Grey Hairs

I attribute the appearance of grey hairs to the strains of raising a teenager. The more stress she gives me, the more that appear. Last week I almost wept as I saw a least a handful of the suckers snaking through my two tone locks. Clearly I have been leaving it too long between re-touches.

Zesty wants to know what happened with the Crazy Boss? Well, I decided to take two weeks off and re-group. Obviously I had showed my ass and couldn't back-track on the all too evident hatred I had for the man. So I took a vacation from the 'tation to think through the options.

Decided to pop over to Barcelona (thanks to cycle accident cash that came through), and enjoyed my first real solo holiday. Just me, myself and I. The Brat went to Paris with her father.

And it was great, I definitely got a new attitude, enjoyed lounging on beach, walking the Ramblas, and in general being a Jamaican/English gyal in Barcelona.

Getting 'dipped'(pickpocketed) on the first day didn't dampen my enthusiasm for wandering around solo. I ain't new to this homies. My cash was safely stowed away, purse back in the suitcase, and all they got was a few coins in my sunglasses case.

Didn't get bothered too much by the locals. Although of course my very cheap accomodation was in Drassanes, an area that was cool by day but dodgy at night. If I still did drugs I would have been a-ok.

Instead I just enjoyed a nightly beer, and a couple of killer Capirinhas that put my ass out for the count.

So now I'm back, and ready to wreck shop.

Ola Barcelona.

When good jobs go bad

It's finally happened. The honeymoon is over. I hate my job.

I hate my job a lot. I've got a new boss – and the man is crazy. He has a man-period every day, and is very passive aggressive.

I hate him, and I failed to hide it, so he knows I hate him, and is trying his best to make my life a misery – and succeeding.

Last week I was told I had to do nightshifts again – after a year of not doing them. I now have to do a week at nights a month. Apparently, they need the best people on at nights now for my department. Yet, we have been given barely any training on the new system.

It's so important – but yet, he has not signed up for them as well.

Up until his arrival, I can truly say that I was enjoying my job – but now. I hate it. In a way it's a good thing, because it's not like I was doing anything ground-breaking there.

Most of my daily stories centre around celebrity cellulite, an ENORMOUS baby bump, and the comings and going of SCABBY Amy Winehouse. But there was a rhythm and a buzz about it that I enjoyed.

So now, I have to get out there and find another job. I hope something else comes along soon. Because my mum always told me it's not good to hate people.

Sorry Mum

And I'm feeling good...

I didn't realise that raving had become my life. Although clearly other people had judging from the comments of 'your always raving!' - because now that I'm not doing it every weekend – it seems that there isn't much else.

Of course, being a parent – there is my child. But she's now at the age where spending the WHOLE day hanging with your mother – as cool and hip and she might like to think she is - is deeply uncool. And means avoiding any shopping area (in south London) where she is likely to 'buck' any of her school friends.

Most of my friends have children – so Saturday nights are our times for meeting up, after we had enjoyed mummy time, and doing all the stuff necessary to keep home and hearth running – or in my case, ignoring all that shit completely and going shopping, gym or somewhere most interesting instead.

Most Saturday’s I roll out of bed and go for a run – cos if I don't do it the a.m. ...'forgettaboutit'. Plus it's nice to get out there early before all the tourists take over the South Bank making it impossible to run.

Then, I come back sweaty and shattered and have breakfast or take Daughter Dearest to Giraffe for brunch. That's cool – we usually have a chat about the goings on at school. Still no boyfriend action (cool), no chemicals in hair (good) and no piercings, tatts or underage drinking (awesome).

Sometimes when I just need to get away from it all I pop into my local arthouse cinema – either the Ritzy or Clapham Picturehouse. On Saturday I went to see 27 Dresses. I recognised one of my sistren there – "i.e. Single sister who can't be bothered to wait pon people to see a film so chooses to go by herself but is looked on with pity by male ticket attendants".

I don't know why I wanted to see this film – but I guess as much as us post-feminists try to hide it, that romance thing is ingrained, and I thought it would have the feelgood factor. Cos Lord knows I ain't getting it much 'good feeling' elsewhere.

Five minutes into the film I pretty much feel embarrassed that I am even there.

But of course I chomp on my popcorn (small) and continue watching – and much like heroin does for Pete Doherty (I'm guessing) - for those 94mins I am transported to NYC – which looks great by the way. Bills, work stress, and the lack of available men fade into the background.

Cheap at the price for £8.50, and safer than injecting yourself with a needle.

I'm bored...

I know it's been some time since I have posted. But let's catch up. I'm not strung out on drugs, nor am I an alcoholic (any more). To my great consternation, I'm still single, and I'm still gainfully employed for the big time newspaper.

In fact, it's that which has seen my life change in ways I would not have foreseen. I was very much a party girl, a social butterfly if you like. But when you have to get up at 5.30am on a weekday, motherfuck a midweek party.

