing I could criticise. No fair. LOL. He kept buying me vodka tonics, and didn't wrinkle his face in disgust when I smoked (don't worry I've given up again since). He laughed at my jokes, and engaged me conversationally. Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.

Anyway, last month on the flimsiest pretext of hooking up to go to this club Co-op, we swapped numbers. We had dinner beforehand at The Diner in Shoreditch, where I ate a burger and fries like I was in my living room, and his eating didn't put me off. Did I mention that I never like to go to restaurants on first dates, because if a man eats badly (like a hog) it will seriously put me off. I could be single lickle more, I can't knock boots with a man that eats like a monster.

Anyway, this really wasn't a date, so I really didn't even scrutinise him. In fact I don't think he scrutinised me either - he really didn't seem interested in me. You know sometimes you have a male friend, but you're not sure if you really fancy him, but then you sense that he's put you in the friend zone – You start to get vex. How dare he put me in the friend zone before I’ve made up my mind about him? Fucking cheek! (yes I like to be adored by people I don't even want - so sue me).

Anyway, it wasn’t really like that. He seems like a cool guy, and I just thought, cool, he’s a cool guy, we can be mates. But then he kissed me!

Get me to the church on time

Clarke said this morning, ‘2006 doesn’t feel any different to 2007’. Well daughter dearest, I said: ‘What makes it different is what you decide to do differently. So what are you going to do differently this year? ‘I’m going to study hard at school.’ That thud you just heard was me passing out.

I hadn’t made any New Year’s resolutions until New Year’s Eve when I rediscovered just why I gave up drinking that evil concoction, Brandy. I bumped into an old friend, dragged him for a dance, but as soon as we drew close, my head started spinning, and I had to cling onto him for dear life. It was more of a hug than a crub.

The New Year started stressfully. I outdid myself and had to be in three places in one night. First work for an evening shift until 11 (thinking I was going to get double pay and found out too late I wasn’t). Then church in east London, to meet my family, and finally onto club Dillusions with the girls. I worked like a crack-fiend to finish early, which was doubly difficult as it was just me working the graveyard shift.

My cab driver was pissed off because no one had told him I was going east instead of south and he was not feeling battling the new year traffic. Am I bovvered? I used the time wisely to remove the death pallor from 9 hours in front of a computer screen and apply my no-make-up make-up (girls will get this). Vex cabbie took the backstreets and I walked into church on the stroke of midnight. Hugged my mum and my tearful sister (this is often the reaction I get when I turn up to church, sinner that I am) and settled down to the praise and worship ceremony. Breathe.

At 1am, I rolled on gathering no moss to get the tube back to south to meet the Mention Crew (Cah ah your name mention tonite). Liverpool Street appeared to be the mecca of new year’s eve carnage. Most people had started their celebrations several hours earlier, so queues for food were long, there were packs of girls in too-high shoes and party dresses with no coats stumbling about, and shovelling down take-away. The chic party veneer had long since left and they looked fucked up. I jumped on the train trying to avoid the carriages with PLV’s (people likely to vomit) and listened to my ipod loudly to block out the revelry.

Got picked up from the station by Gina Ling, and rushed to Suzy Wong’s to get changed. One strapless black and gold M&S party dress (it's the new Primark trust me), and a pair of bashy gold shoes later, we were on the road to Club Illusions.

Once in there, a similar sight greeted me, previously glammed up girls looking the worse for wear, while we were the ‘freshers crew’, having arrived fashionably ghetto late at 3am. We drank Brandy, they played bashment, and within an hour I think I looked pretty much like the girls who had been there for five hours. Trashed as a motherfucker.

The gold LK Bennetts I was boasting ‘are like my trainers' as I jogged down the road to Illusions, were fucking killing me, and I had no choice but to buss a white girl flex. And tek off me shoe dem. The music was so good, I didn’t want to sit out the rest of the night. So me and Gina Ling backed off the shoes and raved it out.

Just like the last three, my New Year’s was a great success. I got paid, I prayed and then I raved.

HAPPY NEW YEAR.

