Laugh.Relate.Think

All eyes on: J.Lo

2008-01-01T20:19:00.000Z

Meet Jennifer Lopez; the woman who insists she is from the block. All the time. I’m always weary of characters that feel the need to emphasise a fact so often. If it’s you, it’s you. It will permeate through your being without you forcing it down people’s throats. None the less, J.Lo has continued to use her songs as a six-year-long therapy exercise, to make emphatic statements about who she is: ‘I’m real, what you get is what you see,’ ‘I’m still Jenny from the block.’ Yeah, ok we get you. Who are you trying to convince, love?

Wikipedia lists Jennifer Lopez as an actress, singer/songwriter, record producer, dancer, fashion designer, television producer. In other words, Jennifer Lopez is confused. She is joining the ranks of the other career schizophrenics who got lucky doing one thing and figure they’ll do several other things mediocrely; anything for a few bob. Just have a look at the J.Lo range in Argos. Dire.

Miss Lopez was born in the Bronx in 1969. She attended a catholic school but escaped life at the convent aged 19, where she got two jobs to fund her dance training and auditioned relentlessly. She landed small gigs as a backing dancer in a few rap videos. Merging dance with acting, she proceeded to win small roles on fledgling comedy shows of the 90s and even “starred” in Janet Jackson’s, 'That’s the Way Love Goes.' Riding on the back of the Latin American heritage thing, her big break came when she scored the role of tragic Latin singing sensation Selena Perez in the aptly titled, Selena.

She worked really hard up until this point, and then she started getting... complacent, maybe? I mean, how many times must I endure her in the ‘Small town girl with unassailable beauty, enchants powerful city type; all socio-economic issues go out of the window because love conquers all' type films?

It was during this time that husband number one came along; Ojani Noa. He got axed because he couldn’t hack the fact that he was the house-husband and she was bringing home the chorizo.

Then the big-headed one (aka P Diddy) squeezed into the room. But we’ll ignore him because there’s no need to acknowledge his existence as the man is so perilously close to being ingested by his own ego.

Jenny claimed that her Love don’t cost a thing, which was technically untrue. The whole Bennifer thing cryogenically froze Ben Affleck’s acting career (remember Gigli? Was it a reference to her ass? Spanish for shite? The mind boggles…)

On from there, dancer Chris Judd choreographed his way into her life and lasted a nano second before she completed her circle and came back to the original teenage sweetheart, Marc Anthony. You know, the one that was previously with the former Miss Universe (just how illogical is it, that the guy with the boniest face in the world can get these bombshells falling at his feet?) And now she’s preggers. And thank God she is, because I can only blame those horrendous outfits she’s been wearing (to “hide” the worst kept secret in history) on her flyaway hormones. Now, just to prove I’m not a complete bitch, let’s all bow our heads and pray that the little mite takes her features, not his.

Plastic - fantastic?

2007-10-10T17:02:00.001+01:00

When I was asked to write this article, I thought it would be a no-brainer. Plastic surgery: for or against? Immediately, I conjured up images of the conveyer belt of plastic Barbies being spat out by the various facets of the media industry. But on closer inspection, I found that while still against it, there is a more disturbing undercurrent of misplaced confidence and hypocrisy going on…

Sir Harold Gilles is considered to be one of the fathers of modern plastic surgery, for his work in reconstructive surgery for those who had suffered facial disfigurement in World War I. This, along with other surgeries that benefit the likes of burns victims or prove to be beneficial to one’s health, I’m all for. What I question is how we got from there to where we are today, with surgery being made into seedy, voyeuristically- pleasuring TV shows (hosted by Vanessa Feltz, who was seriously scraping the bottom of her career barrel on that one).

So, I’m all for well-intentioned plastic surgery, where it falls down for me is in its evil twin, cosmetic surgery. Last year, over eight million procedures took place worldwide. Most practitioners now insist that anyone considering surgery, see a therapist before doing so. I’m aware that they are just covering their own backs, but the fact that they’ve had to introduce such measures tells me about all I need to know about the mental state of some of these men and women.

A gaggle of the adverts I browsed for this article harped on about improving your self-confidence, but how is that achieved when to undertake such procedures you must have an idea of what you perceive to be right and wrong in terms of body image, and see yours as wrong. So, where is the ‘self’ empowered in comparing and aspiring to be like someone else ‘normal,’ and going to an external source of plastic to get it?