I made up for it though on the weekends, staying out from dusk til dawn in various ghetto raves with my girlfriends. But I don't know, this year, something changed. And now, I no longer want to do this. Maybe I'm a late developer, cos some of my friends gave up on raving from time. But now, as I am fast approaching the ripe old age of *cough*-ty nine...it's my turn.

So what am I doing instead of staying out until the wee hours, and sleeping my Sunday away...? FUCK ALL! And ohmigod, do I hate it. It is so fucking boring. I think I am going die of the boredom.

And being bored is dangerous for me, because then I have to fill the void with some drama. And believe me there has been plenty of that too. Inappropriate flirtations, arguments with my family (really boring), comfort eating and comfort shopping.

Those two don't really co-exist that well though, because if you comfort eat, you can't actually fit in any clothes that you want to buy. But thankfully we have shoes to compensate for that. New black and tan Mary Janes from Topshop...they're the bomb. Apart from the fact that they are killing my corn!

I work, I go gym, and then I go home, trying desperately to get into bed before eleven o' clock, so that I won't be moody and curse out my 'boss'. Yeah I have a new boss, but more about him later...

The weather hasn't exactly helped, but I'm hoping that now we are actually in the midst of British Summer Time, things might perk up somewhat. I need some new adventures. Especially if I'm gonna have something to tell y'all here!

Ola Barcelona!

The Brat and I are on part 2 of our summer sojourn. And I am blogging from a dump of a net cafe in sunny Barcelona. It could all have been so different, as our route getting here was somewhat problematic.

Having returned from Norfolk on Monday, I was still in quite a laidback mood thinking I had three days to sort myself before travelling to Barca. On Tuesday evening a random thought occurred to me, I had booked our accomodation for four nights, but if we were leaving on Wednesday, then that would only be three. It was a classic Goldilocs ´I fucked up´ moment. But what´s travelling without a little pre-flight drama!

I checked the booking confirmation and lo and behold, it revealed our flight was indeed the following morning and we needed to haul ass quicktime to get it together.

Thanks to a withdrawal from the Bank of the Bobo Dread - my funds were still sitting in my savings account - we were able to actually leave the country with some money...or else we might have ended up as the main attraction on Las Ramblas as the busking duo from London singing and bodypoppin for our 20 euro supper.

We flew Ryanair which thankfully was not as bad as I anticipated, just the fact that it was a 6am flight meant no sleep all night as we had to get a coach to Stansted which was full of similarly sleep-deprived people.

We arrived in Barcelona to rain. Not an auspicious start, but of course it didn´t last. A bit of guide book reading revealed our cheap digs near the centre are situated in the local red light district. And I thought it was bohemian.

This being Spain though, it´s not too seedy, and you just see a few ladies of the night dotted about. To be honest they wear more clothes than you see on girls going out for the night in London. Although the he/she´s look a bit more conspicous. Clarke said they wore too much make-up which gave them away!

This being one of Europe´s cultural capital´s we looked at our itinerary and decided our first stop would be....FC Barcelona for the stadium tour. Well it is really Clarke´s holiday and that´s what she wanted to do. I was pretty bored after 15 minutes. It´s like a football Disneyland, you get taken for a ride, posing for expensive photos with the trophy (which I had to buy) and deposited straight into the Barcelona store (two Barca footballs I had to buy). I was hoping that Ronaldinho would appear, but of course he didn´t although his mug was everywhere.

We´ve eaten a lot of tapas (don´t worry philistines they have Mickey Ds and KFC here too) and drunk lots of coffee. Even though I´m not a great fan of the Spanish (monkey noises during international football games....) Barcelona is a really great city.

White people scare me

I love the countryside. I think it's the fond memories I have of school trips to Beaconsfield, a big rambling house in the country, where we would stay for the weekend, enjoying long rambling muddy walks and awful dinners. We would sleep in dorms and spend most the night trying to sneak into the boys dorm. Ok that was me, and I would usually end up sharing a room with the female teacher after getting catch.

My friends think I am a bit of a white girl because I like going to the pub with my work and uni friends, and will stay all night rather than the two hour 'show ya face' period that they usually do. I usually end up with the world's worst hangover as I try and fail to keep up with the drinking and end up drinking all types of foolishness (apart from Sambuca which not even my drunk self will sup).

Last week we had a quiz night, with a free bar tab. Five hours of free drinks later I managed to get home via nightbus. The next day I had to take a cab to work as I was still so pissed I couldn't face the tube. I had my head in my hands, as I sat in front of my monitor trying to string a sentence together that I could not form. The Nurofen I ingested to take away the spinning head and dicky stomach decided it didn't want to play nicely with the alcohol still lining my gut, and I had to make a dash to the bog (toilet). Felt somewhat better after that.