A Woman Without a Career is Like a Man Without a Football Team

I hate the term ‘career woman’. Someone used it in reference to me the other day, and I had to correct his ass. I never hear anyone say ‘career man’, so why the need to make a distinction? If I didn’t work, what would I be called? Certainly not a housewife, nor a stay-at-home mum. I’d be a parasitical single mother who is a burden on the hardworking people of Great Britain.

I come from a working-class background. My gran worked, she was a bit of hustler, she understood the value of buying property, then she was a seamstress and a cook. She had four daughters, no husband I ever saw, owned her own house in Alperton and was always very hard-working. Now she lives in Florida. My mum stayed home for a few years when we were young, my Dad didn’t want her to work – he was a bit of a career gambler, but when their relationship fell apart when I was around nine, she got a job. Always worked her finger to bone, worked the shit shifts for years 3-11pm all the way through my secondary school education.

I didn’t go off the rails, get high, bring boys round (couldn’t because Big Sis was there – so I went to their house) I was already pretty scared of The Wrath of Mum, so didn’t push the boundaries too far.

So working is not a new thing for the women in my family. Hence I do not see the need for the tag ‘career woman’. I have benefited from the labour and toil of my mother and grandmother. My grandmother came here for a better life for herself and kids, and she achieved that, my mother wanted me to have the education she never had, and she achieved that. Now I want my daughter to do better than me, I want her to be entrepreneurial, not just to work a job but to create jobs. To me, that’s not being a ‘career woman’, that’s being a brilliant woman.

Christmas starts here...

Christmas is coming, and the only thing getting fat is moi. At the moment my exercise regime consists mainly of lifting lots of edible objects to the cake-sized gap in my face. Yum. Even a bout of party dress shopping (one must get one’s priorities right) only made me temporarily stay the tendency to eat chocolate and apple crumble with cream, as I breathed a sigh of relief at ‘squozing’ myself into a size 14 Kazza Mill strapless dress. Oh well, I’m back to the weight/size I was in 1999 – so it’s not all bad. And the dresses that I had to avoid on the grounds of ‘too much booty, not enough fabric’ can come back into circulation. Maybe I’ll try for 1989’s size 10 next year.

First Christmas do was last week Thursday with my team at The Big Time Newspaper (website). Thankfully, there was no need to dress up. We had a meal, where I tried to drink as little as possible, and then once I had some food down me I felt more able to indulge. It’s not about getting lean with work people and embarrassing yourself. I know someone who got very drunk at her office party, and snogged her very married boss, in front of her workmates. Shortly afterwards she got six month’s salary and was asked to leave. Strangely she didn’t think the two incidents were connected. Either way I’d say that was a fucking result!

That would never happen to me. For a start my boss is female. And secondly, when I’ve had a few drinks I’m more likely to hit the dancefloor and dance in a rudely, suggestive manner rather than collar someone I wouldn’t give the time of day to when sober.

After the meal we walked to a pub in Notting Hill. Yes, The Notting Hill, but rest assured, there actually are black folk living in the real NH. We had a couple of drinks at a pub where some weird looking man decided I might find him wildly attractive if he stared at me long and hard enough. Forty-five minutes to be precise. Even after a voddie and tonic and a shot of sambuca, I felt in no way compelled to talk to him.

Like I said, I just wanted to dance. A guy gave us some free passes to a bar up the road, The Gate, so we trotted along there as I was desperate for a boogie. One debate with the doorman later (some people forgot their passes in the pub) we were descending the stairs to Montel Jordan’s ‘This Is How We Do It’.

We had a good little dance and managed to have a conversation that didn’t revolve around work for once. It’s quite cool when you get to know people you work with. What’s strange is that there are people I started off thinking were really nice, that I know now are not. And people I thought who were ‘wrong uns’ and now think they’re great.

Princess Pushy proceeded to get pretty hammered so I went into ‘watch over the drunk friend’ mode, and ended up bringing her home with me. She promptly stained my sofa and her stupidly expensive Reiss top with the extra chilli sauce on the kebab she’d bought. The kebab I waited for in the back of a black cab, while speeching the driver who wanted us to get out and find another cab, because he said we were stopping him from earning.