This is an opportunist industry that thrives on telling us everything that is wrong with us (which we never asked), and how much it will cost to resolve it. Cosmetic surgery is no longer the luxury of the well off. What with rhinoplasty available on a Primark budget, thanks to overseas-butchers looking for their cut and an increasing amount of surgeons on these shores offering breast enlargements and liposuction on interest free credit. All you need now is a page-three pipe dream and an example torn out of any heat-type magazine and you’re on your way. And what if you can’t keep up the repayments? Do they push the fat back in and return you to your imperfect, abject misery?

But while I cuss and rave, I found that I myself was a hypocrite for buying into this game to some extent. I mean, what is make up if not a way to cover up or improve on what’s there? And which girl doesn’t know that you wear black to slim you down on a fat day? Why is it then, that cosmetic surgery is so often vilified and the other creams and potions we use on a daily basis are not? I don’t think it is so much about the surgery as the brainwashing that takes place to coerce many into going through with it. It’s time to stop the madness, and big up the cellulite! Think of it as the new suffragette movement, and me the new Emmeline Pankhurst!

Good girl, got worse...?

2007-07-25T09:48:00.000+01:00

Right, so Rihanna's been at the top of the charts for a fifth of a year. Congratulations are definately in order. But.... (oh there's always a but!). I can't help but notice a trend, and I can't quite fathom whether it is a good thing gone bad or not.

Rihanna, has quite obviously been given a stylistic and musical overhaul, as the whole album has a slightly rock chick feel, and I couldn't help but think, 'if only the album were as exotic as she is.'

The title track sounds as though it took half an hour to make on a Casio keyboard, and has taken my dad's favourite revival beats and made them into the type of song that will be the last track played to a dwindling dancefloor of drunkards before they throw up. 'Hate that I love you,' penned by Ne-yo, has a distinct deja vu effect ie, isn't he tired of using the 'Sexy Love' beat yet?

The whole thing is a bit 'Ibiza here I come,' with the bonus tracks filled with dance versions of the originals, which conjour up scary images of her performing with glow sticks everywhere.

But the record sales speak for themselves with first week sales of 68k, 115k and 162k for 'Music of the Sun,' 'A Girl like Me' and 'Good Girl Gone Bad' respectively. So, it seems that Sugababe-with-a-Bajan-accent stylee wins through. But does that make her a sell out?

Well, no. It's not like she didn't try to express herself('pon de replay', 'if it's loving that you want' etc), and she has certainly not allowed elocution lessons to distort that tenuous twang. But it's not the first time that somebody has been accused of such things for going down a slightly different path. Think Lemar, Sugababes, Big Brovaz, Gnarls Barkley, Sonique etc. Why do we assume that a black person has to sing "black" music or be labelled a coconut?

I resist the term sellout, but embrace the term manipulation. Marketing a clever people. So we have figured out who the powers that be are (not really that hard, think Chris Rock rich vs wealthy). I think that where the problem lies is in the rigorous testing of an artist's pliability, in other words, we'd like a bit of black...yep, that's just about enough thank you! It's the same reason that Brian from BB is now 2/1 to win the series, 'cos he's the right type of digestible black boy - the Essex cockney, with gelled hair, who you can laugh at rather than be scared of.

Personally, the genre of music doesn't bother me, so long as one remains true to oneself. However, it seems that the deciding factor these days is, how big do you want to be? Is your main concern your musical integrity or getting a sponsership deal with Clinique?

I think I know which Rihanna has opted for. She has obviously stuck two fingers up to file sharing lot of us and opted to use her shelf life to make some serious moolah from those that actually BUY cds. But to be fair, when you were discovered at a talent show, and have a voice that pierces the eardrum like a foghorn in the night, you're not exactly a legend in the making, so I guess you should be that good girl gone bad/good/chinese/mormon or whatever, until the next pint-sized beauty comes along. But let's just give thanks that there's another representative in the glossies for the entire black female race, aside from Beyonce for now.

Posh loses more weight! To balance the ego-induced inflation of her head...

2007-07-24T13:07:00.000+01:00

Was it just me or were you stuck between a rock and a hard place, deciding whether to watch Big Brother or Victoria Beckham: Coming to America? Yes I know it's sad, but when they open crap tv-holics anonymous, I'll be the first in line.