Drinking and journalism go hand in hand - definitely hard to be teetotal in this game. And helps if you like one.

But as much as I love London, sometimes you need to get the fuck out of dodge. My daughter's on school holidays, and unless I'm home she has no business being on the streets of south London. A 16-year was shot and killed about ten minutes walks from my house. Things are not getting any better.

My deskmate 'EG'has kindly invited me to Norfolk for a few days to stay at her parents cottage. Now as 'white' as my friends say I am, I am only trying to go outside London with either white folk, or a group of black folk, cos I'm sorry, but white people in large numbers scare me. Its kinda the opposite of white people - who tend to be scared by small groups of black people, or just one. I feel more safe going abroad than going outside London, unless its Manchester - which is cool.

We're going to a nice village, where we'll spend some time by the seaside, visit some country pubs and go for long walks. Or if it rains, we'll just stay in and drink!
One of the things I like about going to the seaside is eating freshly cooked fish 'n' chips. Don't forget the mushy peas.

What can I say, I'm a UK Black!

Butterfly Jones is dead...

It's certainly been a long time since I last posted on here. A combination of working hard, being brain dead once I got home, and no net connection meant a lack of motivation for posting. Plus quite frankly life got really boring. I mean stupidly, brain-numbingly boring. I had allowed 'being boring' to infiltrate me, and usurp my excitement gene.

So let's catch up then.

Am still at the BTN (Big Time Newspaper) having seen off bitch-boss and welcomed new, nicer Man Boss. My working life consists of writing about the unholy trinity of Britney, Lindsay and Queen of Chavs Victoria Beckham. For 'chav' see Britney but with marginally better clothes.

Got hit by a car cycling to work and felt like a Superhero when I lived to tell the tale, just a small cut on the ankle and a sore neck. Shame I didn't wake up the next day with a superpower - I would have liked the power of invisibility, imagine the mischief I could get up to with that. Weight no longer an issue.

Still single...I think I have been writing this blog for two years, and still no significant other has materialised. This sucks BIG TIME. I don't think men can smell desperation coming off me, more like the 'major pissed offness' I emananate due to being up in the club on a Saturday night rather than at home fucking my hot man silly during a DVD we have given up all pretence of watching. Clearly this is the honeymoon period I am talking about.

I met a guy last week, and during the first (and last) phone call we had, he was telling how much he enjoyed outlet shopping. What the fuck?!? I'm sure he heard the zzzzzz as I nodded off.

Another guy I liked, he had recently split up with his long-term girlfriend, told me he liked me but is not ready for 'a relationship'. Oh fuck off then you wet blanket! Man's almost 40 years old - WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU WAITING FOR EXACTLY?!? Just do me a favour and as they say in EastEnders sling yer hook!

You see what I mean, major pissed offness. But I take solace in the fact that I'm not in one of those relationships where people have just given up the ghost already, and the best has come and gone. Sex is by appointment, and they're idea of being adventurous is to get a new duvet cover. Fuck. All. That.

The 21-year old body is still 38, but hey, cycling and hip-hop dance classes has helped the jiggle somewhat, and I feel better than my 21-year-old insecure self. Still a work in progress. So we'll see how that pans out.

All in all, as you can tell, I am on my way to being one bitter and twisted single woman...As the for the blog post title, I'm not that woman anymore, Butterfly Jones is dead. Long live Goldilocs.

*Canin' It Like Amy

The Bobo Dread said 'I don't know how you do it' after I recounted the bank holiday weekend runnings. And sometimes neither do I. I think it's something to do with stress-relief from my J.O.B. When I work hard, I like to play hard too. Okay, there are a few weekends when I am just not feeling the fuck-me-pumps and freakum dress...I counted three last year! But in general, 50 hours a week at the plantation equals 8 hours downtime on the dancefloor on the weekend.

It's dating central in the world of B' Jones, nothing too serious, but a drink here, a movie there, and a link-up at a party there. It's all good, and a sign that summer really is around the corner as everybody gets their flirt on, and is keen to lock down a few summer bunnies.

Went to a salsa/r 'n' b night with one of the Wong Sisters, Michie. A bit of an unusual combination, but then it is run by an American. You can have a lesson at 8pm, and then try out your new-found skills for the rest of the evening. Or if like me you would rather just sit and laugh at folk who have got it horribly wrong, you can hold a corner and wait for the R 'n' B to start.

It was in a nice bar in the City (aka The Square Mile). These bars tend to hire out their venues to black promoters on the weekend, as long as your crowds not too 'gangsta'. But during the week the only blacks you'll see there are the 'tokens' admitted to the city enclaves.

I met up with a friend up there, and we hung out drinking vanilla vodka's, and mojitos. He introduced Michie to one of his friends who was desperate to get all up in the business. It was all good until Mich mentioned she was a mother-of-three...then that mofo couldn't run fast or far enough. I wouldn't mind, but for one he seriously wasn't all that, and secondly, as we left we saw him exchanging numbers with what looked like a human gargoyle (I keeps it real). Pickney or no pickney she could not walk in my bredrin's shoes. Done know.

