Equally Cursed and Blessed

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I read with interest the story of Karina Oakley, the little girl tested for intelligence and found to have an IQ of 160, which puts her on a par with Bill Gates and Stephen Hawking. She's 2 years old.

(Gates and Hawking have yet to comment on being compared to a 2-year-old, however...)

I've written before about the fact I've been in Mensa, having been tested at 13. My 172 IQ puts me in the top 0.1% of the population in terms of intelligence. On paper, if nothing else, I'm a genius. Which is nice.

Nobody in my family was surprised by this. Like Karina, I was a scarily articulate child. Able to read by the age of 2, and with the reading age of a teenager while still in infant school, my parents also knew their own little madam was a bright spark. If I'd been IQ tested back then, I might have made the news, too.

Also, from a very young age I was also 'imaginative and gifted with words'; I've become a writer so that's pretty much my job description, and personality, summed up. I can see little Miss Oakley following the same path, as that's where her gift seems to lie. But then, she's TWO YEARS OLD. Anything can happen.

My concern about Karina, and other children like her, is that way too early in their lives this huge expectation is placed on their tiny shoulders - she's already been dubbed one of the smartest kids in the world (Sorry, Elise-Tan Roberts). Who the hell can live up to that at two years old? Or any age?

Let's be real here. The fact that her IQ score puts her in the same league as the world's greatest minds is no guarantee she'll achieve anything close to what they have. There are millions of people out there with genius-level IQs and their greatest achievement might be asking: 'Do you want fries with that?' so let's not get too ahead of ourselves, mmkay?

But you just know there will already be talk of gifted-child programs, being moved ahead a year or two at school, first-class degrees from top universities, PhDs and the like.

The unspoken assumption here is that high levels of intelligence translate into academic excellence; kids like Karina might well be able to pull great work out of the bag, but if they're anything like me, they'll also like what they like; anything else bores them rigid. In fact, knowing you’re good at something can make you complacent and lazy. Yes, gifted children can be lazy too! Child psychologist Sylvia Rimm said in this article:

"The root of gifted underachievement is that kids feel that they need to prove how smart they are all the time."

Yep, sounds about right.

The Karina Oakleys of this world run the very real risk of being regarded as 'talking brains' and little else, and a personal identity crisis soon follows. An identity crisis is not much fun to have, believe me.

Gifted children need to be taught that intelligence isn't just about raw brainpower, and that even though you might have more of that than the average bear, it doesn't necessarily translate into being a top rocket scientist... or even a top barista at Starbucks.

The fact that your brain goes at warp speed doesn't make you a better person either, so don't get wrapped up in the notion that's you're superior. Does having a 172 IQ make my shit smell like honeysuckle? No! It takes a great deal of emotional intelligence to be humble about your abilities.

Gifted and highly intelligent children should be guided to make sure they achieve their full potential in the things they love to do, not pushed to live out someone else's fantasy of being a gifted child, as can happen. Also, a clever child who shows an interest in something might be pushed to be the best at that thing, way past the point of boredom. We all have passing fads, but in the case of the Clever Child it's hard to accept that 'passing interest in a subject' plus 'intelligence' does not equal 'talent'.

While we're being real, not all clever people want to go to university, and even if they do, might not get a great degree (*cough* Carol Vorderman *cough*); that is, if they don't drop out...

Not all clever people enjoy reading the classics, can learn 6 languages and solve algebraic equations - or even add up. Not all clever people use long, pretentious words when short ones will do, or like to discuss politics, economics or philosophy over breakfast, if at all.

Intelligence shines from within, and genuis manifests itself in different ways (look at footballers with skillz on the pitch, but the linguistic skills of a baboon), and you don’t need a degree, or any piece of paper, to prove your worth as a capable, bright human being. Just be who you are and accept your limitations; there are things the world's top minds are useless at, too.

This is the one lesson gifted children need to learn. Learn it, and learn it well.

How to support gifted children

'Writing a Novel, Are You?... Yeah, Me Neither'

Over last few months, I've started making actual tangible progress with my novel (provisionally titled Chinese Silk). I started the project way back in 2006, but my abject lack of 2 weeks' uninterrupted access to a desert island has resulted in the project struggling to get written, in amongst life, work, family, and all sorts.

I'd been toying with the idea of going on a retreat, but nothing had ever really materialised. So when I came across the Urban Writers' Retreats, run once a month on a Sunday at The Make Lounge in Islington (see their Twitter), I saw my chance to make real progress.

Sure, I could easily unplug myself from the Matrix and write at home, but as you can see, that worked really well for me. A firm kick up the jacksie was the order of the day!

The deal is: for 8 hours, you plug yourself in at your desk, tune all your distractions out, and focus. That's it. Well, you can also watch people stroll by, stand and gaze at the writers tapping away; or, as I saw a couple of months ago, witness some mad-arses camp out and have a picnic on the corner of the street, one sunny day.

There are between 10-15 people, and we run through brief introductions and an outline of what we're going to work on, and then get to it.

While the vibe is friendly, there's a quiet buzz of music, concentration and tapping/scribbling. There are no brainstorms or workshops, although books and tips are readily available. So are the exceedingly good cakes, baked by the lovely Charlie Haynes, whose idea this all was.

In the last 5 sessions this year, I've done more work than in the previous 3 years. A fully coherent 5k into my first chapter, I'm happy with the shape my project is taking.

I no longer feel guilty about not making 'writing time' in the evenings and at weekends, when I want to go out and play, or simply loll about like a cat after a hard week of writing at work. Knowing I have that time booked gives me breathing space, and knowing I'll come on in leaps and bounds gives me peace of mind.

Big thanks to Charlie, and you can find out more here if you're a writer, in London, and interested in pulling your finger out and getting stuff done! There's a really nice mix of people who come along, which makes the day roll by that bit easier.

(Did I mention that the cakes are awesome?)

Fellow Twitterers I've met through the UWR:
1mgoldstars
Alexandra Goldstein
Sian Meades
Robyn Wilder
John SW

"All The Single Ladies! All The Single Ladies..."

‘Join Singleholic Sarah on a sassy Sex and The City multicultural dating spree across London.’

When I read the blurb for Singleholic, the debut novel by New Zealand-born, Canada-raised, Oxford-educated and London-dwelling Katherine Bing, I had to read it.

Your usual popular fiction or pop-lit (‘chick lit’? Jeez, how very 1998) seems to be mostly about the travails of white middle-class women, suffering through the agonies of designer shoes, living (or not living) in the Home Counties or a posh area of London; being a yummy/slummy mummy, and being jealous of your backstabbing/bitchy/drunken friends.

Yeah... that’s great. I ate that stuff up as much as anyone else; Bridget Jones is the original and one of the best of the genre. But are women who fit the above description the only ones who have love issues? No.

On the other hand, with black fiction set in the UK, everyone seems to live in Brixton. That’s fine, except there are plenty of black people north of the river. I should know - I’m one of them! South London is practically another time zone for me, never mind Travelcard zone.

Anyway, that’s a minor niggle - and the only problem I have with Singleholic. I really enjoyed the book and for the first time, it felt like there was popular fiction out there that spoke to me.

The story centres on a mixed-race teacher called Sarah. The story kicks off with her being dumped by her Muslim boyfriend, for refusing to change her lifestyle and possibly convert to Islam.

Given that she’s about to turn 30, this naturally throws her into a crisis: at 30 you’re too old to be young, and too young to be old. And now you’re single? Your eggs! Your self esteem! Everything important is at stake. What to do?!

What any sensible woman does: embark on a quest to find the Next One, taking in The Rules, internet dating, and good old ‘hope to God he notices me’.