His maths was obviously shit because him taking us from Kensington was at least a £20 fare, but he was saying he could pick up a couple more fares while he was sat waiting outside Ranoush. I really don’t know what’s got into cab drivers, but it always seems like you have to argue the toss with them. I mean, while we were sitting there, the meters running and he’s getting paid, what exactly is his problem. I just kept him talking, as he tried everything, short of telling to get the fuck out, to get out of the cab. There was no way I was getting out of that warm cab to stand on a street corner in High Street Ken, trying to flag down another.

Don’t these people have any compassion. I won’t even count the number of times black cabs with lights on have driven past me in the early hours of the morning. When I was working in Manchester, an Asian cab driver drover past me. That one really hurt. Two women, on their first day in a strange town and the fucker wouldn’t even stop.

I can drive, but I don’t know how that’s gonna work when I get a new set of wheels. No more boozy nights out for me. Just a tonic water and the thrill of the rave. So looking forward to that.

Why?

Did the cab-driver ask me not to make a mess in his car when I was eating a packet of crisps?
Did the website I’m working for crash for five hours and start working an hour before I was due to go home?
Did roller-skating on Thursday get cancelled?
Don’t I fancy my personal trainer?
Do women wear shoes they can’t walk in, to work?
Do I always like the most expensive item in the damn magazine?
Can I never afford it, but usually find the money?
Does the guy that does pictures for the website never buy anyone tea?
Do I feel its my duty to tell him about it?
Is my child hard of hearing?
Does she think my purse has an everlasting supply of money?
Do I think Beyonce is cheesy?
Do I like the Pussycat Dolls?
Do I bite the skin around my fingernails?
Am I a size 16 in jeans, when I wear a 12 in a dress?
Are there so many fat people in Kensington?
Does work drain me of creativity?
Do I think nothing of dropping £160 on a dress but stress about spending £5 a day on lunch?
Can't I be bothered to exercise yet get fed up when clothes don't fit how I want them to?
Am I not bothered about Christmas?
Haven't I started Xmas shopping yet?
Do I fancy the wrong people?
Am I not bothered about sex anymore?
Do I love cakes so much?
Aren't I doing any work today?!?

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

Started work at 8.30am this morning and got chirpsed by one of the minimum wagers in the lift at 8.31am. He asked me if I like salsa music - I guess he could tell from my generous hips that I like to shake what my mama gave me from time to time, so I said yes. And he said he would bring me some. It's rare that things make me smile that early in the morning but as chirpses go, it's a bit different isn't it? There was no 'bwoy, what ah way you bottom look big eh?' , 'you well 'tick' innit'. I thought that was quite cool. Don't think the man knows where I sit, but hey it was still cool anyway.

Met my friend 'Ox' for our weekly naughty kebab lunch at Ranoush. It's a chain of Lebanese restaurants, there are three on Edgware road in central London alone, and one opposite where I work. I've ended many a drunken night queuing up for a chicken shawarma . This is not your average 'bab dripping with fat and oil either trus' me. It's the real shit. Think about the difference between your Mum's jerk chicken, and that thing they call 'jerked chicken' and serve it up at the staff canteen at work. You see the brownness and the seasoning and pick it up praying that maybe this time, they'll get it right. But...no. They never do. Trade descriptions would have a field day.

Ox is an online editor here and the person I have to thank for getting me through the door at The Big Time Newspaper. We first met when I worked for the Financial Times website back in 1999, and have been friends since then. He was the only boy (well the only one we liked on the editorial team - so he got lots of attention and special treatment). We're quite similar, in that we're working class kids who've pulled ourselves up by our bootstraps, and seem to have a similar love of naughty things: booze, fags and food. We've both tackled fags, and are working on the other two. Well I only drink on the weekends now.....He is the type of white man that makes you forget he is white - you know like some white people say they don't see colour, and you think to yourself? Yeah right. But when I'm with Ox, there's never those awkward moments where you have to start explaining what 'ackee and saltfish' is, or why you need to 'cream' (moisturise) your skin. Or the 'Why do black people do this' question? You know dem way dere. We're just cool together and have a laugh.