I felt empowered between 9-915pm, shunning the trout pout, (even though watching Chanelle is essentially the same thing. Then the break came. And like Kate Moss trying to repel Pete Docherty, I waned and flicked channels, disgusted facial expressions and kisses of teeth at the ready. Big Brother did not get another look in.

What is it about Mrs 'Menopause personified' that make unmissable tv? Well it certainly wasn't the Osbournes-meets-over-excited cheerleader format, 'because everything is like, so totally shiny in America!' SKHT.

But while it's actually rather sad that you need an hour-long documentary to prove you laugh and eat (more below), it did kind of work. Or maybe it was just clever editing.

So, here are my top 3 jibes:

1. Was I the only one that noticed that she scraped the apple sauce tin, licked the spoon, then used it to spread the filling for the apple pie, she (being her assistant) was making for her neighbours? Money does not buy hygiene then?

2. Watching her boobs get closer and closer to her chin as the show went on.

3. Hearing about her complain about what people think about her, but then living up to said persona, by tottering around like a vexed waxwork model.

However much I try and slate her, I did watch (even though it was purely just to make sure that she had actually left these shores). As far as I'm concerned, America can have her. It's not like England can gladly claim her as a great English export, is it? And as much as I wish her super ego would swallow her and make her disappear, I know it's unlikely as two of my major pet hates combine: talent-less dipsticks and any and everything American. God help us.

Purely a figment of the Imagination!

2007-06-22T14:28:00.000+01:00

This is a plea to the nation! Please heed my cry! For humanity's sake, I implore you to ignore the attention-seeking antics of the Big Brother contestants on the outside.

There is something perilously desperate about many of this year's contestants. Never have I seen such pathetic clamouring up the wall of the pseudo-celebrity (so desperate in fact, their acrylic tips are in danger of snapping).

I appreciate that everyone needs to make their way in life as best they can, but as well as desperate, this bunch are LAZY!!! Ziggy, while contemplating leaving/eviction (and licking his wounds as he's no longer the head of the pride) states magnanimously, 'I've had a good run.' Three weeks? Good run? Reaching your golden wedding anniversary is a good run. Being undefeated heavyweight champion of the world is a good run.

Shabnam wore illuminous make up and was generally wierd for a few days and thinks that that entitles her to "deals." Charley is a crap weave with legs and a dream (is there relaxer cream on the shopping list?). No mouthstopper, but a dream all the same. So deluded is she, that she barks down the exact fame she seeks with her been-there-done-that attitude. Hmm, I wonder how much champagne Jobseekers Allowance buys these days?

But essentially, it is us, the public that helps them "earn" their living. Every copy of a weekly glossy purchased means another unberable nano-second in the airbrushed limelight for them. If you want to see Channelle's crotch (now, now boys) when she falls drunkenly out of a club then so be it.

If you want to see Shabnam presenting Soccer AM, Mastermind of X Factor (those bulbous pupils won't let anything pass her) then good luck to you. I, for one will be blocking them out will all of my might in the hope that I'll open my eyes and it will all have been another generic, boob-inflated, over-tanned and overstraighted nightmare.

So where'd you guys meet? Ummm....

2007-05-24T13:30:00.000+01:00

My Space, Bebo, Hi5, Facebook, Flickr, the list is endless (can someone tell me why I keep getting tagged?). Let's face it, the social networking sites have become a quintessential part of our generation. They are a good way to keep in contact with far-off family and invaluable for noseying into the lives of old school friends. Their unforseen popularity means that they are goldmines for youth-oriented business. It's the way that many new musuc artists, like Sandi Thom, have got a foot up into the music world, even David Cameron has a blog (but he's trying just a little too hard anyway - hug a hoodie? I'd love to see him embrace a Nike-clad Six footer in Brixton). So if these sites have been so widely integrated into society, why are we so hesitant to claim our e-friendships? E-Blind date, but a little less bait 'm sure that "social networking" is simply match.com in disguise! The amount of one line messages I get beginning: 1) Yo shorty! 2) Do you have msn? 3) msg mi bak init babes. Ur 2 buff is relative to the amount of Krispy Kremes I would like to eat in a week (without being sick, in an ideal world). If you are gonna come with that, at least appear sincerely interested. I mean, when we see that your top friends circle is all cleavage and hair extensions, if we were even slightly inclined to think you were serious, I know I'm left thinking, 'You! Are you sure?!' Having said that, I do also know that you can come across some decent people. Those who are trying to network professionally and get their talent showcased, for example. But why is it that when you're out with your normal group of friends and one of them asks you, 'Who's that? I've never seen them before?' the tendancy is to avoid eye contact and mumble something inaudible in the hope that the moment will pass? Either that or, make up some convoluted explaination of how you met outside Londis, but you knew her before because she was your cousin's ex-girlfriend's babysitter? Now that's not very nice is it? ;o)

