Hola!

Hey! Remember me?

I've just come back from a week in Barcelona, which was spent in the company of none other than Euroboy. The night before my flight to the city, I had completed a 5K Race for Life in Battersea. EB and I went on to set, and possibly break, the record for most walking done by anybody ever.

You see, Barcelona is a small and neat city, like Amsterdam. You can walk to your destination in the time it takes to change over at a Metro station or get a bus, provided you know where you're going. However, despite various maps we got ourselves lost, and with alarming frequency. And probably did that 5k at least 3 times over, meaning that by Day 4 we were shattered.

One thing I noticed was that I got rather a lot of funny looks as we were walking down the street - especially if we were holding hands (EB is white). One woman who served me in a little caff looked well miserable when I walked in, despite being a relative ray of light to all the other customers. When I said I didn't speak Spanish (and therefore no Catalan) she was a study in sullenness.
See, there aren't that many black people in Barcelona, at least not in the areas I traipsed around in (The Gothic Quarter felt the force of my footwork). When we took a trip to a health club/spa in Barceloneta, the eyeballs were firmly on me. Not because of the fact I'd neglected to wear a swim cap rather than a shower cap or wear my flip flops everywhere (I was told that the Spanish and the French are very hygiene-conscious when it comes to public spaces). It was likely because I was the only black person in the building. And when I was in the local supermercat people were looking at me, maybe because I was laughing at a package of dark chocolate with the word 'Negro' emblazoned on it...

Speaking of the spa, we went down there last Saturday evening; while the UK basked in lovely hot weather, you'll be amused to know that EB and I battled biblical rain and winds to reach the place, almost turning back. (It rained last Friday and Saturday like a bitch.) Fortunately, an American tourist appeared from out of nowhere and told us that the high winds were due to the building, under whose entrance we had taken shelter. 'Just keep going, it'll be fine', he said. Said EB later: 'I think God sent that guy. Of all the places he could have been, and he turned up just as we were about to go back...' I had to agree, agnosticism be damned.

Oddly, the the bloody awful weather didn't stop us from going out and seeing at least 3 places a day. However, I wouldn't recommend buying an umbrella for 5 Euros from some random umbrella-selling dude if you can help it: they rank high on the 'Chocolate Teapot' scale of utter uselessness. The epic struggle to get into the spa was worth it, though. Warm, bubbling mineral waters and a sauna soothed our troubles away... until it was time to get back outside. Yep, still raining. Great.

Other highlights include 2 trips to the Sagrada Familia (pictured), a cathedral designed by Francisco de Paula del Villar, but taken over by Gaudi. And gaudy it is: It's taken 125 years to build so far, and projected to take another 25-40 to complete.The perpetually-unfinished cathedral is jaw-dropping, astonishing, fucking amazing, etc. It looks like something from a fairy tale or Lord of The Rings. We went during tourist hours to take pictures and gawp, then went back on a clear, dry night a couple of days later, where there was more photography and gawping, but less tourists.

We also took in the Dali exhibits (but not the Picasso Museum as I don't really care too much for his work) and saw the Roman ruins in the Museu D'Historia de la Ciutat (Museum of the History of The City). Some truly amazing pieces still remain - fragments of mosaics, buildings, and artefacts. When you go 5-6 metres down, it's as close to being in 12BC as you can get without packing a toga and getting in the DeLorean.

EB bought tickets to the Barca v Mallorca game last Sunday, and although the game itself was uninspiring (with the exception of some fancy footwork from some dude called Messi, whose name was sung with church-like reverence every time he was even near the ball), it was entertaining.

The fans are emotionally invested in their team, because they represent Catalonia. One of the scorers for Barca - I forget his name - was booed like nothing else, even after he put the team 2-up. EB explained that Barca is not called 'More Than a Club' for no reason; Catalonians are fiercely protective of their history, culture and language. So when you play for the team, the fans take it personally if you don't play well, especially if you seem more interested in partying and fucking away the wages that you pay them. Anyway, Mallorca handed Barca's arse to them on a tapas platter, and the home crowd erupted in anger, waving with of paper and bags, as they are wont to do when they are mucho displeased. Not pretty, but fun to watch. Just like the English guy wearing a bright red flamenco dress to the match.

We rambled down La Ramblas, which, if you know London, is basically like a long Covent Garden, with shops, restaurants and street performers. It's vibrant, busy, tourist central, with rip-off prices to match: er, 13 Euro for a plate of calamari, which is basically fried'n'fishy rubber? Fack off. Anyway, we walked right down to the Colom, with a proud statue of Christopher Columbus.

EB complained that he needed something to cover his head from the sun, but sadly did not take up my suggestion that he buy a Mexican wrestling mask, stubbornly buying a normal hat instead. Men, eh?

After looking at the Colom (and numerous failed attempts to mount one of the lion statues) we strolled down by the marina, but as it was cold we didn't stop by the beach for long; as I mentioned, we went back when the sun finally deigned to get its motherfucking hat on. The promenade is pleasant enough, but the bridge over the harbour is chock full of people just, you know, hanging out. Great place to do that! Naturally, EB and I cursed their inability to just fuck off and let people pass with ease.

We took in a boat tour, which I would recommend you never ever go on. After the second boatload of containers, I was suffering from rigor mortis. No business is going to advertise itself has having the 'World's Most Boring' anything, but this company should: 90 minutes of looking at boats and containers was, quite frankly, enough to drive this non-swimmer to threaten to leap aside and swim to shore.

Oh, and top tip: If you're planning a trip (Credit crunch? Isn't that a cereal?) get a Barcelona Card as soon as you land. It means discounted travel and free or reduced entry priced into tourist attractions which may otherwise be shite. (See above.)

We could have done with less rain, but when you're out exploring, it adds to the sense of adventure, si? And who wants to walk around in the sun all day? Oh, who am I trying to kid... in any case, it was a good trip. I'm starting to like this travelling lark :-)

Brand New You

What does your choice of brands say about you?

If you're anything like me, you have certain shops and certain brand names that you return to again and again.

A couple of years ago, I used to walk into my local (Soho) American Apparel shop and laugh at the Hipster Youth, bad electro music, and the clothes. Zebra-print leggings? Gimme a break!
A couple of days ago, I bought my sixth dress from there. I still don't know why, overnight, I decided I liked the clothes, but now it's my go-to place for simple, sexy dresses.