I’m going to let you in on a black woman’s secret here: with fellow sistas and behind firmly closed doors, we whisper and giggle about the relative merits of dating Caribbean men, African men, white men, Asian men, every one in between. Would it raise questions about our loyalty to the black race? Would the resulting children have nice hair? What would our parents say? And most importantly… who’s got the bigger dicks?

(If you think I’m going to answer that last one… you can think again! MWAHAHAHA)

Singleholic whips along at a cracking pace - Bing writes with a light, lively touch.

The supporting characters aren’t drawn too deeply and that works in the story’s favour - everyone has his or her own distinctive look and voice. It’s got some great throwaway lines and a definite, hip-swaying sass that offsets the characters’ neuroses perfectly.

The sassy and hardnosed (but terminally single) black girlfriend Jacquie, contrasts neatly with the white, middle-class smug married Georgina (great name!). Then there's the hot, rampantly heterosexual male best friend Manuele. What have they got to say – and learn – about relationships?

Sarah’s no desperate Bridget, mind. Aside from getting a bit too clingy with one suitor and suffering a painful rejection, she’s at least smart and self-aware enough to learn from her mistakes. She turns 30 with a smile on her face, rather than with one foot in the grave. That made me feel good.

Like Sarah, I’m nearly 30. I was also dumped by a man called Paul who had 2 cats. I’ve dated across the colour spectrum gentlemen I met online and in ‘real life’. I have Jamaican parentage, too.

There were times when I read this book and nearly threw it down in fright, because I was convinced the author had been stalking me and was basically writing everything that had happened to me in the last few years. To say I identified with the story was an understatement!

This book is for any woman who’s faced the big 3-0, asked questions about dating other races, or about dating full stop. It’s for any woman who’s been nearly married, married, or single. It’s about not living up (or down) to other people’s expectations.

It’s about you, yes you. I defy anyone to read it and not go, ‘Wait… that’s me!’

So read it!

Singleholic is published by Hansib, and available on Amazon.

RIP Flight A447

I don't know why this particular tragedy has upset me so much more than others; maybe it's the fact that a cause hasn't been found yet.

But reading the mongboards on certain newspaper sites (and venturing into the dumber recesses of Twitter), there seems to be a mass outbreak of misplaced optimism.

Let's get real: Air France A447 suddenly and mysteriously fell out of the sky at 40,000 feet or thereabouts. Nobody knows how or why - terrorism? A very big and violent storm? A collision with another plane?

Whatever the cause, it fell out of the sky into the freezing, unfriendly waters of the Atlantic Ocean. So saying, 'I hope there are survivors' or 'I pray for a miracle' is infuriatingly simplistic, naive and just plain retarded. How would anyone survive that? What kind of miracle would have to occur? Think!

How about suggesting that pilots fly around, and not into, giant storms which can reach about 50,00 feet high? Gee, I'm sure these qualified professionals welcome your shit-for-brain input from the comfort of your armchair. Chances are, they hadn't thought of that.

Calling for parachutes to be on planes in case of an accident... Really? Look, don't make me come over there. Think about that for more than 2 seconds, and you'll realise that in a genuine emergency, getting everyone to grab a parachute, put it on, line up in an orderly fashion and then leap out of a disintegrating craft at silly-thousand-feet - and then survive the fall, never mind the landing - is just ridiculous.

I hope that the likes of this never happens again. I hope the cause of this found, so at least if the bodies aren't, the families can lay their loved ones to rest. I hope that those meant to be returning home from a holiday had a great time. I hope that whatever happened, it was at least sudden.

Please can we face the truth: there are no survivors. There were no miracles. Nothing.

I understand that at times like this we want to ease people's suffering, and tend to do so by denying the obvious. It's hard to hear, but the relatives of those on board A447 don't need knee-jerk reactions from people who really should engage their tiny brains before opening their big mouths, thinking they're being sympathetic. They need answers from the investigation that's underway, and to deal with their grief; being realistic and honest about what's happened is the best way.

My sincere, heartfelt condolences to them all.

Lies, Damned Lies

I’ve been spending a lot of time on Twitter lately and top of the top trending topics (as I write this) is #liesboystell (yesterday it was #liesgirlstell).

I normally roll my eyes at the silly memes that come flying about, because I can’t help worrying that between this could turn Twitter into Myspace. And by succumbing, I’m not helping. But these two in particular caught my attention, because the novel I’m writing (and the short stories I have tucked away) is all about exploring the relationship between men and women.

Over at Jezebel, there was a fair bit of contempt for the #liesgirlstell meme, the somewhat uneasy feeling being that women were being ‘shamed’ for bad behaviour while men got off relatively easy – at least, if you looked purely at the number of tweets, it seemed that way. There’s a bit of truth in that and right now I can’t quite articulate what that is, but when we start retorting with the #liesboystell, the generally male response was that women are ‘unhappy’ and ‘bitter’ (Me? Never! I only spout bile because I love you, baby). That’s what women get when we express an opinion about men that’s a little jaded, but that’s a whole other story.

If anything, the undercurrent of cynicism, bitterness and underlying unhappiness about having a track record of unsatisfactory relationships comes from both men and women pretty equally. We’re in this together, right?

The interesting thing about these two particular memes is how the 140-character limit doesn’t constrain us, rather it allows us to get to the heart of a concept or an idea with minimal faff. It’s a great storytelling device.

So sure, ‘…and it’s yours, I swear’ and ‘I’ll call, I promise’ might look like crude gender stereotyping at first glance, but it’s an inconvenient truth that stereotypes are themselves crude caricatures, assembled from characteristics associated with any given group. Think of one - men, women, black people, Asian people, white people, Nigerians, Jamaicans, fat people, skinny people, vegetarians, cat lovers, IT worker, teenagers, Sloaney types – and tell me you didn’t have an instant mental picture. That’s right – you’re as guilty of that as everyone else.

With that in mind, it’s been interesting to observe what people see to be the ugly side of the opposite or their own gender. More than a few of the same lines crop up time and time again, to the point of cliché. Some of them range from little white lies - ‘I think your mum’s cooking is great’ to the silly - ‘I’m royalty in Africa’, to whoppers - ‘I love you’. We keep our true feelings to ourselves all the time! No wonder online confessionals like PostSecret are so popular - we need an outlet because - new just in - suppressing one's feelings isn't necessarily healthy.

While I’m not quick to trust random things said on the internet by a bunch of random people I don’t know, the truth is that both memes hit a nerve by holding up a mirror to the games people play, and the tangled web we weave when we want to get someone into our bed – or out of our lives. And the truth is, we do it to make our lives easy, to get by, to get what we want.

Set fire to the bush of lies we grow around ourselves to hide our own feelings and protect other people’s, and you burn through to the (really quite ugly) truth. We lie and manipulate other people – and PANTS AFLAME! - you’re lying if you think you’re exempt.

Twitter Ye Not?

Twitter? What the hell is this?

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I’ll tell you: Yet another pointless timesucking life drain, invented purely for geeks who have no lives to shout bloody nonsense into the ether for hours on end. If you have a Facebook or a MySpace, then what’s the point? 'Having a life' FAIL!

Every time I tell people I’ve joined this site, I get asked, ‘What’s the point?' I could get all existential and ask what the point is to even being on the planet, but since folk are generally easily confused whenever I open my mouth, I’ll keep it simple.

Twitter is good if you have…

…a Facebook, and don’t want to annoy your friends with constant stream-of effluent-consciousness updates. Twitter can help with that! And there are millions of people (Tweeters? Twats? Twits?) Twittering away, so you can ping your thinks and thoughts back and forth.

…a MySpace, and you like befriending celebs, like-minded souls and total randoms, but these randoms actually interact with you! In fact, it’s considered rude to simply follow people and not say so much as a howdy-doo. In that respect it’s better than MySpace, because unlike MySpace, you’re not like the Pied Piper of Hamlyn – followed by rats.