The running joke back in the FT days was 'how come you know everyone'? Whenever we went out to lunch, I always bumped into a random acquaintance or got stopped by someone who recognised me from back in the day. To my work colleagues this was simply unbelievable, but to anyone who has grown up in inner-city London, it's standard. That's why you must behave with 'decorum, decorum, decorum' at all times. I know, I don't always mek it. But I try. So when he met me today and I was talking to one of the brothers who works in sales, he thought we knew each other. 'No', I explained, it's just that everybody wants to know who you are when a new black face comes into the plantation.'

Well the ones that are not stoosh do (stuck up Uncle Toms who think we don't need to chat ). I have a couple who do the 'I'm not going to make eye contact with you just because you're black' vibe. But my thing is, it doesn't matter why we connect, it's just cool that we do. There's an Asian guy here that I've become friendly with, and he buys me a cuppa and some chocloate when we're working nights and the African with the French accent at Starbucks who gives me free coffee sometimes, and other people that I just nod my head to in acknowledgement.

Sighted a fit brother in the newsroom today. The first I've seen since working here. Tall, black and handsome, just how I likes 'em. He was wearing his jeans a little too high for my liking, but dem tings easily sorted. We passed each other earlier in the day and he gave me the 'nod' straightaway. Niiice. I asked the online picture editor 'who's dat?'. He said he's a freelance picture editor. So now he's going to book him to work with us, just for me. Watch dis ya space now.

The Wild, Wild, South-West

Sometimes I feel like I’m cursed. Trouble seems to find me wherever I go. I'm sure you've noticed the shit that happens to me rarely happens to other people.

Take Saturday night for instance. A work colleague asked me to come out for a drink. Cute Asian girl I’ve nicknamed ‘Princess’ because of her princess-like tendencies. She is an arch mainpulator and usually manages to wrap everyone around her little finger. Including me. To be honest I disliked the little minx at first, especially after she took a two-hour ‘break’ in the pub the first night I was leading the shift. After that, she was on my shit list.

But her persistent chatter wore me down, and hateship turned to friendship, hence why I entertained meeting her 1.30am in Brixton on a Saturday night to go to a club playing house music.

Princess and her friends, who mainly live in Brighton, had been to a Primal Scream gig at Brixton Academy, and needed to hang out ‘til the early hours of the morning to catch their train back, so I suggested Plan B, as I knew it opened until 5am. I rolled up around 1.30am to meet them. It was pretty packed as a lot of people had the same idea, but once in there, it was like a time machine had transported you back to the 1990s Summer of Love.

A DJ from New York was playing, and the brother was on point. It reminded me of the 90s Chicago and New York house I used to like.

I drank quickly and recklessly at Plan B because I was a few hours behind the others. Half a bottle of wine before I left home, double vodka, glass of white wine, a brandy shot, and then another vodka. Yep, I think that just about did it. Everyone was pretty high on some other stuff, and the vibe was really good.

Even though I recognised very few tunes, I danced all night. I remembered going to raves and taking Ecstasy. We went to one with Suzie Wong once, and me and Lou dropped half an 'E' and Wong wouldn't do it, then she 'screwed' all night. Every time we looked at her, her face was push-up, and it was so funny. I was almost wetting myself at how vex she was. Me and Lou danced til' 7am, but Wong was swellin', bored and wanted to go but couldn't. Thing is, I don't touch illegal drugs any more. I don't need them to rave until 7am, or even 9am, I just need a couple of drinks and some good music. But I understand why people do, most of my experiences were fun.

Princess was attracting some attention from the local yokels which led to a few sticky situations as her boyfriend wasn’t taking no checks. When he spoke to one weirdo who was stalking her in the club, the guy lunged at him and bit him on the neck. What the fuck? I tried to talk to the bro’ and then he started talking about ‘no white boy can come to Brickie and tell me nothing.’ This seemed to be a popular theme for the evening.

One of the girls wanted to go to the chicken shop afterwards. So we headed to Morley’s. Wrong move. As I walked through the door some bredda tried to feel me up. I told him ‘don’t do that’, so then his friend says ‘can I touch you’. So my loose drunken mouth said: "Do I look like your babymother?’. Ohhhhh…ego dented and bruised.