I've never considered myself a brand-name queen. When my friends went shopping in Bond Street, I'd shuffle behind, stifling yawns and trying not to run screaming for the hills. Not just because shopping is boring, but because I just didn't see the point of spunking money up the wall for something you could buy for half the price if you crossed over to the High Street. I thought it was frivolous. I used to think I was somehow on higher ground because of my restraint, going so far to look down on friends whose closets were stuffed with designer gear.

Now that I earn actual money and have a little experience and perspective, I can see why brands are so important to us. They speak to certain parts of our soul and personality, and are an important part of how we want to be perceived by people we know, and those we will never meet or see again.

Here are my current favourites:

Brand: American Apparel
Positioning: Urban, laid-back hipster. Skinny (forget wearing their clothes if you're a size 16 and over) or at least, in my case, working on it.
Notes: The founder, Dov Charney, is known for his explicit soft-core shots of maybe-underage, maybe-coked-up models and staff - he's right in the thick of the marketing (as it were). There is an unofficial 'No Munters, No Fatties, No Dogs' policy in place for hiring staff. I dare you to go into a shop and not feel 200 years old.
What it says about me: I'm slim enough to wear the clothes - instant self-esteem boost there. The sizing is erratic - pretty much reflects my own body issues. I'm young enough to get away with wearing a mini-dress that just about covers my arse, or at least look it (although I am 30 next year, I will perpetually look about 10 years younger). I'm not buying into the hipster aesthetic, as keffiyeh scarves look ridiculous on me. What I'm buying is youth, thinness and a slightly subversive edge.


Brand: Clarins
Positioning: Luxury French skincare. Makes life more beautiful.
Notes: Introduced to the range by my mother, I've been using their products since I was 14, thereby sailing through my teens with flawless skin. The Clarins Spa is the closest you will come to Heaven without having to die first. Fact.
What it says about me: Deep down, under my sometimes gauche and lumpen exterior, I am elegant and poised. Luxury is my fundamental right. Every time I purchase a product, even on the cheap via eBay, my ego gets a 'stroke' - that is, my belief that I am entitled to be treated like a queen is reinforced. I have been known to spend hundreds of pounds a time on products; the 'discovery' samples are generous, the bags collectible. They appeal to an obsessive part of my psyche - every time I see an advert for an offer (products and bags are given away with purchases), my heart soars and my wallet hides. Another bag! Hurrah!


Brand: MAC
Positioning: Makeup Artist Cosmetics is aimed at artists, and those of us who want to bring true professional-quality glamour into our lives. Diverse, gay-friendly, trend-setting.
Notes: Every self-respecting pro makeup artist I have ever met has MAC products, if not training. Every self-respecting performer you can think of has at least half an inch of MAC's finest expertly applied. Spokesmodels include Fergie (the singer), rapper Eve, and Dita Von Teese. I think drag queen par excellence RuPaul, Elton John and Missy Elliot have also represented them. You buy one product, be prepared to buy them all.
What it says about me: Music-video glamour is mine, and easy to achieve. I am insecure about my looks and want magazine-perfect results from my products. I want people to think I am beautiful and artistic. Patience is also a factor: you need it if you spend 20 minutes - on a speedy day - applying basic makeup.


Brand: Benefit
Positioning: Quirky, cheeky and a little retro-glam.
Notes: Founded by twin sisters, Benefit is all about injecting fun into beauty. MAC is quite serious in comparison: everything (except special collections) is in sober black and white packaging. Benefit, by contrast, made a recent product look like a record, and the box like a turntable. It harks back to retro-sexy glamour - think 40s and 50s pin-ups.
What it says about me: My favourite product is a body lotion called 'Touch Me, Then Try To Leave'. It's the moisturising equivalent of wearing a Burberry trench with Myla lingerie under it, and precious little else, bar a smile. I'm sensuous and tactile - with the right person. Again, with certain products, the 'You Are a Queen' button gets a push. I like to think it reflects a part of my personality that wants to be seen as effortlessly glamorous. I am smooth, sexy, yet approachable.


I've always noted how odd it is that I tend to spend the majority of my cash on makeup and nice-smelling things, rather than necessities like clothes. At a basic level, I am unhappy with the way I look, despite having recently lost nearly a stone. I'm afraid of clothes; one day they fit, the next they laugh at me, presenting me with an unwanted gift of a muffin-top. Moisturisers, on the other hand, don't let me down in the same way and give me comfort (hobbies and work notwithstanding).

You want people to make a snap judgement of you; anyone who says otherwise is lying (even if that snap judgement is 'doesn't care what anyone thinks'). So, over to you. What are your top brands, and what can people assume... from the things you consume?

Sexual Chocolate

Cadbury's have done it again - first came that fucking stupid gorilla ad, now this. It raised a couple of initial questions:

Why is Joss mumbling the words like that? Yeah, I know they're going for 'candid' and 'natural', but her pseudo-sexual wheezing makes my teeth itch. I could do something similar were I in the middle of an asthma attack (watch the ad and imagine Joss being handed an inhaler). My sister said, 'they should get someone with severe learning disabilities to do it, it'd sound a lot better.'

Where's the oral sex? The whole point of the Flake ad was to mimic a chocolately, flaky blow job (although a real life one with flakes is not quite so appetising). In addition, most of the ad is spent watching Joss and some musicians in the studio, with the payoff at the end. It's quite unsatisfying.

In other chocolate-related news, my team at work had a festive chocolate tasting this morning.

We were given 10 different types, milk and dark, then instructed to fill out a form with the names of the brands on them. First, correctly match the anonymous chocolate to the named brand (although those choccy bits branded 'Cadbury's' were easy enough to identify), then write a comment about it.

Aside from the fact that I am no longer inclined to eat chocolate again for a while (after 7 pieces I was ready to spray-paint the walls with chocolate vomit), I scored 4 out of a possible 10, and my proposed punishment was - you guessed it - to eat more fucking chocolate. In addition, some of my comments ranged from 'tastes like vegetable fat', to 'tastes like dirt' and 'minging'. I suppose that if I was any good at rating chocolate, this would be a full-time weight-loss blog: 'The Girl With the Golden Chub-Rub'.

It made me realise the following:
Being paid to eat chocolate sounds like fun, but isn't. As much as I hate Joss's singing in the ad, you'd probably be mumbling too if you were on take #103 and you were threatening to go on a killing spree if you didn't get a spliff now.