…a phone and like to text. Because you can communicate with your mates. That’s it, no snarky remarks – you can just whiz messages back and forth if you can tell they’re online.

…Instant Messaging, like MSN. It’s a little slower, but no more so than texting. If you like your conversations to take all day, then you're in luck!

…a social bookmarking site like StumbleUpon or Digg. People swap links, so you come across the occasional gem that you can bookmark and share with others. It’s a nice big circle jerk.

…a blog, and you want people to read it. Or, you have a blog but haven’t updated it and want your followers to know you’re still alive (who, moi?). There are subjects that can be condensed into 140-character musings, rather than be spun out to hundreds of words. Likewise, some Twitter conversations can spark great longer-length blog ideas, or ideas for articles or stories.

…verbal diarrhoea. The 140-character limit forces you to think about every word, syllable and the clarity of each message. And we've all come across people who need to do that.

...a need to break news. The Hudson river plane crash was famously reported on Twitter and its photo-sharing site Twitpic before the news channels had found their arses with both hands. As with blogging, it's gone and thumbed its nose at traditional newsgathering. I hate to say 'citizen journalism' as that sounds rather... 2007. It's certainly added itself to the arsenal of weapons at a journalist's disposal, and made it easier for us ordinary folk to bring the news before it even becomes the news. This has been possible for the last few years, with sites like Shozu and Flickr, but now it's easier than ever.

…no RSS. Even if you know your RSS from your elbow, chances are your favourite bloggers will post links to new blogposts.

..a desire to keep it simple. With no need for a Myspace (unless youre a charlatan/artist/musician/ageing perv), a blog for your thoughts, or social bookmarking site (and yes, I consider FB a relative necessity for keeping in touch with friends and relatives), you can throw out the odd post with minimal commitment.

…a beady eye. Notice the ‘Followers’ function on Blogger, and the ‘Comment’ and ‘Thumbs up’ buttons on Facebook; even MySpace, the original social networking leader, has tweaked its format to be more Twitter-fied. Facebook recently switched up their format for a similar effect, prompting mass hoots of derision, and threats to kill and eat the babies of those responsible for this outrage.

If Twitter was that bad and not a threat at all, why mess with the program?
Exactly.

So there you have it. I’m coming to really enjoy Twitter and, as with blogging, MySpace, Facebook and StumbleUpon I’ve met some interesting, funny and creative people. Plus, when the revolution comes, as it did with the snow a couple months back, I’ll be the first to know…

Very funny cartoon about fellow Twitter twats: Twouble with Twitter

"I Don't Have a Problem With You F**kin' Me... But I Have a Little Problem With You Not F**kin' Me"

Last summer, a young man In his late 20s came to work behind the counter in the office canteen. Nothing out of the ordinary there. Chocolate-skinned, pleasant, easy enough on the eye I suppose. My company’s quite a friendly bunch, so he made acquaintances fairly quickly and easily.

We’d make small talk, then I’d grab my lunch and leave. Occasionally, when I ventured up after lunch hour to get some sweets from the vending machine, he’d stop me and we’d have a brief conversation. Weather, politics, news, how he’d ended up here from African Country via the States, whether I had a boyfriend… the usual.

Wait… what? Do I have a boyfriend? What fresh hell is this?

Alarm bells and red flags should have rung when he dropped the B-bomb. After all, it was none of his business, and I should have ripped him a new arsehole telling him so, right?

When he first asked, I was single, and militantly so. I was just getting over having my heart broken and my emotions trampled over, so was in no mood to entertain the opposite sex, and it was just before my restorative trip to New York.

So when the conversation went like this:

Him: Do you have a boyfriend?

Me: No.

Him. Are you sure?

Me: Yes.

I should have just walked away. I mean, asking someone if they’re sure they have a boyfriend or girlfriend is as dumb as it gets! What did he think, that I might have dropped my boyfriend down the sofa? That I was amnesiac or mentally retarded? ‘Are you sure?’ Don’t be silly.

Long story short, he tried to persuade me that the vacancy of boyfriend was going begging (it wasn’t) and he was the man to fill it (he sure as hell wasn’t). We went back and forth over this: every time he asked, I said no, and made that clear. He gave me his number and I chucked the paper in the bin. He told me he was expecting a call; I basically told him he’d have to wait until the 47^th of November for that. I’d go skiing atop the snow-capped peaks in Hell before that ever happened.

I’ve dealt with persistent men before, but normally I don’t see them nearly every day at work. As far as I’m concerned, work is my territory too, and I’m not going to let anyone intimidate me. Not just because the food is cheap, but out of principle. I refused to entertain any kind of conversation and kept my responses to civil grunts, all the while suppressing the urge to throw my lunch aside, leap over the counter, and box the smirk off that smug bastard’s face until it was a bloody pulp.

Aside from telling the new girl who was sat next to me of the phone number incident, I kept all this to myself until after I returned from NY. In the pub after work one evening, I got chatting to one of the guys and told him what had happened, and it was all I could to do to stop him going back there and beating the shit out this guy avenging my honour. What I didn’t know then was that a queue was forming for that.

When Lunch Guy started cooing and asking after the marital status of my new colleague, I vowed to take action. Why did I wait so long? Why did I wait until it had happened to someone else?

I simply didn’t think it was serious enough until then, and I believed I was an isolated case. I waited because I had it all under control. Complaining means you’ve lost control. Besides, what was I complaining about? Some guy asking me out? It seemed so silly.

What I was complaining about, in the end, was this guy’s inability to hear the word “NO” as “NO” and not “I’m playing hard to get – ooh, chase me!”

I collared my manager and not only was he sympathetic, but he’d also seen Lunch Guy (AKA Sexual Chocolate, at least in his own mind) in action, not to mention in the buff as he’d taken to strolling about with his top off! Not only did he try it on with my colleague, but he’d given his number to other women, women I’m presuming saw the same thing I did when they saw him: A total and utter douchebag. But that’s the thing: he hid that nasty side of him behind a ready smile and gentle chatter. I almost felt guilty, and questioned myself again and again to make sure I hadn’t got it all wrong.

Me: Asking women out isn’t a crime, is it?

Truth: No, but refusing to take no for an answer and pestering other women for dates while at work isn’t exactly professional or ethical, is it? This is an office, not a pickup joint!

Me: But he seems like a nice enough guy.

Truth: Wolves do look pretty cool in lambskin jackets.

Me: I could have stopped this sooner. I didn’t have to talk to him.

Truth: You were nice to him, but in good faith. And sometimes seeing the negative side of a person takes time.

Me: The guys at work thought he was OK. Maybe I’ve got it wrong?

Truth: He wasn’t trying to get into their knickers.

Me: There wasn’t any touching. It was all verbal. Maybe I’m overreacting?!

Truth: You don’t need to cross a physical line to be a habitual linestepper (one who oversteps the line habitually).

Me: I don’t want to rock the boat. What if I’m seen as some kind of feminazi bonerkiller complaining whiner?

Truth: Does he make you feel uneasy? Yes, he does. Consider the facts. Then do the right thing.

I’m proud to say I did what I felt then, and feel now, to be the right thing. I don’t know if the other women Lunch Guy was trying it on with ever complained; I do know that the first guy I told said he’d made a complaint on my behalf. My colleague and I went to the management together and told them what had happened, and after a short process (it could have been longer and Very Official), it was all over.

I still wonder who else this guy had thrown himself at, before he came to work here, while he was here, after he’d left. I wonder if he ever thought about what he’d done and changed his ways, or if he thought what he as doing was OK.

But more than that, my thoughts come back to the other women in my office. Did they say anything? They must have thought the same things as I did, so what made them decide against taking action?

I don’t want to rock the boat.