We headed out of there around 2am to go meet Wong and G-Ling to go to a club called Twilights in Canning Town. All set for a long night out we got there around 4am. The place was 'brass' (means broke, you have no dough/or a place is empty - to us!). First of all, there was a flat screen showing the boxing, so the men that were there were transfixed by it, secondly, the rave was half-empty. That could have been something to do with the fact that someone did 'lick shot' (fire a gun) at the last dance there. We kinda forgot about that.

Over the last month, there have been two robberies at well-known south London clubs, Illusions, and Brockwells. As a result it seems that peeps are being scared off from raving. And who can blame them. These cowards went into clubs and robbed people at gunpoint. Funny, because I don't see them niggas trying it up in the white people's clubs. Is this what we have come to? Whatever, it ain't going to make me want to go to Chinawhite's and those other eediyat West End clubs where you have to be on the guestlist and show your breast, or your coochie in a tiny dress (no panties necessary) so that some feisty doorman will let you in. Them days are surely over.

We didn't feel like we really raved that night as they shut it early - at 6am. Yes that is early for Twilights, as it usually goes on until 10am. So eager to shake two foot, we went out Sunday night. I was mashed all day from the night before, but managed to cook a much-needed roast dinner, and after hours on the sofa, and a hair of the dog shot of peach schnapps went out the door again.

We passed by Brixton bar Zed - not my favourite place as it's full of local yokels, yardies and young gyal. But some friends wanted to meet in there. It's a complete pick-up joint. But most of the men are complete pussies and prefer to just play the staring game in the hope that they will crack the Mona Lisa-like expression on your face. No such luck.

It finished at the stupidly early time of 12am. Still not feeling sated, we went on to a drinks free all night dance at Virgo's - a place we usually scorn. And guess what, that was brass too.

Fuck it - I drank my money's worth of brandy, flung two foot and danced with a cute guy. We headed out at 5am when my feet had had all they could take. I'm considering having Botox injected in them, cos dem heels are surely putting a hurting on my feet.

How do I do it? Well I paid for it the next day. Tired as fuck I still had to complete my housework, 'look after' my child (thank god she's 13) and get myself sorted for work. By 8.15pm I was in my bed, reading the weekends newspapers for work. I think that will be my new bedtime all fucking week.


*Canin' it: hardcore raving, drug-taking, drinking, whatever - just doing it to the max.

Summer is coming...

The weather was really good for April (thanks global warming) and it was even sunny on my birthday for once, instead of the usual torrential rain. I got my new bike, she's a beauty, but bike theft is the latest inner-city sport so until I insure it, it nah go nowhere if I have to leave it on road.

Started running (again), as it took me two weeks to recover from the weekend of no sleep. I'm at the point where I resent the fact that I have an obligation to keep fit. Which basically means I'm out of shape. Again. Anyways after a pep talk from The Man Who Has Muscles In All The Right Places, who gave it to me straight (ouch you bastard) I knew I had to get back on the hoss.

The girls are running Mondays and Wednesdays and I plan to join them. Summer is coming blood. So I made the run from Kensington, through the park down to Knightsbridge, St James Park and then to Vauxhall. It was LONG. But it took me the same time as taking the tube home - which I hate - and was a great deal more pleasant.

New season clothes are in the shops and I'm always amazed at the new and varied ways the fashion industry come up with to make you feel like a mampy (heffa, fat, obese). Playsuits are a big feature, mini skirts and of course shorts. Think I'll give all of those a miss. Plus wide legged jeans. My legs are already wide - why would I want to draw attention to that? Gap make jeans for people with thighs the size of teenagers, and I clearly am not one which is why I can't buy a pair of jeans there.

I wish I could just wake up one day with the body I had at 21 - it was dope, but of course I never appreciated it. I'm trying to bring that bitch back.

Wish me luck!

Bad girl for life

I saw an old friend on Friday at my regular once a night club Blacktronica, and he asked me what happened to the blog. What can I say, but life got in the goddamn way. That four letter word that tends to rule most people's lives, W.O.R.K got in the way. Now I am a fully paid up staff member it seems that people are intent on finding new ways to make it less enjoyable for me. Like my start time. It's 7.30am EVERY FUCKING DAY! Ok, I do get to finish at 4.30 (ish) which means I have no excuse not to put a home-cooked meal on the table, but it means I have become one of those boring-ass people who desperately tries to get into bed at a decent hour. I have even retired (once) at 9.30pm for the evening. I must be getting fucking old.

Days of working like a dog turned into weeks, and its been over a month since I last posted. But, rest assured, I always make time to enjoy meself. Ya hear!