Eating chocolate is much like oral sex - apparently, you rest it on the tongue, savour the taste, then you swallow. Or, in my case, spit it into a tissue and pull a face like a bulldong chewing a wasp. Albeit not in a room full of people, but then maybe you're going to have a much more eventful Easter break than me...

'If You're Not Going to Play With Me, I'll Just Play with Myself'

I haven't blogged about it for a reason, but I'm single now.

The last few weeks have been miserable: the break-up was protracted, painful and with all the tears, grief, fury, confusion and depression that comes attendant; blogging about all of that would have turned this blog into an ugly, ugly emo-fest which is better kept private.

As the lyric goes, the hardest part is knowing you'll survive; you eventually stop seeing so much tunnel, and start catching more and more glimpses of light. That's the stage I'm at now.

The most comforting part of all this is that I'm definitely not alone in my angst, and that in itself can make you feel better. And you know the clouds are parting, when your thoughts turn to making yourself a better person - and they should, because doing the same thing over and over, achieving the same results, is how madness was so cleverly defined.

How best to tackle this fresh start? Well, the idea is not to pick yourself apart to the point where you become a heap of neuroses with all the personality of a bag of snakes - it's to ask yourself, 'How can I be better? How can I do better?' and not just for romantic relationships, but your life in general.

Its this approach that is of most use to the singleton. Go out and do the things that you like! Cultivate hobbies, and stop worrying about dying alone, being eaten by your cats.

Hot Alpha Female did an excellent blog on this subject (being a happy single, not being eaten by your cats), and all you single people reading this need to wake up and pay attention. The best advice tends to be that which is obvious, but hidden in plain sight. We so easily forget what makes us unique and special, because another person comes along and all of a sudden you think their shit smells like Chanel No.5:

...Stop focusing on external factors and start focusing on yourself. In many
ways it’s a great thing to embrace being single. It’s a very liberated and free
time... You will probably be spending most of your lifetime being married or
what not than you will be single. So enjoy that limited time that you have. And
most importantly make the most of it! [...]Because no-one can ever give you that
time back.

Word.

Hot Alpha Female

Mum's The Word

Happy Mother's Day to all the mums out there. Yes, it may be a Hallmark holiday, but being a mother is tough. It deserves to be celebrated.

I consider myself extremely fortunate to have a good relationship with my mother; she's kind, gentle, temperamental and great at making cakes. She's one of the old school, who fed me Guinness as a child, because it supposedly had iron in it. She taught me to be a snob about underwear, to the point of making me wear those horrid slips under my skirt. (Although, oddly, it was my dad who taught me how to get out of a car without embarrassing myself.)

We've had some rocky times and I found myself, especially during my late teens and early twenties, on the receiving end of some rather stinging verbals. I've since learned that such things aren't borne out of malice; sometimes you hurt the people closest to you because it's one of the privileges of being close to someone, and you can go beyond honesty and cut to the quick because you care for that person so much that you just want to make them see the truth of the matter, the same way you do. That's part of the mother-daughter relationship, but I've seen it echoed with female friends and relatives. I've seen it in romantic relationships, too. And your relationship with your parents, and their relationship to each other, is how we learn about relating to the opposite or same sex.

When I talk to people who have little, no or strained relationships with their mothers, I feel sorry for them, but also a vicarious sense of liberation. How good must it be to not have someone nag you about whether you're dressed appropriately for the weather, when you are an adult and capable of dressing yourself by now? But what does it feel like, when you need someone to talk to about your deepest fears? Is there a void that someone in your life should be able to fill - friend, sibling, cousin, therapist - but doesn't quite come close? What's that like?

My mum is in her mid-60s, but looks 15 years younger, so at least I have a graceful old age to look forward to. However, as she approaches the point where she'll be upping and leaving (with Dad) to live out her remaining years in the Caribbean, I have to come to terms with the fact that neither of them will be around for ever. And then what will I do? They've been around all my life, and I'm close to them.

Mum made some mistakes in life, and I'm glad she's shared some of those with me. I've never grown up thinking that my parents were always right, or that they fell out of the sky already married. They had lives and loves before marrying and having children, and I'm eternally grateful for that insight. She's a real person and as much as I love her, she's not on a pedestal.

I think that's how a healthy relationship should be.

Thanks for everything, Mum.

E's are Good, E's are Good...

E for Excellent Blog Award, that is. PJ of Urban Recluse fame has very kindly bestowed on me this fabulous honour.

At the moment, I'm revising and updating my blogroll, so when I have done that, I will be posting up my own nominations and spreading the love.

'Book Lovers Never Go to Bed Alone'

I've been off my blog of late, dealing with some personal stuff that has been taking up more headspace than I possess. But a chance visit to King of Scurf has inspired me to write a lil' somethin' somethin'. Good old memes! I knew one would come along that would get a spark going.

I've started reading again, after taking a break from fiction and delving into self-help, general non-fiction and books on writing techniques (so much easier to read than to get on and actually put it into practice!). I can become a bit of a book slut, with a few on the go - who was it who said that book lovers never go to bed alone? Well, you can slap my arse and call me Annabel Chong. Yes, that's nice. Harder!

Erm... I digress. Back to the meme.

The Roolz Dem:

You will need: the book(s) you are reading at the moment.

Directions*:
1. Take the book. Turn to page 123.
2. Skip 5 sentences.
3. Post the next three sentences.
4. Lightly oil the book and bake for 25 minutes at Gas Mark 5. *

One of these rules is total made-up BS :-)


The books I have in current rotation are:

Diary of a Married Call Girl by Tracy Quan
A fluffy fictional diary of a newly-married Manhattan high-class ho. I read the first book in the series and enjoyed the breezy, easy-going style, coupled with experienced insight (Quan is a former escort) of the interesting subject matter, topped off with a thick coating of gloss. Our heroine, Nancy, is attempting to juggle her work with her husband's attempts to get her pregnant; other escapades include S&M, feminism, thoughts on how one's pussy should be groomed, and the odd stray orgasm whilst at work. And ladies, I'm sure we've all had these conversations at some point :-)

Writing Down The Bones by Natalie Goldberg
This book hasn't left my side since I bought it in about 2006. It's packed with artistic ideas that inspire me wherever I go, and second only to The Artist's Way in helping me develop my sense of artistic self. No interpretative dance was required.