His friends kept repeating it and before long he started getting abusive. I said to him ‘ah big woman sumptin’ dis you know'. You can tell I was lean can't you. 'Have some respect, I’m a big woman for you.’ He said: ‘How do you know I’m a pickney’ ‘I don’t', I said , but I know I'm older than you. so have some respect'. Next thing I know Princess’ boyfriend is next to me, and mans is saying who you telling to shut up. Fight bruk out. I try to keep them apart but it just ends up turning into this mass brawl, with one of their friends talking about ‘the white man and 400 years of slavery’. The relevance of that is at this particular moment what exactly?

One of the guys was brandishing an Alize bottle threatening to lick the boyfriend with it, but thank God he didn't, and just thumps were thrown. The chicken shop workers called the police, who had to escort us to the police station across the road to get the fuck out of there.

Everyone was shook, including me. Especially as I had to go home without my fucking chicken.

But still, looking back, that was one hell of a fucking good night.

I Don't Need A Man

Girl’s Aloud sit down. You’re not, and never were ready.

The top shotta girl-group out there are The Pussycat Dolls. Although I’d be hard-pressed to name any of them apart from the one like Nicole who is showing up Puffy in his new video. Have you seen that video? Puffy also needs to sit down. Where is he going with that off-key dancing in his too-tight suit? It looks like he’s taking the piss out of himself, or he’s ‘lean’ (drunk/high), or he really just can’t dance. I think it is that he really can’t dance. But that girl Nicole his hot, hot, hot. As Tony Matterhorn sings: “Gooders fe dem, gyal yuh ah gooders fe dem.” I don’t know how long they take on her hair and make-up, but she is definitely going in with tings.

I for one could not name one other girl in that group, and would not recognise any of them if they passed me in the street. They must screw that Nicole gets all the attention. Every time they go to do some publicity I bet the others have to constantly tell people who they are.

Athough in general I disapprove of the trend for stripper dancing that dominates the female arena of pop music, I can’t help but love these girls.

Their song, ‘Don’t Ya Wish Your Girlfriend’ was like Marmite, you either loved it or hated it. And I loved it. I found myself pumping my glutes extra hard in the gym every time that tune came on my iPod in an attempt to look as hot as one of them. They is some fit athletic looking beeyatches. Unfortunately I’m not quite there yet.

As a a self-proclaimed ‘womanist (like a feminist but black), I should hate them, but when I see their videos, I marvel at how tight their routines are, the intricate choreography in the high heels, their movement flows like water, and visually they look stunning, even though they’re not all stunners. There’s so many of them, but no one’s off-beat. Not even the white girls. ‘llow me, you know white girls have only been dancing good for about five years or so, before that, as my Lil’ Bruv would say, they were ‘waste’ ( I’m guessing it’s short for a waste of time).

I’m trying to think why I’m not offended by them. But I think it’s because as mainstream journalists like to say, for women they represent the ‘zeigeist’. Just like Destiny’s Child broke through to the mainstream with ‘Independent Women’, at a time when women were earning decent money, and realised they didn’t have to take up with any old man just to say they had one, the Pussycat Dolls have vocalised with ‘Don’t Ya’ the reality many women are dealing with, having to bat away attached men.

In ‘Don’t Ya’ they acknowledge their sexual power and taunt the man with their lyrics: “Don’t you wish your girlfriend was raw like me, don’t you wish she was a freak like me” with a knowingness that further intrigues the man but does not invite him in. There’s no soppy unrequited love shit, it’s more of an acknowledgement of their own feminine power and prowess. And they recognise that they’re more powerful for not acquiesing while the man is in a relationship. As Nicole sings “If it ain’t love, it ain’t enough to leave a happy home.”

‘Don’t Ya’ vocalises the dilemma many single women are facing in these times of ‘slim pickings’. And I think that’s why I wasn’t immediately turned off by this single girl anthem. Because when ‘taken’ men are running you down, that’s what you should sing to them, “Don’t ya wish your girlfriend was hot like me” and tell them to keep it moving.