That, right there, is how people who sexually harass and bully others – let’s give it a name – get away with it. Fear of upsetting other people because of how they might feel, fear of upsetting the status quo. Let’s get real here! Who gives a fuck about how THEY might feel? What about how I’m being made to feel? It’s not as if my feelings are paramount, when someone is only after what they want at my expense or that of others.

What if I’m seen as some kind of feminazi bonerkiller complaining whiner?

Because a woman who stands up for herself is something to be feared and loathed, isn’t it? I stopped caring about how people saw me and acted on anger, principle and a sense of responsibility to other people, as well as myself. It helped that other people backed me up, but even if they hadn’t, I’d have done the same thing.

Would you?

Yes.

Yes, I would.

Dealing with Sexual Harassment at Work

Getting Biblical On Yo' Asses

Ooh, I just found the most interesting article on the Grauniad site: an interview with poet laureate Andrew Motion in which he argues that the Bible should be taught in schools - irrespective of beliefs, and purely from a cultural knowledge point of view:

"If people say this is about ramming religion down people's throats, they aren't
thinking about it hard enough," he says. "It's more about the power of these
words to connect with deep, recurring human truths, and also the story of the
influence of that language and those stories."

I wholeheartedly agree. Like Motion I'm not really a believer; I'm an agnostic, but I was raised by parents who were 'that way inclined' and so I had a ready supply of Bible stories to read. One of my favourite books was an anthology of Old and New Testament Bible stories which pretty much covered the territory your average fairy tales did: murder, magic, sex, folly, mystery and morality/ethics, and everything in between.

When I rejected church I rejected the book because it seemed irrelevant to my life and my life philosophy, but recently reclaimed it and believe that everyone should know these stories, no matter what you believe or don't. Because the tales have been knocking around since before Jesus was a boy - literally - they're firmly ingrained in our culture, our consciousness.

Who doesn't know about the story of the animals being led two-by-two to Noah's Ark, or heard of a scheming floozy referred to as a 'Jezebel'? We talk about Samson and his ill-fated hairdresser Delilah when discussing the removal of a source of an individual's power; the dark heart of Cain and Abel's relationship that beats in that of every set of brothers you know? Then you have other classics such as, of course, the conception and birth of Jesus, the story of Jonah and the Whale; Salome demanding - and getting - John the Baptist's head on a platter, and King Solomon threatening to cut a baby in half if the two women arguing parentage didn't come to an agreement (are you listening, Alfie Patten's family?). Not to mention power-crazed King Herod's killing of all firstborn sons. The New Testament was no place for young men! And, of course, where do we get the saying for 'The writing's on the wall' when it becomes obvious a sticky ending of some sort is heading straight for you?

Actually, I know someone who once asked at a pub quiz after a fairly simple question was posed: 'What's Noah's Ark? Never heard of it.'
His family and friends, not exactly learned theologians at the best of times, looked on this grown man in horror, but to date, calls for his immediate removal from the gene pool have gone unheeded. They're not taking my calls anymore.

It just goes to show that we take knowledge of Bible stories for granted, a given. Anyone who is unfamiliar with even a passing reference is dismissed as a hopeless dumbass. But it's not just about that - knowledge of the building blocks of our culture and philosophy are important. If you read books and poems, play video games, listen to music, enjoy art in all its forms and have any sense of how to treat your fellow man, woman, child or pet, then surely reading the holy books are essential?

The messages from the stories, poems, songs and parables have had thousands of years to permeate the collective consciousness, and shared knowledge, prejudices and assumptions give us all a little something in common. To not know these things, well... is to know nothing at all.

If nothing else, Bible stories remind and should reassure us of this:

"The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is
done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the
sun."

Ecclesiastes 1, verse 9 King James Version

Unbelievable

I wasn't sure if I was reading the reports right, but R&B popster and purveyor of Jacko-Lite, Chris Brown, is alleged to have beaten up his 'not-girlfriend' Rihanna - she of the Umbrella. She's reportedly gone to the police and told them that he threatened to kill her, while choking her.

Everyone's shocked by the story, not least because it concerns the very public meltdown of a clearly dysfunctional relationship between two beautiful, young, rich performers. It's what we expected to hear of from people who look hard-bitten and have 'previous' - falling over in the street, drug addiction, drink-driving, contretemps with the po-po and paps. The people who look like they've been dead for 10 years, but everyone around them has been too stoned to mention it.

Not in this case. What happens in cases like this is that the fans come out and deny, on the accused's behalf, that he or she 'didn't do it, because they're not like that, are they? We love you!' Sure they didn't! Because being famous precludes you from being violent, doesn't it Naomi Campbell, Foxy Brown, and OJ Simpson?

Domestic abuse happens between pretty, young, rich people in the public eye, as much as it happens closer to home (if not in your actual home). Whether she speaks out any further or not, Rihanna has already sent out a powerful message by cooperating with the police - Brown may yet be charged, but it's important to speak out and get help when you can, and that's to say nothing of pressing charges.

His fans will, predictably, scream for her blood - despite the fact their hero drew it. I don't understand that 'I love him, so he didn't do it' mentality, but it's the same one that turned murdering OJ into a folk hero, and kept known nonce R Kelly at the top of the charts, making idiotic songs about midgets and closets. That's not right, is it?

The most positive outcome of this sorry tale might be Rihanna or Chris speaking out - not likely, at least not now. The second most positive outcome would be that, maybe, impressionable kids start to ask themselves - and each other - serious questions about dealing with one's anger and how to treat other people. Seeing someone you can relate to going through a horrible time brings it closer to home, and it could change a few hearts and minds. People might actually learn something from this. Maybe.

Or maybe people will blame Rihanna, Chris Brown will say 'sorry for any offence I might have caused' as is de rigeur, and come back stronger than before because his idiot fans and apologists have shown that they are prepared to tolerate anything, because of a sweet face and and equally sweet voice. And, as the song goes, 'if you tolerate this, then your children will be next'.

See also:
The Angry Black Woman writes from a survivor's perspective

Unbelievable - Notorious B.I.G.

Racism: The New Black

Another day, another controversy. Are the BBC and the Royal family in some sort of perverse competition to offend us all to death?

Prince Harry, he with the ‘Paki’ friend, congratulated black comedian Stephen K Amos for not sounding ‘like a black chap’. Gee… thanks. We know Hazza’s got form – there was the Nazi fancy dress outfit (was the party theme ‘Pimps and POWs’?) and we know that his dad has an Asian family friend who cheerfully introduces himself as ‘Sooty’. Harry is proving himself to be his grandfather’s grandson, no question.

The subtext was: ‘I didn’t expect you to sound so… articulate and well-spoken – like me! Jolly good. I was expecting you to bowl over and go, “yeah, what’s gwarnin’ blud?”’

So now we know that Prince Harry has a definite stereotype in mind when he thinks about how black men are meant to come across. How lovely.

Carol Thatcher was dropped faster than Snoop could say ‘Drop it like it’s hot’ from BBC’s The One Show, for comparing a black tennis player to a golliwog, and chins are still a-wobble up and down the country because golliwogs aren’t offensive, are they? They’re just a toy! Could the darkies please shut up about it, because when we were kids back in 1870, toys caricaturing black people as red-lipped, black-skinned, buckwheat-haired objects of fun were perfectly acceptable! PC brigade, rah rah rah. Carol is upset that this happened during a private chat backstage, while journalists were also present. She didn't expect any of the journos to snitch... oh.

(Oh yes, and Miley Cyrus was captured on camera pulling a ‘slanty eye’ face - with an East Asian chum in the picture. She wasn’t being racist! Just fucking stupid. Whew! That’s OK then.)

And that’s what these people, for all their education and travels, are. They’re incredibly fucking stupid.