I turned thirty-eight last week. THIRTY FUCKING EIGHT ARRRRGGGHH! What a nonsense. How dare I get here so bloody quickly. I'M NOT EVEN MARRIED YET! I've had one proposal, no gotdamn ring (note to men - do not propose and then don't buy a ring - it's mad cheap), and a long-term relationship which didn't end with kids or marriage. I am basically a typical black woman.

So to 'celebrate', because despite the whinge, I was happy to celebrate it - I dragged the girls to a raving 'weekender' in Great Yarmouth. Now I don't know the origin of these things, and how they started, but I know my mum used to talk about 'coach trip' back in the day. So basically, a load of black people (99.5 per cent apart from the bar staff - and a couple of bashy white girls) descended on a 'holiday village' in this seaside town for a weekend of raving. It was both mine and Michie Wong's birthday so we wanted to go. Basically it was a duty rave for them. Even at the big old age of 38, if you say you want to go white-water rafting on your birthday, really and truly, no one should complain (of course this being black folk, they would). A couple of the girls didn't want to go...so we left dem.

Anyway, I will admit, a flirtation of mine was attending, which made me a bit keener to go. Work was kicking my bloody ass and the date couldn't come soon enough. Going into the weekend, I was really tired, but was looking forward to relaxing on the four-hour coach journey up there. Suzy Wong's mum made the fried chicken, and saltfish fritters (out of this world), and we sipped brandy handed out by the reps.

Each night had a different theme, and the first night was school uniform. (I know you want to see pictures Zed!). The second was a Masquerade Ball, and third night African Wear. All I can say is that in 72 hours, I got all of 10 hours sleep. I'm not sure whether I should be proud or disgusted that I have the stamina to rave drug-free (apart from alcohol which I do think I am addicted to) from 4am in the morning to 4pm the next day. Because that is what I did one night. It was deep. But we just had so much fun. I've not had such a good time since Malaga last year. We met lots of nice brothas, the sistas were friendly, and the music was on point.



We were the only girls on the floor of our row of chalets, and right next door, we had some good-looking brothers. Of course it did not take us long to get acquainted. Wong's opening line to the cris 6ft 4 fine-ass brotha in football shorts ' you have nice legs'. LOL! She keeps it real. And he had a brother. Yes I got the digits.



Highlights of the weekend were Michie getting drunk on homemade rum punch within the first four hours of us arriving, and having to sleep it off. She later had to be carried back to the chalet after too much Brandy, but amazingly reappeared in the dance two hours later having a little nap to finish off the night (morning).

School uniform night was fun, our friends brought a pen so we spent the night writing on each other's shirts. One guy wrote 'sexiest chick in town' on mine. I'm a sucker for a good compliment, and so he got a dance. I wrote 'virgin' (not on mine of course) on this young-looking guy's shirt (he was 36 but looked 18). The masquerade night was hot, DJ PC Mistri played a salsa tune, and as I expressed myself with some salsa moves, I was surrounded by a group of the guys all cheering me on. Hotness.

My flirtation didn't really work out, we had a bit of a tiff before we left for Yarmouth, so I put in a call to a 'break in case of emergency' flirtation, and he turned up and didn't leave my side the whole weekend. Oh well. You schmooze you lose.

I think I'm getting the hang of this single life ting.

Streets of blood

Another week, another killing. A 16-year-old boy chased along the street by a gang of youths and stabbed. To death. This happened in the area close to where I grew up in west London. Like Marvin Gaye once sang: “What ‘s going on?” I feel helpless, powerless when I hear this kind of ‘news’. My friend’s daughter knew the boy. Like Aids in the 80s, soon we’ll all know someone who has lost a child, a partner or a loved one in some senseless attack.

Daughter complains about the fact that she can’t go out with her friends on the weekends. They like to go wandering out of the area (south London). The way London is, and has always been is, you don’t visit ‘ends’ you are not familiar with, where you don’t know peeps or peeps who know peeps. People will start ‘armshouse’ with you.

Some of her friends have the freedom to roam the streets after school, and on the weekends. But now they don’t ask her to meet them to wander London after she attends Saturday school, because they know she cannot go. This upsets her a bit but she accepts it. I say: “I can’t help it if they have parents that don’t care about them. Be thankful you have parents that care about you.”

Her year head phoned me once to moan. She asked me: “Does Clarke spend a lot of time in adult company?”. As opposed to what? She’s at school more than she’s at home but she is an only child, and during the week, she goes to school and comes home, so she spends a lot of time with ME. Where else should she be? What would she prefer? That she spends more time with her friends roaming the streets of south London so she would have less of a smart mouth and not argue the toss with the teachers?

She has a friend across the road, and hangs out with Suzie Wongs son. They go to the park, play football, watch football and wrestling and play on the computer. They get involved in random kickabouts, and everyone goes home exhilarated. I get a play by play of the goals she scored. That’s the normal childhood shit we know and love. And that's how I'd like it to stay for as long as possible. But of course I know it won't.