Champagne Dance Update

2007-05-24T11:32:00.000+01:00

The tickets are sold out nicely! So it's all about arriving early and paying on the door (last year arriving after midnight meant you had your own mini rave in your car with a promo CD, 'cos the rave was jam out). Travel: I am a VIP oyster holder forl ife, so if like me public transport is your best friend then here are the travel options. 1) Rail - Finsbury Park to Hatfield (and buy a ticket! They've clocked onto the fact that half Hertfordshire uni have been bumping them by travelling after 10pm. And trying to tell them your name is Shaquanda Jones, when you're clearly a Patience, Joy, Mary or Bisi won't work either. They wanna see documents!). 2) Bus - Coach from London Victoria to Hatfield Galleria (a 5 min walk from there). 602/636/300/301 from St Albans Rail Station (10 mins approx, get off at Asda). 655 from Borehamwood/610 from Enfield ( if you're truly bruk pocket!) 3) Car - hmm, I sit in the passenger seat for a reason! Technology has decided not to be on my side and has messed up just when I'm tryin to do the link. Basically it's M25 to Junction 23, A1(M) to Junction 4, you're on your own from there! But you should all have nav's or at least an A to Z ( what did we do before all this technology?!!!) For a walking map, click here Oh how the shocking out will be serious! Peace!

Champagne Dance Update!

2007-04-24T01:19:00.000+01:00

I really don't need to say anything, but I will anyway. This night provides for all: For the for the ravers, who feel like they could have danced all night?! (And girls, not because your feet feel numb 'cos you're drunk?) For the Dutty Winers and the Soca Shockers (of which I am both!) For the ballers that think they're Stevie Wonder with their stunnas on in the UV light (I just don't get it!) For the 'wish they were hip hop candy girls,' there's nuff room to practise the catwalk - so the ladies can hate on your outfit, and the guys can skin teet' and take in the view. Come off it, you know that's why you're wearing THOSE shorts. Don't pretend you don't want the attention! For the guys on a 'let me chill and be extra scaffolding for the club' vibe. Just the right amount of sophisticated ladies and upstanding brothas (no hoochies or follow fashions allowed!). Like I told, you serious event! I don't put my name to FLOPS! Keep checkin the site for more info. Feel free to get in touch with any questions, outfit ideas (!), directions, anythin. See you on the 31st!

More things you will never hear people say...

2007-04-19T23:59:00.000+01:00

You will never hear a man say: "We're out of the premiership league. That's a shame, but there are more important things in life."

You will never hear a man say: "Why don't we have a salad for dinner?"

You will never (and SHOULD never) hear a man (or anyone) say: "I'm stuffed!" (After one plate at a buffet). You will never hear a black woman say: "A little salt, some pepper. Right, that's the chicken seasoned." You will never hear a woman say: "This bag and these shoes don't match. Oh Well." You will never hear ANYONE say (outloud): "Do it yourself!" To anything that a parent asks. And if you do... boy, you're brave. Stupid, but brave. AND as much as the men can fantasise, you will never hear a woman say: "No baby, that's cool. Finish the pro evo tournament, I'll see you tomorrow instead."

You will never hear a woman say, 'I'm bored of shopping!'

2007-04-19T23:30:00.000+01:00

Was it a rave gone bad? No. A racist riot? No. Welcome to the opening of Primark, Oxford Street. The first thing I would have asked is, why aren't these pickney's at school, then I remembered it was the easter holiday (hmm...I wonder if they rassed themselves up like this to go to church on Good Friday?). My second train of thought was how severe times have got, if this was some people's version of a day out - see pic one, the girl next to the red jacket with a plastic fork in her mouth-she weren't missing breakfast for no one! Then my thoughts turned to the poor security guard who thought he'd suddenly been transported to some bait prison riot in Kingston, Jamaica - again see pic one with a lonely bald head in the corner, fecklessly fending off a million hardcore shoppers. But hang on a minute? Are there not how many primark's in the ends? The likes of Peacocks and Prmark have been around for time, why the sudden hullabaloo? Selfridges must have been pissed. See guys, shopping is a sport! You know from this photographic evidence, that you will never hear a woman say, 'I'm bored of shopping.'