That’s oversimplifying for the sake of my own gratification, but I remember doing a similar post back when some Big Brother contestant/nobody called a black housemate a 'nigger', albeit not in an aggressive manner, but a playful one. Still, she was white, and once that term leaves the lips, it can’t be taken back.

The reactions I’ve noted with the recent outrages have something in common: aside from those condemning the remarks (too bloody right) there’s a shockingly high amount of people who think there’s nothing wrong with saying or doing racially sensitive things. Take the ‘Paki’ word, for example. The argument goes:

“But being called a Brit or Scot or Aussie is a harmless abbreviation; why not Paki?”
To which the answer is: because yer average BNP knuckle-draggers don’t generally yell ‘Oi, Brit!’ at a random brown passer-by before issuing a thorough beatdown.

‘Paki’ is not a mere abbreviation or term of endearment; it’s a direct insult and assault on everything that you are as an Asian. Make no mistake: it carries the same weight as ‘nigger’ and anyone who disagrees needs to come and live in the real world for a bit – that is, live with brown skin (pick a shade) for a while and see how many ‘terms of endearment’ you get called. If you’re lucky, you might even have someone helpfully graffiti it onto your house.

“I hear black people using the word ‘nigger’, so why can’t I say it?”
We’ve discussed this before. Nobody said you couldn’t say it, but it’s completely socially unacceptable and hey, it’s your funeral. Let me know where your grave is and I’ll put a dance floor on it.

The disturbing tendency among people who do not live with ever having suffered colour-related abuse or discrimination (and I have, but won’t go into that now) is to dismiss it as unimportant, trivial, and, at worst, an entirely imagined phenomenon which is completely bewildering, because they live in a world where things like this don’t happen. And if I hear anyone bleat about being ‘colour-blind’, I will personally ram my foot so far up your arse, you’ll be able to taste my shoe size. Colour-blindness, as far as matters of skin colour go, does not exist. I repeat: Does. Not. Exist.

I can’t adequately articulate how blind with rage I become when people who have lived in a cosy, racism-free bubble all their lives are simply unable to put themselves in another person’s shoes – or skin – and try to see where they are coming from. Why? Because they cannot see past their own prejudices, most of the time. There’s an implicit message that if ‘we’ took the chips off our shoulders, we’d all be able to live happily ever after, singing Kum By Yah, instead of bringing up this irksome issue of race. There’s no race but the human race. Please leave it alone.

Except… that’s not going to happen, and that approach does not solve the problem. Every time a gaffe like this occurs, it has to be shouted from the rooftops, to expose the fact that world-class education and travel mean nothing to people whose rarefied circles don’t include people of colour. This in turn means that charming little epithets get chucked around, and in the case of ‘Sooty’, by those who should be challenging them, instead of happily saying, ‘yes, all my friends call me Wog. Where’s the problem?’ And it’s not just a problem with rich, posh people. The ‘But why is that a problem?’ reaction ‘on the ground’ – amongst us plebs – shows that, ironically, ignorance is non-discriminatory.

It’s maddening and saddening that it still has to be explained exactly why calling people ‘Paki’, why doing ‘slanty eyes for the camera, and why comparing people to something deemed so offensive that Robinson’s erased it from their branding, is wrong… and worse, still, that anyone would think that these things are OK.

Why do we have to keep having this conversation? Why do people not get it? WHY do I have to keep using the word WHY?!

The Weather Outside is Frightful

image from flickr.com

So. Where were you during the Great Snow of 2009?


Indoors, more than likely, with your heating set to 'Furnace'. Or, like the blokes next door, having snow fights with the kids up the road. Maybe you were sculpting anatomically-correct fertility god snowmen with impressive breasts or penises? (Give me a call, Mr Frosty...)

I'll update this post with some pictures I took yesterday while out skating - I mean, walking, to the gym. But now the snow has settled quite firmly into compacted ice, and the estimated 4 out of 5 people who stayed home yesterday have attempted the epic struggle to get back into work. Everywhere is an ice rink; I nearly performed an expert AOT (arse over tit) manoeuvre while begrudgingly trudging to the train station, cursing a bus as it cruised by. Confronted with the sight of two smugmarrieds sucking face at the bus stop, I opted to walk/slide instead of staying and trying not to be sick in my mouth.

I digress, though. The streets remain inadequately gritted and cleared of ice, and I'm counting more than a few missing persons at work because the trains and buses (especially those operating in a foreign place known as Outside London) are royally buggered.

Who's to blame?
'Not I', said the Local Government Association, who are 'fully prepared for any sudden changes in the climate'. In fairness, they were prepared for snow - we all were - just not shiteloads of it.

'Not I', said Transport for London, whose rather arsey spokesperson sayeth: 'If passengers want to pay an extra £2 a year on their Oyster card, then we'll have a group of snow ploughs ready for use every 18 years, and a team of mechanics to look after them."

Wait... what?
I pay £10million pounds a year* for my 1-3 Oystercard. You all knew that this was coming; what part of 'It's going to snow next week' did you not understand? Thanks, Spokesperson. You get free travel - I'm helping pay for that, remember? I don't think I like your tone...

Passengers get furious about this kind of high-handed remark, because it completely ignores the fact that we already pay through the arse to be shipped back and forth. London is the world's most expensive city for public transport; pound for pound, it would be cheaper for me to charter a private jet and fly to Barbados for lunch*. So excuse us if we get a little ratty when nobody appears to have foreseen an extreme weather 'event' - snow in winter? Preposterous! - and seems to have achieved a 10/10 on the EPIC FAIL-o-meter for preparing for it.

I don't work for either association, so can't offer any useful suggestions beyond 'pull your goddamn fingers out, people!'. But the rest of us mere mortals don't give a flying raas claat what the LGA, TFL or fucking RZA do to put the situation right, as long as they stop talking bollocks about 'learning lessons'. Their job is to prevent minimal disruption, because the most useful thing most of us did yesterday was build snowmen and Tweet. The economy has gone tits-up; it really didn't need to lose another estimated £3billion pounds. The snow was fun, but the joke's over now. Can the authorities take some responsibility and pull their goddamn fingers out?

Oh, and yesterday was Groundhog day in the US. Draw your own conclusions.


*May be slight, teeny weeny exaggeration.

Breaking the Ice

It's been so long since I have blogged, and made it a resolution not to let so much time elapse next time. I'll be poking around my blogroll to see who's who and what's what; but I'll review what I've been up to since I was here last:

I have started learning to samba. Not the ballroom style, but the Rio/Sao Paulo rump-shaking stylee. The real shit. I'll be coming to a carnival near you; look out for the blogger wearing 3 rhinestones, 4 feathers and a smile.

I have been chewed up and spat out by the Love Machine a couple of times. Nothing ever changes. I swear off men, but they're like bloody buses! My last encounter was with a guy who I thought was rather nice, who seemed to dig me also. Shame he was abducted by aliens. Memo to the aliens: don't bring him back. I've had my pity party so I won't go into any emo shit here, but suffice to say that being intelligent, attractive, funny and free from any obviously rank-o-rama body odours doens't seem to be working for me. Maybe I need to change tactics?

Working on the Novel has stalled, so I'm aiming to get my butt onto an Urban Writers Retreat. Sure, I can write at home, in my pants. I'm doing that right now. But there's something about the idea of doing it in a place geared to extracting actual work from creative flushes, instead a desire to do the dishes that appeals to me no end. Plus it has no wifi, so fannying about on Facebook is not an option.

Oh, and I will also be learning to pole dance. I don't buy the notion that it's a means of feminist liberation; it's fun to do, will increase my upper body strength (really) and looks hot when done right. That's all. Oh, and what's not to like about a dance class in which the teacher tells you to touch your tits, then lick your fingers seductively? Exactly. Learning a new skill - for work or for fun - is liberating in itself. Sure, the ability to slide down a pole upside down might not be useful to anyone when the revolution comes, but then neither will the ability to write sparkling copy. So be it.