This shooting kids in their homes, stabbing them on the street, that’s the shit like most people I just can’t understand. I’m scared for my child. She uses public transport, I’m at work when she’s travelling home. What would I do if someone took her life so cheaply? People are raising murdering little bastards who will take your child’s life for looking at them the wrong way, and not being from the same ‘ends’.

I don’t want to just watch this happening. I want to help, I want to find solutions, I want to get involved.

I don’t want my child to be next.

Catching feelings

I'm experiencing way too many emotions at the moment. One of the side-effects of quitting smoking. After my run, I feel high, only to crash and start feeling tearful an hour later. Last night I got tearful watching some old video of Heaven 17 (can I just say YouTube is sick - I know I'm late).



I'd been watching this singer Beth Ditto sing a version of their song Temptation with Jarvis Cocker at the NME awards on YouTube. Beth Ditto is an American singer from a band called Gossip (I think), she's unashamedly BIG, and is seriously 'fierce'. This is a woman who puts the 'F' into fat. There are a lot of fat girls out there who could do with half an ounce of her confidence, and just from watching her perform I don't believe it is false confidence. For a start she's got a wicked soulful voice, she can really 'sang'. And tons of stage presence. Watch this space on that girl.

So as I watched the original version of Heaven 17 on Top of the Pops, I began to well up. This was the music I loved when I was a teen, Heaven 17, Human League, Depeche Mode, Adam and the Ants, Carly Simon, Scritti Politti, David Bowie. And now it was in an internet archive, like some dusty old file stored away to be accessed by sad old gits like me. *Sighs*. I was going to buy their greatest hits on iTunes but thought I'd ask my music geek mate at work first Irish Dave. We similar taste in music, except that he actually spends his money on it, whereas I only buy shoes.

He always tuts when I come back from lunch with a bag which obviously contains shoes, and I tut when he comes in with yet another bag of CDs...which I then get him to burn for me. Obviously this is a one-sided friendship. Of course he already owned the CD I wanted to buy.

I'm not really that interested in new music. Apart from Amy Winehouse (right Lois). The songs of my youth have more resonance for me. Provoking memories long buried, and rarely remembered. People, places, clothes, and events come rushing back. If I hear something like Run DMCs 'Sucker MCs' or Mantronix's 'Ladies', I start breakdancing and bodypoppin like I was 17 again. To my daughter's embarassment. OK, I could never breakdance, but I could uprock. And still can after a few vodkas, even in heels. If you don't get what I'm talking about. Listen to Chaka Khan's 'I Feel for You'. Now you get me right?

As I approach my 38th year, looking back and reminiscing about the 'old days' is becoming more and more a part of my life. A life, which in some ways,still feels like its barely begun. Not for want of trying. I've packed in quite a bit, but why do I still feel like I'm at the beginning? Why don't I feel like a grown-up yet? And do I even want to?

The time is now

If you hadn't noticed, new season spring/summer stock is in the shops. And if, like me you're not buying anything new because you are wearing the extra seven pounds you gained over the winter (okay a fucking stone then), now is the time you get your phat ass up off the sofa, and get busy calorie burning.

Contrary to popular belief, smoking does not keep you slim, it just gives you cancer, so that experiment is over. After a run to Victoria during which I thought my heart was going to explode out of my chest, something had to give. So the patches are back on, and the mental affirmation, 'smoking kills, even you you fat bitch', is my new mantra.

I have set up a 21-day challenge with my buddy who works at the Other Big Time Newspaper in Wapping, to exercise each day for the next 21 days. Well, we have weekends off. We have to do a minimum of a 20 minute run, walking does not count. So far so good, I ran Monday, and today (even though it was raining). And I already feel more positive, I prefer being a smug fit person, to a smoke-infested lardy one. I'm even considering giving up the demon drink for the 21 days. Ok, I considered it. No fucking chance.

So people we are in March now - if you have a holiday, or a summer wardrobe you like and want to wear again - brave the elements, join a gym, or get a bike - and start moving that fat ass.

Sex counts too - but if you have a two-minute man, I guess you might have to find another activity to top you up.

Bada Boom! Bada Bing!

I really didn't feel like going out on Saturday night - don't faint - but then I didn't really feel like staying in. I was working on Sunday, so staying in was not an option when you have five days of stress to look forward to. Like Biggy said, 'mo money, mo problems'.

Apart from Wong picking me up to do my food shop (so handy now she's driving) I spent most of the day on the sofa after taking two rinky dink paracetamol for the headache I'd had since I woke up. Surely one glass of red wine couldn't have done that. I usually take stronger painkillers, but since reading about Robbie Williams addiction to painkillers I began to re-assess my enthusiasm for Co-Codamol. Needless to say the paracetamol did absolutely nothing for my headache which fast began to turn into a migraine. Having suffered through a phase of migraines which saw me throwing up every day for a week and end up on a drip in hospital I rang Suzy Wong for some painkillers and got my ass ready to go out.