The Bitch Rules by Elizabeth Wurtzel
If you only have one book that outlasts all your boyfriends, it's got to be this one: it's the only women-oriented advice book I've read that doesn't treat you like a ditz, and every time I read it something fresh and new pops out at me. I've had this since before I met my ex-fiancé, which was in about 2000. The one thing about this book is that it only goes up to page 117, but what the hell. I picked out 3 random sentences, and while writing them for this blog I felt like I hadn't read them before. Good writing is so much more than technique, it's about resonance.

Iced by Ray Shell
Given to me by my elder brother, who at the time was in a boy-band managed by Shell himself, and this was about 11 years ago when I was making a documentary about the band for a 6th form college Media Studies project, shortly before I flunked everything due to developing depression. It's about a young black man called Cornelius, and his tumble from respectability into cracked-out drugs hell, including an almost-affair with a 15-year old girl, enduring sexual abuse from his therapist in return for more drugs, and of course seeing the addict's side of how a loyal but exasperated family deal with his addiction. I'm reading it before I lend it to a work colleague, who has given me the final book in this meme...

Hunger by Knut Hamsun
This is new to my reading list, and it's going to take me some time to read it. The style is surprising modern, given that it was written in 1890; however I think that's more down to the 1967 translation than anything else. This incredibly dark, depressing book tells the story of a struggling writer and his masochistic desire to starve himself almost to death. Why? Because he can, to put it simply. Men are strange, aren't they?

OK, so those are my 5 books. Now guess which of the sentences belong to which book!

Few of us who go through life without giving of ourselves body and soul and heart and spirit as you can only give to your own true love and the offspring you produce will know the selfish joy of selflessness. And I think that one of real privileges of making and having a family is that, if you are lucky, you will get to have the experience of loving so much that you ache.
Ache, by the way, is not the same word as pain: pain is a horrible thing, and in our single years, many of us will have far too much experience with it, far too many episodes when our most beautiful and delicate and worthy emotions are buffeted about by worthless objects who simply leave us feeling pained.

If I stayed on this table for another forty-eight hours, hooked up to the machine, would I spot the escaping egg? "So we don't need to test your FSH," she explained. "You can see both ovaries. They like taking turns."

He'd pay $150 a week to start and a percentage of his advance for every contract I dealt with. That's how I came to quit Merchants Bank and how I got into the entertainment business. Dalek's recording business was going great guns.

Just throw in even one line about the street outside your window at the time you were carving that spoon. It is good practice. We shouldn't forget that the universe moves with us, is at our back with everything we do.

I laughed mockingly at my tender unscrupulousness, spit contemptuously in the street, and couldn't find words strong enough to describe my idiocy. If that were only now! If this minute I found a schoolgirl's savings on the street or the last ore of some poor widow, I would jump for it and stick it in my pocket, steal it with calm deliberation, and sleep like a top all night.

Something to Ponder, Come Valentine's Day...

If you're single, that about sums up how most relationships turn out.

That is all.

"To Get Comfortable, I Like to Touch My Nipples..."

And so opened last night's Hans Teeuwen show at the Soho Theatre. I'd read a few reviews and was expecting maybe to laugh once or twice, and even then not a belly laugh, more of a 'huh' than anything else.

Boy, I was surprised. He has a manic energy and the set was best described as unpredictable:

• Opening the show by pretending to be really nervous, then unbuttoning his shirt and groaning whilst touching his nipples
• A song about Nostradamus that sometimes rhymed, sometimes didn't, then went on about how nice his arse looked in green tights
• A story about being an ice-cream man: 'Do you know what I had on the side of the van? Ice Cream', that seemed to end in a pornographic imagining of a child licking an ice-cream, then he said breezily: 'The kids used to come up to me and say, "Tell us a story!" But I couldn't. I just sold ice cream.'
• A heartfelt love poem
• The sock puppet mangled a chocolate bar on stage while Hans sang. He asked a lady in the front row to clean it up. She didn't. He got down on his knees and begged; she still didn't (she was probably busy dying of embarrassment at this stage). The he said, 'I'll touch my bum for you,' then bent over and started, er, fingering his bum. He looked over at her and said, 'If you clean it up, I'll stop'.
• A graphic depiction of how to digitally please a lady (and I don't mean giving her a pink iPod), then rolling up a sleeve, slowly licking his arm, then doing a fisting motion. Is it wrong that the memory of that made me gigglewhile I was on the Tube this morning?
• A jaunty song that referenced the tsunami, Holocaust, a guy not licking his mother any more, and taking a shit then putting it on toast
• The story about getting to Heaven, then having to wank off God (who happened to be a dwarf)
• A story about an alien underwater spaceship and a tangent about how he'd modify it but he couldn't because it wasn't his ship, and if you're going to criticise someone's alien underwater spaceship you should get your own

You get the picture - it was deeply absurd. Mad as a trumpet.

The show ended with a singalong of popular theme tunes (GhostBusters, 'Tomorrow' from Annie, which I hate) using his name as a lyric: 'Who you gonna call? Hans Teeuwen!', for the benefit of those in the audience who found his name hard to pronounce.

He's been compared to Eddie Izzard, because that's the nearest equivalent, but the only things they have in common are the storytelling and the sheer surreality of the skits, songs and other pieces which don't fit together at all. Except, of course, Eddie doesn't sing or play piano, and he tends to talk more to the audience, to tell actual jokes, than to suddenly break it down and go off on some seriously crazy detour. Also, while the stream'o'consciousness vibe is there, it's not the same as jokes that have no real payoff (which is a payoff in itself; the audience laughs because they realise that, oh right, the story ends. Just like that). If anything, you could align him with Bill Bailey - they're both accomplished musicians in their own right and have a keen sense of the absurd.

With this guy, you get the feeling that it's the Id talking. There's flashes of a seriously sick imagination back there, and that's what we like about comedians, isn't it? The fact that they say what sometimes we don't dare even to think, or that they articulate what we feel, think and observe far better than us. With Chris Rock, I laughed because some of his observations rang true. With Hans Teeuwen I laughed because it was the maddest, maddest thing I'd seen in a long time - outside my own dreams.

Oh, and my friend and I met him in the bar afterwards and take a picture. He was thoroughly normal and quite lovely.

Black Humour

I'm not going to apologise for my lack of blogging lately. No apologies.