Streets Of New York

Well, I couldn't come back and not write a post about my 2 weeks in New York. The picture above was taken in Manhattan, after watching the 4th July fireworks. That was one of the very few tourist-y things I did.

See, I didn't go with the purpose of taking loads of photos, or getting my mojo back. The 2 weeks there were for a more important reason: connecting with family. I have an older sister and 3 nephews - one my age! - who I'd never met before. Both my sister and I were worried about how we'd get along - after all, we didn't really know each other. Long story short - it was fine. And I got on famously with my nephews as well - when it came for me to leave, it was clear they weren't ready to let me go yet ('Mom, we're going to kidnap her so she misses her flight'). And to be honest, I wasn't ready to come back. The New York summer is glorious! Wall-to-wall sunshine and heat, sometimes so bloody hot that residents are warned to stay indoors and stick on the A/C. I wore booty shorts and skimpy dresses, not feeling out of place. Just hot. And sweating like a bastard.

I stayed in East Flatbush, a district of the borough of Brooklyn. This place in particular isn't that different to Tottenham or Brixton; maybe just a few more Americans, but plenty plenty Caribbeans, Haitians and Mexicans. Aside from going up to Manhattan (which is NYC proper), I went up to Long Beach, Long Island, to sample the joys of a paid-for beach. Mean bastards.

Other highlights include:

• Being called 'Queen of London' by a love-struck sales assistant.
• Talking to my sister for hours, without the minutes running out
• Splashing about in the freezing waters of the Atlantic, on Long Beach
• Buying approximately 6500 pairs of Apple Bottom jeans
• Getting the chance to hang out with my nephews - and being glad that they liked me!
• Being complimented on my toes by random men. What's up with that?
• Spending hours and hours and dollars and dollars shopping... and loving every minute.
• Sampling the 'joys' of the Metro. Ice-cold trains, bastard-hot platforms.
• Eating ribs the size of Texas on the 4th July.
• Slowly getting my mojo back. Yeah!

New York is a brilliant place - yes, it's hard-nosed and surly at times, but it has this energy that's infectious. The wide open spaces, even in the city, give a feeling of freedom. So will I be going back? Hell emphatically yes.

Last Call for Alcohol

I’m glad drinking has been banned on the Underground. There, I said it.

However, Boris’ decision to outlaw pissed-up ravers from sucking down tinnies on the Tube has been met with some well-deserved hoots of derision.

Before you call me out for being contradictory, I say the collective “Oh no he didn’t” was ‘well-deserved’ because there are going to be a whole heap of problems policing the new Tube order, namely: exactly how the hell will the staff stop people from doing this? Stevie Wonder can see that just shoving a law into being without due consideration for how it would be enforced will end in tears before bedtime.

Of course, there was the obligatory partay, the "Last Round on the Circle Line", last Saturday night, to celebrate the last night of freedom. The intention was to have a civilised drink – LOL – then everyone would toddle off home. Riiight.

According to the Indy:

“[…]Police arrested 17 people for a range of public order offences and closed six Underground stations, with several trains taken out of service because of vandalism. The Circle line was suspended for a time.

Four train drivers and three other London Underground staff were assaulted, with another 50 further staff verbally abused or spat at. A police vehicle had its tyres slashed, two officers were assaulted and another was injured.”

Civilised drinking in London? On a Saturday night? The organiser (a right little banker – Alexandre Graham of the Royal Bank of Scotland, to be precise) must not have been in this city long. You’ve got more chance of conjuring up a golden unicorn – at least you can buy a horse and paint it.

So what else transpired, aside from the good old standby - abusing public servants -and general naughtiness? Well, honourable mentions have to go to the inevitable litter, rivers of vomit, the vandalism and broken glass, and even some dude in a Star Wars costume pissing onto electrified tracks. Tragically, he survived.

Considering that these things happen even without beverages of mass consumption I’m all for ways of reducing anti-social behaviour (Tasering is my current favourite). I don’t want to be harassed, have my new shoes puked on, or be on a hot and crowded train when the emergency alarm is pulled, because some drunken dumbarse decides to partake in dumbarsery.

So yeah, I appreciate what Boris is trying to do (I didn’t vote for him so none of this BS is my fault anyway) but you have to agree: anything that makes London a slightly safer, slightly less garbage-ridden and anti-social place can’t be all bad.

Source: Independent Online

'I'll Never Wash This Hand Again'

When I was about 18, a friend and I went to the Stratford Rex in East London to see a singer called Kelly Price perform. My friend M is a tallish, slender girl with an enviably smooth chocolatey complexion and sleek figure. In fact, she looked like Naomi Campbell. Next to her, I was short, pasty (yes, black people can be pasty too) and dumpy. She later went on to become a beauty queen.

Her looks had attracted the attention of one Richard Blackwood, who at the time was positioning himself as the UK's answer to Eddie Murphy, which I'm sure he distances himself from now - who'd want to be associated with paternity wrangles, gay rumours and Donkey? - but I digress. M and I arrived at the concert and she went over to say hi to Richard, introducing me to him. Nice to meet a well-known face, I thought to myself. We enjoyed the concert, and that was that.

As we were about to leave, a guy brushed through the crowd and said breathlessly to us: 'Guess who's standing over there. Timbaland.' M and I rolled our eyes, then thought for a second about the possibility of this guy not making this up. So we ventured back into the crowd to investigate.

Sure enough, behind a wall of big black geezers, was a member of the Itty-Bitty-Celebrity Committee. Timbaland.

I have to say, at this point, that I'm a huge fan of his work. I think it's a testament to his skills that he's still as relevant now as he was over 10 years ago - in fact, some of the stuff he did back then still sounds fresh now, and if you listen to lots of music you can pretty much date a track by the production style; it's the aural equivalent of cutting it open and counting the rings. And when he first became well known, every producer worth their Cubase started copying his style (think stuttering beats and, if you listen closely, vocal samples and snippets of what sounds like beatboxing, set somewhere in the year 3067). It was much like the vocoder obsession R&B and hip hop have at the moment - once there's a trend, everybody does it to death.

Then you have his voice. Over the beats, his voice was deep, stamping his authoritah over the track. Except... it doesn't sound like that in real life, or at least it didn't when he came up to me and whispered in my ear. I asked him to repeat what he'd said, but he didn't. He was softly-spoken. I was slightly disappointed - it was like hearing Barry White turn into Mickey Mouse.

Oh, and the height. I'd got the impression that he was short, but there's short and there's me towering over him in my 1.5in heels. I'm 5'5.

I've yet to explain why he smelled of flowers, or rather flower-scented room spray. It's not very manly, is it? Very odd.

Anyway, I shook hands with him, told him I was a fan (I still wish I'd asked him to say hi to Missy for me, I was a big fan of hers at the time, too). So my first encounter with a genuine celebrity (sorry Richard, it was nice while it lasted) was a nice one, albeit one that left me slightly bemused. I also wonder what he was thinking at the time. He meets so many people that unless he has some kind of scary memory, there's no chance he'd remember me.

So. Have you ever met a celebrity? And how was the encounter?

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?

'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.

"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.

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

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. Neurotic, then level-headed. But that wasn't my Big Problem. The Big Problem, that I struggled with throughout my life, was 'who am I? What am I here for?'

Philosophical enquiry is nothing without application, so after experiencing a quarter-life crisis and mild depression after my 25th birthday, I came out through the other side, seemingly happier than before, and ever so sorted. All the things I'd ever been good at had involved writing, so naturally, this is who I was, right?

Well, sort of. Yes, being a writer is part of my being - everyone has a natural talent and I feel that writing is the one I'd been given. On the other hand, I thought that the round hole I'd always been in would develop corners, and everything would fit into place. It hasn't. It was only when I read the piece that I realised that giving up the idea of being a successful writer might be the only way to, well, succeed at being a writer.