Their latest single ‘I Don’t Need A Man” is the perfect song for the noughties woman. Again, they’re talking to the underdogs, single women. Both white and black women are facing the ‘Bridget Jones’ syndrome. But instead of bleating about it, like many of us do, they’ve made an upbeat club anthem for women to sing along to say fuck that, “I don’t need a man to make me feel good. I don’t need a ring to make me feel complete”. And it’s true. Women should be able to feel good about living without a man. We don’t ‘need’ one, but yes, we would like one. We need to stop despairing about being single, and women that are in relationships need to stop acting smug and like they’re all that because they have a man. Because you know if their relationship mash-up, they would mash-up too.

Any man I’ve ever been with, I know I can live without them. That’s life. Breaking up hurts, but after getting over the split ten years ago with my daughter’s father, I know that I could never hurt more than that again. Because that was a family breaking up.

Some women out there would literally die if they were single, they just would not be able to cope. The Pussycat Dolls remind me of why I am glad that I am not one of them. As Suzy Wong says, “Don’t worship man”. It’s all about self-esteem. If you feel good about yourself, you can enjoy life until your Shaka Zulu comes.

That’s why I love the Pussycat Dolls, because they’re not whinging on about not having a man. They’re celebrating. And that’s what I’ll do, until my man comes. Celebrate life to rass, it’s too damn short , so enjoy the time that you’re single, and don’t think that your shit can make patties just because you have a man.

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F*ck What You Heard

I have been feeling hella stressed lately. Working six days a week is not a good look for the Butterfly, although it certainly helps when you pop into Kurt Geiger on a whim and drop £70 on a hot pair of fuck-me-pumps. For two evenings when I came home after work, I put the shoes on, and just sat on the sofa smiling to myself. I wanted to fuck myself when I put the shoes on. Black patent peep-toes, with a white platform sole and 4 inch stacked heel. Coming to a rave near you, soon.

Saturday night's rave was a 'duty rave'. A duty rave is one where you have a 'duty' to represent. A couple of the DJs we know were having their 'birthday dance'. Otherwise known as a creative way to make money. But, if certain mans is laying off free tickets to you throughout the year, you got to represent at the birthday dance. It would be rude not to.

People always say to me, "Oh my god, do you still rave..?" In the same sort of way that they might say: "Ohmigod you have crabs?". And although I wasn't desperate to go out on Saturday, it turned into a good night out. I must have been feeling haps because I told Gee to get the £55 bottle of Veuve Cliquot instead of £30 Lanson. That disappeared quite quickly, unfortunately I never did get the hang of sipping champagne. And I was rather disgusted that I had to drink it out of a plastic cup. I mean, £55 for a bottle of champagne and you have to drink out of plastic. But when I looked around the club, everybody was holding a glass of champagne. Figures.

Downstairs was crazy busy, and we had had to queue for 20 minutes to get in. It was just too manic so we headed upstairs with all the 'big people'. Saw a couple heads in there, my friend B'baller was in the house celebrating his birthday, so he topped me up with a house party measure of brandy. That was it, head lick off. The whole place was jam, and lively, sing out crew in the house, and despite how ram it was, no bad vibes.

I saw Very Married. We met recently through mutual friends I would have been interested were it not for the significant fact that he's Very Married. VM wants to take me out for dinner to a Thai restaurant. I'm not mad about Thai food. The menu's so fucking long, and I don't know what most of it is, and I'm sick of the Thai green curry. He says he likes me with a capital L. As the song goes, 'If a man a run you down gyal ah nuh fe yuh fault, tek 'im, tek 'im.' It's a good thing I'm not green like cut grass or else I might just take that foolishness seriously. Directly, as I'm not looking to get lick down in the street by no dogged-out girl over her triflin' man, I think I'll pass. But he's GFC (Good For a Crub).

Last week, I was talking to a cab driver saying I was looking forward to weekend, and going clubbing, and he asked me will there be many white people there. 'No not really'. So he says 'do you think it's because they will feel intimidated'. Now I've heard this bollocks quite a bit from white people. But when I go to the pub, a bar, or a party with my friends from my journalism course, I am usually one of very few black folk there. Do I care? I'm there because I want to be there, and 'I AINT NEVER SCARED'!