Funny enough, that's the name of Chris Rock's first-ever tour of the UK (No Apologies). I was lucky enough to have gone along to see him last night, and my friend had got us tickets without resorting to selling a parent ('Hey, how much do you think I can get for my mum on eBay?'), firstborn child ('Hi Sis, I need a favour... got a kid you want shot of?'), or giving "favours". Believe me when I say that there are people out there right now contemplating those options - tickets sold out quicker than you could say 'Chris Tucker?'.

The set was fantastically funny, as you'd expect from someone who is considered one of the greatest stand-ups of all time - he's a combination of the family-man incredulity of Bill Cosby (Chris has 2 daughters who he wants to 'keep off the pole'), with the lacerating tongue of early Eddie Murphy and Richard Pryor, with all the fearlessness you'd associate with them.

His observations on race were characteristically caustic, such as the fact that he counts Mary J Blige, Denzel Washington and Jay-Z as neighbours - all exceptionally talented black performers. His average white dentist? Not so much. For a black dentist to be able to afford a $3 million house, he said, 'He'd have to invent teeth!... a black man has to fly to something a white man can walk to'.

Chris talked about Hillary's bid to become the next President, rubbishing it on the basis that 'experience' means nothing if it basically points to merely being the wife of a former President. After all, if his wife got on stage, would we laugh? No.

I disagree; it's fair to say Hillary wasn't at home watching QVC while Bill was at work. I daresay she has more than a hint of the Lady Macbeth about her; not for nothing were they once dubbed 'Billary'. Having a next of kin in the White House hasn't stopped anyone else running for the top job *cough*Bush! Kennedy!*cough*. Dynasties don't create themselves; nepotism is an advantage, almost a requirement; not a pejorative term.

Anyway, I'll leave the punditry to those who know far more than I. Let's stick to the subject at hand.

On women, Chris' material was a little weaker. Having dated white men who weren't Brad/George/Orlando-looking, I can assure you that it's not because my 'credit is fucked'. And no, I'm not after money, because if I was, I'd make a bit more bloody effort. And no, I don't have a problem with 'brothas' dating white women. Not all black women do, you know.

I did like the gag about 'Desperate Housewives'; a show about bored wealthy women fucking around behind their spouses' backs should be renamed 'Ungrateful Bitches'. However, the jokes about sloppy titties? For that I like to sing 'LA-AME!' to the tune of David Bowie's 'Fame'.

Some of the edgier stuff, as always, had me in stitches:

• Asking the white people in the audience if they were ready to hear when it's OK to say the word 'nigger'. In case you wondered, it's between 4.15 and 4.45pm on Christmas Eve, if a black person beats you to the last highly-desired toy du jour, grabs it from your grasp, beats you up and then pisses on you. In fact, black people would say to you: 'Sorry to hear that. I hope they catch that nigger'.


• Discussing the etiquette of your white friends singing the N-word to your favourite rap song if you're all hanging together (er, inadvisable, they just hum along to it to avoid offence) and what happens when your they listen to the same songs and you're not there (they 'turn that shit UP!' and 'really lean into it. NIGGERRRRR!')

Racial politics, sexual politics, political politics, these are his strengths: 'George Bush has made it hard for a white man to run for President!'. Jokes about oral sex and sloppy titties? That's 3rd-rate material that really had no place in his set. Observations on pop culture were a little stilted an the weeniest bit dated, although the gag about Britney having her kids taken away because her performance at last year's VMAs was so horrible, was quite funny 'No, you can't see your kids, you really need to work on your steps!' and the material wasn't especially UK-centric. In fairness, there are UK comedians who have that covered.

There was a joke about when it's OK to say 'faggot'. 'You don't have to be gay to act like a faggot...' then he mimes singing along to Gwen Stefani in his car, holding up the traffic, until someone honks and shouts, 'Hey faggot! Move!'

I'll leave you with his impressions of our strong Sterling: 'I went to change 3 thousand dollars at the currency exhange... I thought, yeah, I'm a big baller now. You know what they gave me? A loaf of bread!' and 'I live in a $3million house... that's 4 loaves of bread (in the UK)'. His maths perhaps needed a bit of work, but who was going to stop and tell him that?

Not a dry seat in the house at the end of the night, I tell thee. I spent nearly twice the face value of the ticket, but it was worth it. Everybody loves Chris. You rock!

(N.B. Next on my controversial comedian tick-list is Dutch Hans Teeuwen. This will be interesting.)

Made It Back

People ask me how my trip was, and I say, 'Interesting'.

That's not to say it was bad - goodness, no. Everything seems to be well with me and Euroboy, and my friend and I didn't fall out, so all good on the personal front. We visited gorgeous beaches and toured the island, drank rum punch, spent our wallets empty and ate our bellies full. I got dark, really dark, and have white bits like you would not believe, despite going topless on the beach. The boyfriends, being milky white on arrival, both turned a delightful shade of healthy gold, without major burning, thanks to regular bastings of SPF.

However, you know your holiday was an eventful one when experiencing an earthquake that rocked the east Caribbean, and measured 7.3 on the Richter scale, was the least traumatic thing to happen to you.

Getting to Antigua was great - a smooth flight, good entertainment, then greeted by a steel band and a fruit punch. How lovely is that? Very.

The flight back? Er, not so much.

There was a fault - relatively minor, but still important enough - on one of the wheels, which would have enabled the pilot to taxi, turn, and fly, my pretties, fly! We were informed of the fault, and told the flight would be an hour behind. There's huffing and puffing, and shrugging of shoulders. I continue to play with the sweet 2-year old blond moppet in the seat in front. His equally blonde mother, a sweet lady, says I resemble her niece, who also happens to be 17. Way to boost my ego!

An hour later, the pilot makes a further announcement. Apparently this is taking a while for the engineers to resolve. A little while later, the skipper comes out into the cabin to address us personally and apologise. It's appreciated, but we're becoming a little restless. Fix it and get us home, already.

3 hours later, having been told that the fault is not going to be resolved there and then, and, by the way, there's something a bit wrong with the landing gear, we have to leave the plane, go back to the airport, and collect our suitcases. This takes approximately one year and one day.

Six hours after boarding the plane originally, we 4 - me, E, my friend J, and her bloke P, are near the back of the queue of nearly 400 people trailing from the check-in desk. We are going to be assigned a hotel. Ho boy. A smash is heard towards the back of the queue, and a loud 'Oo-ooh!' goes up from everyone who hears it. Cue whiplash as everyone turns to look; a man has dropped a bottle of duty-free rum, and is clutching a black bag with liquid and broken glass falling out of it. Saith the queue: 'Aaaawww!'