Wong is the painkiller Queen, due to suffering from really bad period pain. Which you know about when you call her and she says: "Don't chat to me, I ain't the girl." Ooookkkk.

After a fairly dry night out the weekend before, we heard about a DJs birthday party at Le Fez, and everyone said it was going to be a good night. So I flung on the frock, and my platform Kurt Geigers (praying for at least a five-hour dancing limit) and hoped the painkillers plus a brandy would dissolve the hurt in my head. Boy did they ever.

We got there at about quarter to 2 (Wong was being long), and it was already ram. The dancefloor was just wall to wall bodies, and the DJs were playing high above the crowd on the balcony. It was a night of flossing, as mans was keen to impress the many women there (and show off on each other) by buying champagne and brandy, eager to secure the all-important 'crub' later on. A combination of the Ibuprofen and the brandy ensured I was on a level pretty quickly. In fact, I was high. Now I get the painkiller addiction.

I saw a guy I know who I quite fancy. Dayum. This night was getting better. A guaranteed flirt op for the night. With my dancing partner on lock, and the DJs playing tune, it turned out to be a wicked night. At six o'clock in the morning we were dancing to Justin Timberlake's 'My Love', the couples and people that don't rave often had already left, and the party was still going strong. I bought one drink the whole night, but my glass was never empty. The night had flown by in a blur of dancing, laughter, and flirting, and we staggered outside into the daylight at around 7am to the car. Oohh, damn, it was bright outside. People were looking at us in our raving clothes with disdain, it was now Sunday after all and we sure didn't look like we were dressed for church. Well my church was over for the night. For this week.

Oh No He Never!

Back on the raving tip this last weekend after a three-week hiatus (do we use that word in the UK?). That's long for me, give me a break, obviously due to not feeling well. Anyway, I have to rave being that I bought a stupid amount of shoes during the sales and I don't have a man with a foot fetish around to wear them at home for. TMI? Muy bad.

We had a duty rave to attend - long time DJ Chris Sweeney's birthday bash. Sweeney has played on 'The Circuit' for years and co-founded one of the longest running events on the black music scene, the RJS Holiday - which is basically a club 18-30 for black people. White people do go, but there are very few white people that are interested in spending a whole week listening and raving to r 'n' b (the proper stuff), dancehall (not just Sean Paul), and slow jams (there will be no 'I'm loving Angels instead' on this trip). Let alone rare groove (dusty old soul tunes). Am I wrong?

Interestingly, Sweeney is white. But close your eyes and you damn sure wouldn't know it because the man speaks Jam-English patois as a result of hanging with black people all his life. This was before it became trendy, and was adopted by the middle-classes. No doubt he would have been called a 'nigger lover' for hanging with black people, and probably copped a beating or two fighting skinheads when he was with his black friends.

The dance was in north-west London, Wembley, at this place Silver Spoon, which is right behind the new improved, yet to be finished Wembley Stadium. As dances go it was not the most exciting of evenings, and the half bottle of vodka we consumed before we went out caught up with me quite quickly, but not enough to prevent the ache in my gotdamn feet.

When I tried to go out to the car, the doorman said I couldn't, there was no readmission. But wait. 'But my feet are hurting me'? 'Why did you wear those shoes then?'. OH NO HE NEVER! 'For your information, and not that it's any of your business, they are NEW shoes? Therefore I would not know whether they would be comfortable or not until I bloody well wear dem'. The 3.5 inch stack heel was a bit of a giveaway.

Obviously I was talking to an ignoramus. How dare he question the reasoning for wearing the brown patent leather, studded peep-toe platforms from TopShop. Face-ty. *Kiss teet*.

As I walked back in the club I bumped into Sweeney, and like a tell-tale tip I whined to him about how the doormen wouldn't let me out to the car to change my shoes. So he took me up to the door, and told them to let me come back in. Suckerrrrs. Oh how I laughed inside. I know what they were thinking - jumped up light-skin bitch. HAHAHA. I went and changed into my Havaianas, and enjoyed the rave for another two hours.

As I came back in, at my real titchy height, I came chest-first with a big black hunk I had spied while sitting at the bar earlier. I gave him the eye contact and flashed him the pearly whites. He bought me a drink, and we chatted as much as you can in a noisy rave, and he seemed cool. He couldn't believe my age, but I believed his, just twenty-six. So I have a decade on him. So when I was Sixteen, he was six. Hmmm. I very indiscreetly took his number, and promised to call.

Maybe I will.

I am Effie White...