In our group, I am the only black person. I am not afraid to go anywhere where the majority of people are white. Except the deep south of the USA because someone called me a nigga as they drove past. So why should white people be? I said to him, the reason why few white people go is because they're not necessarily into black music, and I couldn't even begin to explain to him what 'rare groove' is. It's just a completely different thing culturally. For instance, most black people are not trying to go to some dingy club in Camden and listen to live bands standing on a dancefloor covered in beer. It's not because they are intimidated or 'fraid, it just ain't they're thing.

The white people that do go to 'circuit' raves, go because they have friends on that scene, and they like the music and understand the vibe. Oh and the white girls love a black man. Let's be real. But soon in the name of social interaction I'm going to bring a couple of my white friends to a rave with me, because they have expressed an interest in going. So if you see me in a dance soon crubbing with a white man, you know why.

Anyways, for some people the 'circuit' is not for them. And that's cool. But I just can't take the snobbery involved. 'Oh I don't go to THOSE type of raves'. What you mean is raves that aren't full of try-hard black people wearing drainpipes, mohican hairstyles and snorting coke (and that's just the men). 'It's so old-fashioned, nothing changes, they play the same music'. There's no decent man there (ok that bit's true).

But I put it to you, if you haven't been to a circuit dance lately, how the fuck would you know?

No Romance Without Romance

I have to do a piece for Pride on Love and Romance by next week. The two words most likely to bring out the raging cynic in me. Having been single for three years, I would argue, that both of them m*therf*ckers is dead to rass.

My date count in three years is a grand total of two. TWO! I’ll be honest, my memory is not what it used to be, so it could have been more, but they must have been some boring sonofabitches if I can’t remember them.

Now I know it’s easy for me to sit here and act like my kaka don’t stink, like I’m all that and then some, and brothers ain’t right. But I know, that sometimes it’s just not your time. The moon and the stars don’t align, and Venus is not in your sign, and you just have to get over it and get on with life.

But what the hell am I going to write about on the subject of love and romance? Or Roman-antics as the Bobo Dread calls it. Personally I don’t go in for all that hearts and flowers shit. It makes my skin crawl. Romance to me is not a societal construct, as in, on Valentines Day, you should go to an overpriced restaurant, eat from a crappy set menu and gaze into each other’s bored eyes.

And as for those couples that say smugly ‘Oh, we don’t celebrate Valentines Day. We just stay at home. Together.’ Yeah, sure you do. But could your man go out on his jacks (alone) on Valentines Day? Could he go to a rave on Valentines weekend without your non-celebrating ass? Could your girl? I.Don’t. Fink. So. What you mean is, you don’t spend money on celebrating Valentine’s, but you still celebrate it all the same. It’s a day for people with partners to feel even more smug about the fact that they are not ‘out there’.

Don’t feel smug for too long though, remember Aleesha Dixon, the girl from Misteeq. She has just suffered a very public humiliation after finding out her husband was giving his West End co-star Javine, some extra ‘wuk’ after showtime. Apparently they were caught by Javine’s boyfriend, DJ KG, someone I know from back in the day. He must be screwing. Even more so because I ain’t never seen that mixed-race nigga with a black girl, or a near-black girl in all my life. Yeah, he blanked me long time ago. And no I ain’t bitter.

Anyway Suzie Wong says, ‘Don’t swear for your man’. Something tells me Aleesha did. ME! I never swear for my man. But I always tell them this. If you go out there, and get ‘lean’ or high, or happy that some piece of skirt is showing you some attention and your ego forms itself into a penis and you end up inside her, MAKE SURE you wear a condom. THEN, keep that shit to yourself, I am not interested in sharing your guilt. If it happens again, and becomes some sort of ‘love affair’ do the decent thing, LEAVE. or if you’re feeling really brave, tell me about it so I can make a decision about what I want to do.. After I have lost the plot, I will most probably decide to stay and torture your ass until YOU LEAVE, but not before I have rinsed your credit card, and pawned all your shit to buy myself a ticket to Jamaica to get over your cheating ass.

I digress.