The 4 of us are assigned a hotel, then reassigned another one. E is not happy. I tell him to calm down. This does not have the desired effect.

The hotel turns out to be the resort next door to the one we left 12 hours earlier. Again, we queue. I am handed a lemonade by E, who's gone to the drinks machine for refreshments. A lady in the queue opens a bottle of vodka, then offers me some. It's all good.

A fantastically kind and lovely security guard lugs my and E's suitcases to our hotel door. It is about 2.30am. The room is filled with mosquitoes, and looks like a scene from the Mummy. Also, the room is a shit hole. E goes to Reception and gets it changed. The room we have is much, much better. E tips the security guard, because he did his job with a good grace and humour that most people struggle with during the day, never mind at 3am and lugging 3 very heavy suitcases up 3 floors. I tumble into bed fully clothes, and sleep.

Now for the wait. What to do, but take advantage of the hospitality? It's all been paid for, so the following morning is spent in a fug of rum punch and strawberry daiquiris, lounging by the pool and telling E how hilarious it is to substitute the 'beeps' in the Pussycat Dolls' song 'Beep' with the word 'cock' (Try it sometime!). He chucks ice cubes down my top. We inhale burgers and listen to reggae songs about 'Christmas in the ghetto'. As P frequently says, it's 'quality'.

Take 2. We leave the hotel at 2.30pm, having been told to be ready at 3. Quite a few people have had this idea already, but it's fine. We are relatively early and whiz though immigration and security again. The only thing is, we're there on faith. The flight hasn't actually been confirmed.

The flight is delayed again, by almost an hour. There's a collective sigh, with a distinct undertone of 'Oh, for fuck's sake...' It turns out 2 people were taken off the flight or decided not to go, or were probably really pissed. Nobody is saying.

The plane taxis veeeerrry slooooowly. I am nervous. Then, something wonderful happens. The plane actually leaves the ground, and spontaneous applause erupts. Shame the flight back was so turbulent, but there we are.

I'll talk about what we did another time, and post photos too (since a post about a holiday without pictures is as useful as a chocolate teapot). But for now, I am back and in one jet lagged, sun-ripened, rum-soaked piece. I think I speak for all my fellow travellers on my flight when I say: 'Thank fuck for that!'

Made It Back - Beverley Knight

What Kind of Fuckery Is This?

Consider the ways your upcoming holiday to Antigua can be ruined:

a)You forget your passport: all your anxiety dreams have come true.
b)You forget your ticket.
c)The flight is cancelled, leaving you stranded at the airport.
d)You miss your flight.
e)All your money is stolen from your bank account less than a week before you depart.

Guess what, folks? Someone has selected option E. Yes, all the money has been rinsed from my account. Ayo, technology. The bastard (or bitch, let's not be sexist) must have used some sort of device in the ATM to batter my balance last night. Suffice it to say, I'm not best fucking pleased. Luckily, I have a backup plan, the Bank will be on the case, and Euroboy has offered support should I need it.

Join me in prayer, won't you?

'Lord, whoever committed this crime, please let them be repeatedly ravaged by rusty razors in the depths of Hell. Karma be a cellmate called Big Daddy Jim. Amen.'

Employment

Hello? *taps screen*

Oh boy, I nearly fell down the back of the innernets, didn't I? It's been nearly 2 months since I posted last, and what a 2 months it has been. My birthday was on the 17th of this month and I am now a little closer to 30. Am I really bovvered? No. If my school photos are anything to go by, I get better with age, baby. I'm still writing (professionally if not recreationally), and it feels weird to know that I'm being paid to do something I genuinely enjoy.

The last 10 years have seen me take on a variety of incarnations:

Factory worker at a clothes factory in Stoke Newington. It was shit: 2 pounds an hour, shit music on the radio, and me listening to Craig Mack on my Walkman, which distracted me from work and eventually got me fired. I was glad of the work, as it kept me in copies of More and Cosmo magazines. However, I must reiterate: it was shit.

Nail technician. Not the obvious choice for a reformed chronic nail-biter, but once I saw the benefit of long talons over chewed, raggedy stumps, I soon saw an opening for artistic potential. About 5 years before everyone else was doing it in the UK, I was giving my fellow college students nail extensions and nail art. Never formally trained, I was even paid for my efforts, with real money and everything!

I was obsessed with the art side of it: 2-inch talons (all mine, natch) painted with designer logos and decorated with rhinestones and piercings - my favourite one saying 'I DO NAILS'. That worked better than any business card I could ever produce. Acrylic stinks, though.

Barista. Bah-reeee-stah. Italian for 'underpaid and overworked coffee-house person'. In the early 2000s there was a sudden craze for coffee shops and double half-caf/decaf wet skinny mint lattes. Highlights of this job included being tipped £5 for serving this guy an orange juice, flirting with the guy who worked in the Italian coffee bar opposite my shop in Canary Wharf, hanging out with this really cool Serbian chick and her husband, then deciding I could no longer face being there for one second longer, then never turning up for work again.

Temp. One of my favourite jobs, to this day, was working in a warehouse with a bunch of guys. This was down in Clerkenwell. I started at 7, but was frequently late. I ate lots of donuts. Then there were other low level jobs and much creativity with timesheets. And so it went on, until I managed to nab a position working for Tower Hamlets Council. Then another one. And another one. I was like the slag of all temps: anytime, anyplace, anywhere. Just tell me when and where to show up.

Recruitment-type. Now, I've never been a recruiter in any way, but I worked in recruitment advertising, dealing with job applicants. Then I moved into recruitment proper, and after I proved myself utterly inept at anything sales-orientated, I became the 'face' of a media recruitment firm in Soho. I loved working down there: spotting celebs (Skin from Skunk Anansie, Marc Almond, Jonathan Ross in a pink suit), hanging out in Golden Square, and quietly slipping out of the office for hour-long shopping trips in Fresh & Wild and the odd sex shop, when I knew nobody would notice I was gone. Oh, and laughing at the various Barleys who sauntered through the doors, resplendent in box-fresh Adidas and Bathing Ape. And another perk - and I was perky - was the odd hella-fit candidate, a couple of whom I flirted with. But I was on reception and bored, so when I quit I went back to temping.