The way I see it... (Haven't you ever made a mistake?)

2007-04-19T01:14:00.000+01:00

Where's the power in being physically exposed? To me that shows Your mind's been overload-ed With the lies in the videos. And since when did sex become love? Love comes after sex We're confused Like which came first, the chicken or the egg? Funny I thought love came from the heart Not from the head. Went round to watch a DVD Ended up in his bed. God never gives us more than we can handle But flipped - He never gives us more responsibility Until we prove we're worthy of it. I'm on the same roundabout Just in a different bed. I know I shouldn't be here But he said he liked my legs. And my back off But he won't back off 'Til he gets what he's after Then he smokes a zoot after. 'Cos that's what I need to hear 'Cos it's my biggest fear Not to be loves 'Cos I already don't love me Why should I? When negativity is all I see When will learn? Hear my heart yearn? Stop drownin' it out with the drugs up my snout? Bussin' low batties with low self esteem to match. But at least I match Everyone else right? So no one can pick me out In a line From left to right. 'Cos I'm shook you see Say they see my individuality? See the real me? The 'me' that God created? The 'me' that stays understated Because of what they might say And what they might think. 'Cos the world rules our minds and our bodies Even though we may not agree And it's so much easier to be a shade of grey Than a pink or a blue or a green. And it's so much easier to be a shade of grey Than a pink or a blue or a green But I'm tellin' you, Have faith the size of a mustard seed 'Cos it can move mountains And even change you and me Seen?

Arrrghhhh!!!

2007-04-18T03:17:00.000+01:00

The above is the only way possible to explain the rage I am persistantly feeling. I am pissed. Why? I hear you ask? Since when did the UK become the extension of the US? I know Tony's all up in George's grill, but really and truly, lets have a little pride shall we?! Don't get me wrong I went to Miami and it was great. And I cannot wait for the day when someone blesses me with the funds to do Barney's some serious damage (hint: my bday is in August, all donations greatly appreciated). But the Americanisation of British tv is DOING MY HEAD IN. Firstly, can someone please tell me what the reason is for Cat Deeley's existence on American Idol? She's like a f**kin' parrot, unecessarily repeating what Ryan Seacrest just said. What? Do I suddenly not understand english? I know they say stupid things like sidewalk and pronounce everything phonetically (ie. EYE RACK= iraq), but come on, give me some credit. Secondly, remaining with Idol, why does it take another 45-minute programme for them to announce who's going home (even though it's jarring me that Sangya is still there. He's like the American Chico)?

Thirdly, and most annoying: US-style adverts. Imagine the scenario if you will. I've just rushed through everything that I have to do so I'm sitting comfy in my bed, ready for Desperate Housewives. We get past the l'Oreal ad, they kindly bring me up to date about what happened last week and then... another l'Oreal ad. What the...?

Lord, why oh why, did you provide some dimwit with the idea to have a break right after the beginning titles? And to add insult to injury, one right before the credits? Sort it out mate...

The Man, the Bitch and Me

2007-04-17T12:38:00.000+01:00

The Imaginary Man is my biggest critic. He pinches my love handles and laughs. Prods my cellulite and scoffs. Doubles over at my provocative efforts. 'Ha ha! Stop please! Your desperation is too funny!' The Imaginary Man Predicts me like a text 'message recieved' You're wasting your time. Obviously. My mind runs the marathon and before I can stop to take breath I'm there. Mental Captivity. The silent bitch speaks a language with her eyes. A prolonged stare an 'I thought she glared' Each flicker of an eye, delivers another diminishing blow. I'm the only one that understands what the silent bitch says. Obviously. Solemn torture. Each blow given by me delivered back to sender.

I need to be free

Emancipated from me.