What is Love and Romance? This is what I think romance is:
1. Taking the time to think about somewhere special to take your date. The local pub in Peckham High Street and a Wimpy Bar don’t mek it (both real examples of dates I have endured). The date is a reflection of you and your tastes. It doesn’t mean you have to pick the OXO Tower, but if your idea of haute cuisine is McDonalds, it’s safe to say I won’t find it romantic.
2. Having a meal cooked for me – I am an harassed single working mother of one exhausting child. I will suck dick for this. Guaranteed.
3. Romance is observing the basic rules of courtship. Boy meets girl, he asks girl out, or they agree to go out, they go for a meal or do something ‘fun’ together, and there is no dispute about who pays the fucking bill. He pays. There is no romance in my life right now. As no one can observe these simple rules.

What’s your idea of romance?

The Baddest Bitch

Special request to Michie Wong. Apologies for the long ting in posting. It's just been work, work, work. Anyways here's one I did while pretending to look like I was working.

I try, but I just can’t. A combination of dawning PMS, and kicking the cigarette habit I picked up again while ‘enjoying’ myself in Malaga is making me even more of a bitch than usual.
My sense of humour leans towards the dark side on most days, but throw a looming red flag (period slow coaches), and nicotine withdrawal, and believe it’s time for That Bitch to come out to play.

Bitch 1: The cab man who picked me up last week. I’ve just done 9 hours up in the ‘plant’ (tation) and am dragging my sagging ass out the door to snoozeville. I stop and pick up a packet of low fat crisps (I’m trying) and get to the car. As I open the door, this ‘new nigga’ (eastern European) says to me: “Please don’t make mess in my car.” WTF?!? Butterfly Bitch says: “Do I look like a child?” “No…but”. I repeat very slowly, because his English was not very good. “Do.I.Look.Like.A.Child?”. Let me describe the car the man was fussing over. Beat-up white Ford Escort estate. They don’t even make them anymore. First of all, my company pays him to drive me. Why is the man acting like he’s doing me a favour? Second of all, that is the type of thing you might say to a 2-year-old. How many adults do you know that can’t accurately perform the hand to mouth action needed to eat crisps without making a mess? Ooh that man did vex me.

Bitch 2: For three days I’d been listening to one of my colleagues sniffle and snuffle. Not once did I see that fool use a tissue. By day four, I snapped. I tried to hard to say it nicely, it went something like this: “Let me get you some tissues ‘sniffing fool’….(ah isn’t she nice) because believe I can’t listen to you sniffing like that for the rest of the night.” Damn girl. He was wrong the week before when he said I was more ‘brutal’ than he was, but I wouldn’t have corrected him on this occasion. If there’s any noise that makes me homicidal, it’s listening to people sniff. Now I have a child, and I can’t stand to hear her sniff. At the first sign of a cold I buy her a box of tissues and almost glue it to her hand. If she can’t stop sniffing in my presence, she goes to her room. I ain’t playing, that noise gets on my last nerve. I just cannot listen to it. Soon after I got him the tissues, I didn’t have to. Needless to say, he no longer talks to me. Do I care?

Bitch 3: I was at the nail shop, and my usual technician ‘Su Ling 1’ was busy. Time was short as I had to be at work in an hour an a half, so I went with ‘Su Ling 2’. As soon as she started hacking at my nails I knew she wasn’t The Girl. She asked me if I wanted them trimmed and then used the tool that they use for filing down the acrylic to grind away at the length of the nails. I was starting to get ‘fraid blud and thought to myself, this ‘new bitch’ is crazy.

Su Ling 1 walked by and I gave her the international nail customer’s sign of distress – it’s like morse code but you do it by fluttering your eyelashes instead of tapping on a machine . She came over and I said, while trying hard not to snatch my hand away from Su Ling 2 who was grinding away at what was left of my acrylics, ‘I wanted you to do my nails, but I wasn’t sure how long you’d be.’ I was wrong in assuming that Su Ling 2’s English wasn’t that good, because a moment later she said ‘You want her do your nails?’, dropped the tool, and left the table. Vex. Oh well. When you’re paying your hard-earned plantation money, people need to come correct. Not one of my nails was the same length. So I was reunited with Su Ling 1, and she did a beautiful job at repairing the damage that was done.

Roll on *Arsenal playing at home.

*Americans: This is a euphemism for menstruation – Arsenal Football Club wear red shirts.

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