Now this is where things got interesting for me. Instead of working reception desks, suddenly I was a PA, which made me uncomfortable at first. You see, a world in which I am the organised one is a world you don't want to live in, but I got over my initial reservations and got good feedback from people, which led to more work and more cashmoney, naturellement. So I thought, 'Hey, maybe I can do this'. I hated the first place I worked at, partly because I was crap and partly because the place was DRY, not to mention the biggest arsehole since Goatse worked on my team. However, it was the all-important foot in the door of the hallowed Meedja.

I then made a second home for myself at another creative company. That has since not worked out - let's just put that down to a personality clash. On a more positive note I also got to achieve my dream of working in advertising, for a lady who was lovely but swore like a motherfucker, then I worked for 2 TV companies. Television is quite mad, like advertising; I'd go back to either quite happily.

In my present incarnation is where I'm happiest, though. But I'm at the beginning of another career, the one I actually want to be in. This poses a number of questions: at what point do I call myself a professional writer? After years of experience, or after my first paycheque of the first ever gig I get? I mean, what's my mum supposed to tell people - "She's a... er, oh."

What do I do next? Where do I want to be? If my life pans out like it has done so far, I'm better off not answering those questions, just following my nose and seeing where it leads me. Actually, putting it like that... I'd better get cracking on that 5-year plan.

Is This Thing On?

It's been ages since I last pressed 'Publish' on this thing. Life has been so hectic that Blogger has been gathering dust of late.

I've not time at the moment to riff on what's been going on beyond my considerable nose, but suffice it to say I'll be visiting and doing a round-up.

Meanwhile on planet CB, I have, since my last post, started my third job. Right now, I'm at a broadcaster, and have a TV on my desk, which is all right I suppose! Most companies frown on that. And everyone here is helpful and pleasant. Good vibes all round. There may be the possibility of using a dictaphone, but I don't see why I can't use my finger, like everyone else.

I started temping almost a year ago, and since then I haven't really been out of work, which is good. I'm probably going to stay that way, as I have fallen into doing PA work, and specialising in media, too. If you said to me a year ago that I'd have worked for two major UK broadcasters, a couple of PR companies and achieved my dream of working for an advertising agency, and Saatchi one at that, I'd never have believed it: For one, a world in which I was organising other people was not one that I wanted to live in, and secondly, getting a job 'in the media' is a holy grail that lots of people don't achieve, graduates or otherwise. I'm a uni dropout, so my chances seemed slim, as my list of contacts was yet slimmer.

But by some strange way, it's starting to make sense. The dust has settled, and now an even better opportunity has arisen. For I will be working, from near the end of this month, to the time I jet away to the Caribbean, as an assistant content producer for a major retail firm. Or, in more familiar parlance, a junior copywriter-type. Thank goodness they'd seen my writing, because I thought I'd fluffed the interview. Either way, I must have made a good impression! I haven't been so pleased with myself in years... ever, in fact. My first writing job.

Wow. It's a real break and I plan to make the most of it.

That's not the only thing making me happy, though. Euroboy has met the family and made a good impression on them (and likewise), and things seem to be going well. Since the last time I posted, I went to visit him a second time, and enjoyed walking around his beautiful home city, stopping at cafes that didn't purport to sell 'coffee' (if you want coffee, go to Italy!) and taking in the views and the sunshine. I feel really warm and fuzzy right now. Maybe I should get a cream for that?

Going Out This Weekend?

I want you to watch this video. All of it.

Then try it down your local Ritzy. I fucking dare you.

Flavour of Love

I have a little story to share with you. Forgive me the tangent, it has a link to what I want to hold forth on today.

A few years back, I worked at a recruitment company which was holding a party for its candidates, with some client contacts rocking up for good measure. At this job I made a firm new friend, TJ. He'd not worked in an office before and with his cheeky Essex-boy manner, lack of knowledge of office etiquette, six-pack and eyes-of-blue, set about appalling and delighting his new colleagues in equal measure.

'Black people love their chicken, don't they?' he asserted, as I tucked into a poultry-based lunch.
I didn't take offence, as I knew he was being light-hearted. I love my chicken, and most of my black friends joked about that too. Personally, I've never given it much thought, as food preferences and levels of melanin don't generally correlate, at least in my mind. I laughed and waved it off, and carried on eating.

Fast forward to the party. There I am, tucking into the buffet (when drinking, eating is not cheating, it's essential), when I overhear JL saying to one of the clients, a black lady: 'Black people love their chicken, don't they?'

Time slows down. Holy shit, I'm right behind them! I only came over to nibble on something, then slink away into a corner to have an awkward-silence filled conversation with someone I hardly know! Shit man, he's going to lose us business if he carries on like this... I'm, like, soo outta here...
Right then, TJ spots me. Fuck. 'Don't they, China?' he grins.
'Mmmph,' I reply. With a mouthful of chicken on a skewer.

Racially precarious and potentially business-damaging incidences aside (oh, we chuckle about it now and no harm was done!), there are those who prefer their mouthful of meat meat to not have any meat in it.

Okay, back to me for a second. The CP was a veggie. We joked about the fact that every time we went out, I had something chicken-based and why not? It's the slag of all meats: goes with everything. Lentils, pasta and courgette are nice and have their place of course, and if you look at meat consumption in terms of the ethical treatment of our 4-legged friends (2 if you count kangaroos - delish!), and the long-term effects of commercial farming on the envirnment, then they are the kinder choice. But man, I NEED MEAT. And thank medium-rare goodness that EuroBoy enjoys a good lemon chicken of an evening as much as I do.

However, I digress; it would seem that some among us think about things like this perhaps a little deeper than the average bear.

Consider this:

Vegansexuals are people who do not eat any meat or animal products, and who
choose not to be sexually intimate with non-vegan partners whose bodies, they
say, are made up of dead animals.The co-director of the New Zealand Centre for Human and Animal Studies at Canterbury University, Annie Potts, coined the term after doing research on the lives of "cruelty-free consumers". [...]Many female respondents described being attracted to people who ate meat, but said they did not want to have sex with meat-eaters because their
bodies were made up of animal carcasses.

Versus this:

Ms. Wilkie was a vegetarian in her teens, and even wore a “Meat Is Murder” T-shirt. But by her 30s, she had started eating cow. By the time she placed the personal ad, she had come to realize that ordering steak on a first date had the potential to sate appetites not only of the stomach but of the heart.
Red meat sent a message that she was “unpretentious and down to earth and unneurotic,” she said, “that I’m not obsessed with my weight even though I’m thin, and I don’t have any food issues.” She added, “In terms of the burgers, it said I’m a cheap date, low maintenance.”