"You cannot enjoy alcohol if you are attached (or addicted) to it. Enjoyment of anything requires a certain distance. When the idea of self (ego) is attached to the object of enjoyment, you lose the ability to see it for what it is. I believe this is partly responsible for the phenomenon called 'writer’s block', in which the identity 'writer' is attached to one’s ego so much that the fear of losing that identity becomes greater than the enthusiasm for writing. It is by giving up the idea of becoming a 'writer' that one is able to be a writer and enjoy being one."

This is the passage that hooked me. I've been so tied up in what The Writer in me is supposed to say/do/be, that I've lost sight of the pure enjoyment that writing brings. I've lost the spark that made me start my novel. I was sat on the sofa, mucking about on my then-boyfriend's laptop listening to some mp3s on a music website. He was at his turntables. The words came, and when they came, they poured. Within a month, half of the first draft was written. My ego went, "Wow, CB, you're destined to be a writer, this is who you are!" and I went along with it. I'm still wondering if I should have listened to it at all, but I'm glad I did: it's brought me full circle.

By being overly attached to this dream, I run the very real risk of derailing myself and killing my creative spirit, my instinct. Forget about word counts, chapters, style guides, how-to books for now. I can worry about those later. There is a novel waiting to be written, and right now I don't care if it's read or even published, but my burning needs have to be attended to. I want to forget about being a Writer or an Artist, and wish just to enjoy writing instead. Whatever comes to me as a result will come, but for now reconnecting with what drives me in the first place - love of language and story - is far more important.

As they say: if you love something, let it go. If it comes back, it's yours forever.

My friend Fever Dog also wrote a reaction to the article.


The Art of Giving Up

Flash! Ah-aahh...

I've attempted to experiment with flash fiction for a little while now, but found it difficult to distil my ideas into a hundred words, and even trickier yet to distil them into six. I tend not to be able to stay within such restrictions, rebel that I am. This is not entirely good thing, as it's important to be able to convey ideas in nice, tight language. Choosing your words means that instead of using a word that will 'just do', you find yourself looking for the word that will give more bang for the buck, which prevents you from being lazy.

A few years ago I bought a book called Anthropology: And A Hundred Other Stories by Dan Rhodes, which mesmerised me. The original copy, which was signed, was lent to someone and never returned, and until yesterday I'd not been able to find the book in any bookstore I'd happened to be drawn, trance-like, into.
The stories are each about a different girl, a different relationship, and summed up in relatively few words - mostly a hundred or less. Some are funny, some are tragic, some are just plain odd; just like some of the exes we have in our histories, I shouldn't wonder.

The copy I bought yesterday couldn't have made itself appear to me at a better time. I've been reflecting on relationships old and new - in a totally positive way - of late, and feeling a really nice buzz normally associated with an impending flood of creative juices (rather than the sort you get from overdoing it on the 7up, like I did last night).

So after I read Anthropology on the Tube this morning, names and stories started bubbling away, and to stave off the inevitable rigor mortis that office work induces, I've been writing what can best be described as an homage. That may or may not be French for 'blatant copying', but, in my defence, any writing is better than none, and I've achieved something I've struggled with for a little while now. And hopefully, and more importantly, it'll inject a little sumthin' sumthin' into my current project.

Disclaimer: any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. However, if you think you recognise yourself in any of the following stories, please pass my regards to the Paranoia Police.

Fish
I do wish Niall didn’t love the fish so much. When he comes home from work, he brushes past me without so much as a mumble, and sprinkles flakes into the tank, cooing as the fish gobble them up.
I ask him how his day went, and he gazes at the fish; I stroke the nape of his neck and softly suggest he come to bed with me; he adjusts the tank filter. He glares at me when I tuck into a delicious portion of battered cod or steamed salmon, but I smile and lick my lips when he does that; it’s the closest I come to being happy.

12 Inches
DJ Leon invited me back to his flat to sample some laid-back, funky grooves, and perhaps take a look at his twelve inches.
‘More like a MiniDisc,’ I said, as I grabbed my coat and left.

Hurt
Tris took great pleasure in hurting me. He guffawed when I ran out of the café crying, after he’d told me he was sleeping with someone else, and that the sex was mindblowing. He convinced me to come back, but during one rather nasty conversation over the phone, when he detailed the many ways in which I was ugly, fat and selfish, I could hear shuffling noises and groaning inbetween my sobs. ‘What are you doing?’ I snivelled.
‘Wanking,’ he replied.

Skin
Jean-Michel did not appreciate the expensive skincare I’d bought him. ‘Why do I need that,’ he said, reaching for his badger-arse-hair shaving brush and smearing bird poo on his cheeks and chin, ‘when this works perfectly well?’. As I caressed his newly-shaven face and took in the smooth contours of his taut, luminous skin, I had to concede that he was right.

May I Compare Thee To A Summer's Day?

"No! Fuck off!" is the expected response to such a question.

Apparently, in our 'post-feminist' times, men are afraid to pay women compliments, lest they get done for harassment. Loire Valley White Wines carried out a survey of 1000 women, and two-thirds said that if some random guy, not their partner, made a comment about the way they looked, it made them feel uncomfortable. Even on a date, some blokes think twice.

This doesn't really surprise me, especially not at this time of year. As you know, I feel quite strongly about the pretty-much-expected low-level sexual harassment I get whilst going about my daily business.

A compliment from a random is something along the lines of the innocuous 'You look nice today, Miss', 'Great hair/shoes/dress/smile'. I can handle that. Not 'Nice boobs/arse/legs' or 'Titties!'.

In other words, if it's something that might sound better in your head (or in your bed) then don't say it, unless you're asking for a box (not a cardboard one, more like one of the Amir Khan variety). If I'm not your wifey,wife, girlfriend, I DON'T WANT TO HEAR IT. Is that clear enough?

There are idiots who think that shouting suggestive comments at women constitute a compliment, and if we don't instantly fall at their feet, then we are the ones with the problem: yeah, nice try. We wouldn't want to associate ourselves with a drooling imbecile who behaves as if he's just got out of jail and hasn't learned not to say everything that he thinks, so it's not us that need to get over ourselves!

(One thing to consider is this: why would a wine company feel the need to manufacture such a survey? Of course, they want to raise awareness of their brand, but what does a survey about how women feel about compliments have to do with wine? Is it because the refreshing taste of rose is the closest we will come to a truth serum?)

Paying someone a compliment is a fine art, but easy to learn. The trick is to make the recipient feel good about themselves, without coming over as an obvious charmer or just plain disingenuous. And it doesn't have to be about appearance, as we all respond well to having positive aspects of our character or work that we've done highlighted, too.

Accepting a kind remark is somewhat trickier; it was years before I learned to do that with grace, without resorting to apologising or pointing out that something else about me wasn't quite up to scratch, as if to compensate. It's trickier still to accept one from a member of your own sex, but speaking as a woman (as opposed to, say, a laptop), those mean even more, since we're encouraged to compare ourselves negatively to other women and bitch about the way someone looks.

If you clearly don't look rough as a badger's arsehole, then suck it up (the compliment, not the arsehole). Say 'Thanks, that's very kind' and move swiftly on. Stuff down your embarrassment, and let yourself enjoy the ego boost - you'll still be able to get your head through the doorway, trust me.

Because of this lack of love we show each other, 'experts' have set a daily quota for the number of compliments we receive: a magic five. Give me a break! That reminds me of a place I used to work at where we would swap compliments: 'I love your hair!' 'Wow, that dress looks great on you!' 'Where did you get those shoes?' et cetera. It's nice at first, but the Mutual Appreciation Society schtick gets a little nauseating if you don't nip it in the bud. And you run the risk of seeming conceited and smarmy if you're firing them off left, right and centre.