Monday Blues? More Monday Snooze

2007-04-16T11:15:00.000+01:00

Oh the semi-depressive life of a graduate! Don't wory, you've all got it to come! Everyone else has plans for a kayaking trip in Bali or a round the world bungee jump tour and you have... I hope the silence speaks volumes! It's cool, just working evenings or whatever for the first few months. Then you see the ever helpful reminders for the SLC that you have a £16k + debt looming over head, and the banks who so lovingly wooed you with railcards, popcorn makers, ipods and money, now start calling you the polite version of a 'rahtid likkle teef' and you're left to think, uni did not prepare me for this! Call me naive, because it's true in this case. I was just looking at the short term. Uni was prolonged adolescence with a Visa. Great stuff! So while I lie in on a monday morning and avoid rush hour, I'm left to think about friends who have spent 6 months finding shitty bank jobs or even shittier roles as RECRUITMENT CONSULTANTS (did I really apend three years at uni to help someone else find a better job than me? skht). The constant money, the routine, the suit, a whip all make my shabbily-assembled gap year look like, well, a shabbily - assembled gap year. Don't get it twisted, I'm dilligent in anything I put my mind to, so I could just get on with it, but I'm on the cusp of something new - higher responsibilty. I get the job and I feel hot with myself, get a car, insurance, couple credit cards, swap primarni for armani, a few holidays, a time-share, a yard - but then that's it - I'm gripped by the system, giving thanks for 23 days off a year ....and then I stop and think. I've got 40+ years of the 9 to 5, so let me take five, let the creditors keep going to voicemail, stop watching everyone else's situation and just give thanks that I'm in a position where I can take this time to really indulge my dreams and think of what I wanna do. Really, want to do. And I advise you hit snooze and do the same.

Champagne Dance 2007

2007-04-10T18:40:00.000+01:00

Champagne Dance proper noun Shower, live, on point, serious, bashy, boom, heavy, brap, the shit.

Whatever your lingo, know that this night will be one of the best this summer.

More details coming soon.

Sash x

In between a rock and a hard place...

2007-03-30T17:19:00.000+01:00

A transformation is taking place. I am noticing things and I'm not sure if I like it: I am getting older. I'm getting to that point where I can say, ' Do you remember..? ' The things happening around me aren't helping either. What is it with the resurgence of pop bands? Am I old enough to see the likes of All Saints, Take That, Boyz II Men and god forbid, the Spice Girls back again? The simple answer is no, and from what I can see, they've just got bills to pay. In the cinema, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles is back and digitally remastered, when I'm sure it was just yesterday I was playing Michaelangelo ('cos obviously, he was the best one) while play fighting with my cousins. When I wanna go raving trains of thought are entering my head that were NEVER there before: I've got work in the morning

Let me change my outfit to match my flats, 'cos those heels are gonna bun' my foot after an hour. That's if I want to rave, ' cos it's like 'been there, done that,' tired of being accosted by 10-year-old boys and girls in 'scandilatious' outfits('cos and attention is good attention, right? Wrong!) Slowly, EVER SO SLOWLY, I'm learning that a top that's £4 in Primark, is £4 for a reason (four washes and it's out of colour, out of shape, out of fashion...) andthat no matter how I try, I cannot ake those oh so beautiful size 4 stilletos fit my size 6 feet (damn!). Lately, I've found myself denying I've ever had a childhood while I kiss my teeth and tut at the schoolkids playing the soundtrack to their lives on their phones for the whole bus to "enjoy". But I did have a childhood and it was great - where hand held devices were skipping ropes or at best tamagotchi's; when it was all about stomping around in LA Gears so the lights would shine, or obsessively pressing the tongue on my Reebok Pumps. When hair was gelled to within an inch of it's life and everyone had at least three pairs of ranger loafers from Dalston; When Fonthill Road and Roman Road were what topshop and H&M are today. Wallabees, GAP waterproof jackets, pedal pushers and shagbands. When girls were buff tings and boys were beenies and Nokia 3210s were heavy. Shower was, well a shower, and only ordained priests said 'bless.' Those were the days, but I'm glad there's not too much photographic evidence...

A change of heart...

2007-03-18T11:54:00.000Z

OK. So, I know I said that this was a space for the ladies, but I've had a few guys come to me and say in a whiny voice ' for the ladies, for the ladies, for the ladies! What about the men? 'And it's true. I thought I was gonna be a beacon for the female of the species, but at some point I've had to accept that there is more to my brothas than Championship Manager and football. So with that said, welcome (again) to Sweeta da Juice (you'll also thankfully notice the shorter url), for the man dem and the gyal dem.