When I was dating the CP, at first I thought my meat-eating would become an issue. It didn't, but it was a talking point. His vegetarianism was an issue with other people, since, for men, there's a perception that chowing down on plants somehow makes you less virile. You become pale, weak, effete, and somehow turn into Morrissey, mincing about with daffodils (or was it leeks?). 'Real men eat blood and guts - have a steak, man! If that's what you are', seems to be the message. To vegansexual women, meat-eaters become little better than a lion feasting on a bloodied carcass, smacking his bloodied chops with undisguised gusto. Which, in fairness, is not necessarily how I would want my date to see me, either (fashion top tip: avoid wearing tiger print and eating rare steak at the same time).

The vegansexuals seem to miss the point that plants once were living things too, even if they don't generally make noises and have the means to run away from us. Sure, a meat-free diet has its advantages: clearer skin, more efficient digestion, the knowledge that you are getting your five-a -day for sure. And look at what it's done for Gillian McKeith... oh.
They also seem to be blissfully unaware that they, themselves, are little more than bags of skin, muscle and bone - the very things they keep off their plate.

One of them quoth: "When you are vegan or vegetarian, you are very aware that [carnivores] are kind of a graveyard for animals".
Funny that. After a plateful of pulses, break wind and see how many people wrinkle their noses and ask, "Eurgh. What died?"

As for carniphiles, how does quizzing the head chef of the Lah-Di-Dah Bar& Grill about how the cows rated the beer and their masseurs make you less neurotic than someone who prefers a ratatouille? Personally, as long as it 's not still mooing or covered in dirt when it reaches my plate, I'm fine; which isn't to say I'm not discriminating, but I'm not overly discrimanatory either. In any case, not reeking of garlic would be nice. And vegansexuals should note that meat always finds it way onto the menu at some point - ya get me?

Perhaps it's just me, but basing who you like to eat out on what they like to eat, at either extreme, seems more than a little pretentious, frivolous and neurotic.

So really, they all suit each other perfectly.

Sources:
Stuff.co.nz
NYTimes.com

When You Gonna Learn

Forgive me, readers; it has been *embarrassed cough* weeks since I last posted.

Today is August 1st, and in less than 48 hours I will be in a certain laid-back European city, enjoying the company of someone who shares his name with a Hollywood film director. And no, it's not Steven Spielberg, M. Night Shyalaman, or Mel Gibson. I did once Google my own name, and found out that I am also a university lecturer in physics, and I'm sure the chances of there being an infinite number of parallel universes has to be higher than that of me understanding anything this woman says.

Speaking of which, I never mentioned much about the Certain Person I was dating not too long ago, because there are those of you (you know who you are) who do the dating-blog thizzle much better than I, and if I did have a sex/dating blog, it'd get messy.

Anyway, in light of recent developments, I want to share what I have learned about relationships:

• If they turn out to be disingenuous, spineless little turds, you do not want to remain friends with them.
• If someone says they didn't want to tell you the relationship was over because they didn't want to hurt you, guess what? They suck at not hurting people. And they don't care about your feelings.
• If you're worried they're doing the 'slow dump', they are. Never be afraid to call them on it, if you ever call them again. Because you and I both know they sure as hell aren't going to pick up the phone.
  
• If they don't call you, they're not interested in getting to know you. Still waiting for that text? Yeah, carry on. Got an unsolicited one? Whoop-de-fucking-doo! Seriously, who are you trying to kid?
  
• If all they ever fucking talk about is metaphysics or shit you find boring in general (apologies to any meta-heads out there), they're not interested in getting to know you, they just want to display their ego like a peacock's tail.
  
• If you become sick of hearing his best female friend's name in regular conversation, it's not because you're insecure, or that he's in love with her; clearly, he puts her needs above yours. Fuck 'em. Fuck. Them. Both (not literally. Makes things worse).
• As much as nobody can make you feel inferior without you letting them, some people take delight in making others feel inadequate. You or your partner might be clever, but being a smug pretentious twat is a whole different animal. Know the difference.
• If you ever find yourself apologising or playing down aspects of your personality/anything you've achieved, or, conversely, trying too hard to impress someone to keep their attention, you've already lost it. When your light-hearted conversations over luncheon seem like a Mastermind quiz, it's time to say "Cheque, please!"

If in doubt, take Missy Elliott's advice from 'I Can't Stand The Rain': "I break up with before he dump me".

And for the positive things I've learned?

• Trust your instincts. Always. Always, I said!
  
• If the person you're seeing makes you feel insecure, cut them out of your life. Be cold about it. When you have done so, you reply 'He/she is dead to me' whenever friends of family who are not up to speed with your love life enquire after the health of your former amour.
  
• Being fucked so well you forget your name for an hour afterwards is not the same as being loved. Both are nice, but very, very different.
• Singledom is fun. Rediscovering the things you like to do, on your own terms, is enjoyable. There's no pressure on you, friendly or otherwise.
• You don't have to make excuses for someone else's poor behaviour. That's their job!
• Friends really are fantastic!
  

You learn something new about yourself when a relationship ends; you might not see it during the breakdown of it, but when you have a little distance things become clearer. This really only happens if you go into a relationship with an open heart and open mind, knowing that one may well be broken and a small part of the other lost.

I hope that this time around, only one of those things will happen.

When You Gonna Learn - Jamiroquai

On Being Single

"When you are suffering - 'Why am I suffering? Why am I miserable?' Because you are clinging to something! Find out what you are clinging to, to get to the source. 'I'm unhappy because nobody loves me.' That may be true, maybe nobody loves you, but the unhappiness comes from wanting people to love you."

Source

Give It Up, Turn It Loose

A little while ago, I StumbledUpon a most enlightening article, which articulated my mixed feelings about my recently found identity as a writer. It had occurred to me that the more I accepted and gave voice to this, the more I found writing itself a struggle. Up until then, the words flowed freely, with no blocks, no fits-and-starts, no angst. I just did, just was. I was all right until I stuck myself in a box.

I like to think of myself as one of life's square pegs, without coming across as 'I'm mad, me!'. The fact that I am a mass of contradictions doesn't faze me at all; these quirks are a part of me. I can be fanciful one moment, ruthlessly practical the next. Ne