It's been an arduous couple of weeks. I fell ill when I didn't want to. There are points in your life when you think, I wouldn't mind a couple of days off, but this wasn't one of them. I had a welcoming drinks at the pub with my new team to welcome me at Showbiz Journalist at The Big Time Newspaper, yes I have a contract now, which means less Kunte Kinte hours, and less money. Oh well. I really didn't feel like going, which should have been a clue that I wasn't feeling well. Me, turn down a free drink?!? (you done know I wasn't paying to welcome myself), but anyway, after a 9-hour shift I dragged myself along, managed to keep consumption down to three 'small' glasses of wine, and escaped early.

The next day I couldn't move.

I spent the whole weekend on the sofa, because you know when you're sick, you have to be visibly sick. No one ever wants to spend the whole day in bed. You need to move to the sofa, and let everybody (well just Clarke) see how crap you feel.

I spoke to Suzy Wong - she was so worried about me, she came over, and did my food shopping so my 'pickney' (child) could have something to eat. That's what you call friend. So I spent the weekend watching my pirate copy of Dreamgirls (don't hate I went to the cinema first) and feeling immensely sorry for myself, as only I can. And loving it. I really just ended up enjoying the whole oh woe is me of it all. I stayed in my pyjamas, got in emergency supplies of M&Ms and Haagen Daz Cookies and Cream ice-cream and kept rewinding Jennifer Hudson singing "And I am teeellling you...I'm not going...". Dope.

I dunno if she deserved the Oscar because I didn't see many of the other contenders, but she sure tore that song the hell up. Beyonce - sit down. You know she felt GUTTED that she didn't get an Oscar, or even a nomination. When you're one of life's winners, its only natural. And if you're one of life's losers, well that's a feeling you're used to so no biggy. But as Usher sang Beyonce had to 'let it burn', cos I know that shit was hurting like a mofo. Oh well, at least she has the multimillionaire 'CEO of Hip-Hop' Jay Z to console her. "So Beyonce, what first attracted you to the multimillionaire rapper Jay Z?"

Anyways, by Monday I was feeling a-ok after a weekend of wallowing in the depths of self-pity and cold and flu viruses. Well, if I don't work I don't eat, and momma's got to get paid! Back to work it is.

Party of the Year

I have no business being a journalist when it takes me whole week to update my blog. I do apologise but I did actually write a fantastic post on how great the party was, a blow-by-blow account of who did what, when and where, and promptly shut the damn thing down without publishing it. Doh! After which I lost the will to live and had to just get as far away from a computer as possible.

But just to recap. The party was off the da heezy (I know young people are not saying that anymore). It reminded me of the parties of my youth, when the older generation (now me) and the young would get together and somehow manage to speak the same language. I think in general it's easier because black people are raised on music, so when families get together, music is always involved and the old people (us now) force the young uns' to get up and show them whatever new dance is going on. And that's exactly what happened last weekend. Suzy Wong and I got to learn the Chicken Noodle Soup dance, which is better than it sounds, and we led the young uns in the Electric Slide to Candy's Cameo (with my daughter shaming me up by misstepping).

People know how much I love to Electric Slide, I even taught it to some women on my friends Hen Night in Spain a few years back. All the people in the club stopped dancing to watch. One woman was soooo happy because she said she had NEVER been able to learn any dance step and had no rhythm. She was black too. Okay I'm lying.

But the party was really good fun. We had the best dance competition 'Dance Idol' which was won by Suzy Wong's niece who we shall call Lil Wong because she stay bad just like her aunty. Wong used to have a hot dance group back in the hip-hop days, taking on allcomers boys and girls, and they took no prisoners.

Considering I was being the meanest mum ever and hadn't wanted to have the party, you would never have guessed from the way I was dancing up myself to every tune the DJ played. Wong and I had to work to get the youts on their feet. Then they harassed my dj friend Peter Platinum Phillips (Bassline FM) to play the tunes they wanted, and if he didn't have them, they 'bluetoothed' the songs off their phones straight to his infrared enabled laptop. Deep. Clarke was cussing our Macbook a few months back because it doesn't have infrared. The damn thing costs twice as much as a bogstandard PC laptop and does half the job.

We fed them MFC (mum's fried chicken), cocktail size jamaican patties, hardough bread and coleslaw. Plus the usual fizzy drinks and sweets. I don't believe in all this organic food nonsense at kids parties. Give them what they want, get them high on the e-numbers and by 10 o' clock they crash and burn into the deepest sleep ever. Result.

My daughter looked amazing (of course I'm biased). Sweet thirteen, all long-limbed and shiny-faced. She resisted my attempts to put a little make-up on her (NO MUM! - not even lipgloss!). Those baby years went so quickly, and now I have this demanding teen (Advice: always have more than one child) who talks too much in class, and could do better according to her teachers (and she bloody well will according to me). But as I wrote in her card - she is everything I ever imagined having in a daughter. And I feel privileged to have her in my life.

Happy birthday Clarkie x

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!!!