To the Mothers...Happy mother's Day

2007-03-14T23:29:00.000Z

To the mothers who nurse their swelling stomachs and wistfully dream of things to come To the mothers who appreciate that their minds or bodies weren't ready- Who need to understand that their time is not God's time. To the mother that tries to get the hang of PSPs, pythagoras and podcasts To the mother who struggles to morph between disciplinarian and friend. To the mothers who are mothers to their sisters and their brothers And the grandmothers that have done more than their fair share. To the mother that uses her child (inadvertantly) as currency, a bargaining tool, an excuse. To the mother that runs herself ragged trying to make ends meet. To the married woman who gets a breather because her man's got her back. To the married woman who doesn't but gets on with it anyway. To the mothers who have sat up late at night with worry Then beat the crap out of their kids with relief. To the mother that welcomes home her prodigal child time and time again To the mother who wants the best for her child, but doesn't realise a sheltered life isn't the way.

To the mother who knows that she has to let her child learn from their mistakes.

To the mothers,

To the mothers.

I salute you.

This is your life...Well sort of!

2007-03-14T23:18:00.000Z

Yesterday, I was accosted by a Revenue Protection Officer (don’t worry; I’m not into credit card fraud). It wasn’t until he bellowed, ‘Tickets please!’, that I cottoned on to who he was. Later that day, I had my sandwich designed I guess, by a ‘Sandwich Artist’ at Subway. As a recent graduate, I’ve been used to seeing these glamorous job titles that amount to little more than a bigger name badge. Is it the PC brigade done mad? A bid to instil self-esteem and attach some importance to an otherwise menial and repetitive job?

Literally means ‘story of your life’, but with 1 in 4 people lying on their CVs, how does the employer know what they’re getting? I, as a lover of words, and have embellished my work as a bar person and waitress to show how I’m suitable for a job in publishing/magazine/or whatever else it may be on countless occasions.

I have a passion to inform the public = I tell customers what the day's special's are

Some of my more audacious friends however, have stretched the truth as far as a t-shirt over Pamela Anderson’s chest. Apparently they’ve worked for the government, the High Commission, the Prince of Wales! Being a steward at a Princes Trust event does not mean you’re on Charlie boy’s payroll. But seeing as he and the government mash up my pay cheque with tax every month, it does seem as though I’m working more for their benefit, than my own.

Employers

Maybe it’s entirely their fault. They’re the one’s searching for ‘Britain’s Top Talent,’ ‘A power player,’ someone who can perform surgery with one hand, write a novel with the other, while running the marathon SIMULTANEOUSLY. We feel we have no choice but to raise our game. To finish, a few choice words from an advert for everyone’s favourite network provider – T Mobile (EKHT- everyone kisses their teeth):

Join T Mobile and you’ll soon discover personal development opportunities and great training that’ll give you the scope to develop an enjoyable and rewarding career. In fact we’ll positively encourage you to take your career just about anywhere in our business.’

This is an ad inviting you to work for customer services at T Mobile. Since when has having someone scream down the phone to reconnect them been enjoyable or rewarding? Hmmm…

Because we're the same all year round, not just on Valentine's Day!