By the way... have you lost weight?

Reader, I Married Him

No, no. That's not what's brought me out of my lair to write. This is:

Jodie Marsh, the intellectual, classy lady we all know and *cough* love is looking to work her way through some new cock audition a new chance to catch crabs husband through her MTV show ‘Totally Jodie Marsh: Who'll Take Her Up The Aisle?’. Oh, fnar, and indeed, fnar. Ooh, look! My tongue is in cheek! Nudges and winks all round!

She appears to have taken her cue from the Annabel Chong Guide to Dating, which can only merit an ‘oh dear’, especially given the runaway successes that were ‘Totally Scott-Lee’ and ‘Totally Boyband’! Oh, wait…

On the official site, where an aspiring husband can download an application form (sample question: "Tell me about the best sex you ever had!"), she states that she’s ‘desperate to settle down with the man of my dreams’, after dating a succession of ‘complete losers’. Yeah? Aren't we all. We just don't need to parade around in belts and a tutu to signpost that, ducky.

To be fair, Fran Cosgrave (notable for having a forehead visible from space), Dane Bowers aka the fat one from Another Level, Kenzie from Blazin’ Squad aka ‘Who?’ and Calum ‘Best At What, Exactly?’ aren’t what most of us girls with functioning eyes would call ideal boyfriend material: at least a couple of them are known to be shaggers; one was, like, 12, and the other one once did Jordan, who as a respectable married mother of 2-and-counting now looks more and more like the epitome of refinement and sophistication in comparison to Jodie.

I’m not a fan of Jodie's, nor am I one of the legions of people whose intense dislike for her take up sweet, precious bandwidth – to each their own; I refuse to dedicate time and energy to public figures I have a deep and burning hatred for, as paying it any attention is unproductive. Usually, I feel nothing for her except for the warm glow of casual indifference. However, Jodie does herself no favours, and she simply must be told.

What she needs is a visit from Doctor Bitchslap, a trip to Rigby& Peller, quick-quick, to get something to strap those pupsters down properly, and to be given something to occupy the brilliant mind she professes to have that doesn’t involve men, sex, dating, or dating/having sex with men. Besides, when we hear of men who advertise for brides, we denounce them as tragic losers. This case is no different.

If she wants to come across as being low-rent, tacky and unappealing, then she’s going the right way about it, dressing up as a cross between Bozo the Clown and Trailer Trash Barbie (“Mah daddy swears I’m the best kisser in town!”). You can't deny that she knows her audience, but if she's choosing the wrong men then she has to take some responsibility for that. And appealing to her audience by saying she'd 'marry a Sport reader' probably isn't the best way to kick-start a lifelong commitment.

If she's anywhere near as intelligent as she claims to be, then walking away from this project would be the best idea she's ever had. In fact, Jodie, just go and sit down. Do your charity work, go out with your mates, enjoy your family's company. Travel the world. Start a new career that isn't dependent on your looks - any model worth their naughty salt knows that's where the real power and respect comes from.

What we’re witnessing here is depressing on so many levels: a crass z-lister trying to pump some perkiness into her sagging spaniel’s ears of a career; the predictable turn out of well-brought-up, nice young men Sport ‘readers’ having intellectual debates of the ‘tits or face?’ variety; watching the car crash as she struggles to select, from a pool of idiots whose villages will sorely miss them, something approaching a worthy specimen; then the inevitable OK! Magazine ‘Reader, I Married Him’ cover shoot, followed by the inevitable break-up, followed by yet another OK! Magazine cover shoot. Sounds like a recipe for a shit sandwich to me.

In the same way that Groucho Marx once said he wouldn’t join any club that would have him as a member, Jodie – and any potential ‘recruits’ - should think twice, and for longer than five seconds if they ever thought at all, about this. My contact at the Stevie Wonder Psychic Hotline predicts that this might not end happily.
Oh, and something about ‘members’. Fnar.

"You Don't Look Like No Dalek To Me"

(click pic to watch)

I found this on YouTube while looking up a programme called The Real McCoy, a sketch comedy show made up almost exclusively of black British performers, but also had two Asian cast members, one being Meera Syal. Back in the early 90's it was THE thing to watch - well, if you were black or Asian in particular. I sat and watched a few of the clips this evening, crying with laughter. All of a sudden, I was 12 again. Good times!

This came before the better-known Goodness Gracious Me and a little after the much-loved Desmond's, and went to show that despite some best-forgotten attempts (The Crouches, anyone?) black British comedy could, well, be funny. Most of the cast had a hand in writing the show, which is very different to cranking out some dry, written-by-committee crap which is about as funny as a boil on the arse. I'd like to think the UK will see its like again, but I'm not sure that it will happen.

That said... enjoy a rather... different take on Dr Who.

You Won't Find These on Amazon...

Inspired by this list of Shortest Books ("Different Ways to Spell Bob"), I thought I'd draw up a list of mine own (and I did make them all up myself):

1. A-Z of Pharmaceutical Drugs - Winehouse & Doherty
2. The Katona & Spears Guide to Excellent Motherhood
3. My Love of Music - Simon Cowell
4. 100 Top Black People in Fashion
5. Writing the Arthouse Movie: Sandler & Ferrell
   
6. The Tao of America's Next Top Model
7. Beautifully Human - Jocelyn Wildenstein
8. Train Your Brain - Jade Goody
9. My Struggle with Sociophobia - Victoria Beckham
10. The Hollyoaks Guide to Serious Method Acting for Stage & Screen
    
11. Great Jobs for Media Graduates
12. How to Make Friends and Influence People - Heather Mills McCartney
13. The Nuts Guide to Feminism
14. Expanding Your Vocabulary - Gordon Ramsay
15. Natural Makeup - Jodie Marsh
16. The Pete Townshend Research Companion
17. Resurrecting your Music Career - All Saints
18. Living Frugally - Elton John
19. Celibacy Can Be Fun - Russell Brand/David Walliams
20. Dressing for the Red Carpet - Joss Stone. See also: 'Learn Any Accent Convincingly'
21. The Gentleman's Guide to Growing Old Gracefully - Mick Jagger, Keith Richards and Jack Nicholson
22. Writing Original Music - Oasis
23. The Sticky Fingers Erotica Collection II - Anne Widdecombe
24. The Big Book of Zen Calm - Naomi Campbell. Also: How Clean Is Your House?
25. Learn to Sing! with Geri Halliwell
26. The D. Beckham Companion to English Language Usage
27. 101 Delicious Recipes using Polonium
28. Wet and Shirtless! The Chris Moyles Calendar
29. The Heat Magazine Book of Metaphysics
30. Coping With Technophobia - Steve Jobs
31. Tatler's Eligible Bachelors: Ugly Broke Men
32. Exciting Jobs in Accounting and Auditing
33. The Libran's Guide to Decisiveness
34. Making Sense of 'Lost'

Take That To The Bank

Well, after much consideration, I decided not to accept the bank's kind offer which fell nearly £200 short of what they owe me in penalty charges. To that end, I have written them a letter:

Dear Bank,

Thank you for your goodwill offer of £xxx.

However, this amount falls under the 'Chocolate Fireguard' category in terms of its practical use to me.

I think you will find that the Unfair Terms in Consumer Contracts Regulations 1999 would define this as 'fuckery'. Considering the millions and millions of pounds the Bank makes every year, I doubt that crediting my account with the sum I originally requested will make it harder for you to send little Jocasta/Oliver skiing.

If you do not refund this sum, I will be behoved to send the boys round to play 'Hunt the Kneecap'. I know people. Which people? You don't need to know. Don't watch that.

Yours sincerely

China Blue

Take That to The Bank - Shalamar