2007-03-11T21:46:00.000Z

Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. In the same way, I think that every guy and girl has their equal in our generation. Girls are so good at analysing and labelling guys. But, have we ever thought of the labels that we bear in their eyes? So in an alternate Valentine's Day approach, I want to show we're onto the guys and that butter doesn't necessarily melt in our mouths ladies... The "DVD" Guy Beware! This guy is the one that is A) cheap and B) horny. Firstly, you will most likely be watching the (pirate) DVD on a computer in his uni room, and, oh look, there's nowhere else to sit except his bed. How convenient. This "date" will only take place from 10pm onwards, will involve a film you've already seen and you won't even get through the opening titles before he is trying to fiddle with your bra strap. His equal opposite: The "(fake) naive" Girl I refuse to accept that when a guy says 'come to my house and watch a DVD' that a girl actually thinks she is going to watch a film. This brings me to the following conclusions. Either she is A) just as horny as him, or B) is so into the guy that she'll do anything to spend time with him. Guys, this is a win/win situation for you. The "Nice" Guy aka the "friend" aka the "why are all the good girls taken every time?" Guy This is the guy who will do anything for the girl of his affections in the hope that one day she'll realise she's always loved him (or she'll be drunk enough for him to make a move). I feel it for this guy. He gives emotional support and gets earache about what her man doesn't do. My advice? If you can't be a genuine friend, treating her as you treat your other acquaintances, give up the ghost. His equal opposite: The "not-so-blind" Girl aka The "loves the bad boy" Girl In most, but not all situations, this female's other half is a useless vagabond that she adores. Women have emotional intelligence and usually know how the 'friend' feels about them, and she tries to handle it, avoiding all awkward situations and coyly interrupting any sentence that begins, 'there's something I need to tell you...’ Lets' face it, she loves having an agony uncle on tap and a provider of adoration and attention when her man is M.I.A. Ladies, be fair, if your man can't give you the stuff that counts, that your 'friend' dishes out by the truckload, then your man shouldn't be your man. The difficulty is that we don't necessarily want what's good for us. The "Links and Tings" Guy The rage that the words 'link' and 'ting' bring to my little body mass is unspeakable. 'Ting' is a drink made by Jamrock manufacturers D & G, as far as I'm concerned. This guy sees you as a bum, a pair of thighs, and rashly, a day of the week. This guy wants a girl to do him and no one else without offering commitment; for you to arrive and leave within two hours. And the joke thing is, this is actually becoming a legitimate relationship form... (SKHT*). *SKHT = Sasha kisses her teeth, get used to it. His equal opposite: The "He can change/Why am I not good enough" Girl This girl suffers from bi-polar disorder. One day she's the optimistic wifey-to-be, planning on how great things will be when he does this or becomes that. The next, she's having mood swings to rival Hurricane Katrina, beating herself up because he can't see her worth. Why don't you see your worth and move on? A link is something that bridges a gap on the way to another destination. Why do you want to be a day of the week to someone? Let's get this straight, sex comes AFTER love not the other way round, but your situation's different right? Yeah, course it is. So who’ll be your Valentine? You’re guaranteed the DVD guy will score, (hopefully the fake naïve girl won’t be faking when she climaxes). The useless vagabond will forget, and the friend (who’ll have text ‘happy v. day!’ at midnight) will just happen to be there with Two Can Play That Game and a tub of Ben and Jerry’s. The link’s link, will wait in vain for a call that won’t come, ‘cos her assigned booty call day is Friday (Unlucky love). Fair enough, it’s not all bad and some of you will have some seriously envy-inducing experiences, but if all the choice I’m left with is the above, Thank God I’m single!

What is Supposed to be?

2007-03-11T00:26:00.000Z

What is supposed to be? I'm supposed to be slim I'm supposed to be rich I'm supposed to wear high heels And have perky tits. And if they ain't perky A few stitches, they'll be fixed. But who said I was broken? What is supposed to be? I'm supposed to be on Atkins "You are what you eat" Feeding on the camera's lies Obsessed with warped reality. But hey! I'm a size zero (Well, my confidence is...) What is supposed to be? I'm supposed to wear nike. Never Gola or Kappa 'Cos that would be shame, right? Do we not realise that we're minions We're clones! That WE paid for Mr Nikes Villa and Mrs Nike's new nose? WHAT IS SUPPOSED TO BE? The entrepeneur's strategy To break my individuality. And it worked. What is supposed to be? Supposed to be is: "Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies. You wanna belong don't you?" Yeah, I suppose.

Communication For me Nation!

2007-03-09T01:42:00.000Z

100 is quite a big number in some contexts. 100 percent. 100 Krispy Kremes. But in others - first 100 ladies free entry, 100 pieces of chicken at a family get together is positively tiny! Especially when you consider that it's the number of complaints lodged about the Trident "saahhf" (Jamo accent) adverts. Everyone I know's had an opinion. My friend T said:

I think it's out of order. But as usual, black people don't voice their opinions. Blatantly mocking us. Called it Trident as well (black on black). Why?

So hang on. Black people don't go skiing, black people don't voice their opinions. So what DO we do? When Lemar lost out on Fame Academy (as a self-confessed fan, I feel it was one of the biggest travesties in UK history), with Maria's shock exit on the X Factor, we were the first to voice our opinions then.

But was the advert racist? A dictionary definiton shows racism to be 'the belief that races have distinctive cultural characteristics...and this endows some races with an intrinsic superiority.' Someone somewhere must have the said superiority, as the ads are still on. I don't think it's racitst, just ill timed. With the spate of shootings trying to be appeased by a branch off of the police force also named Trident, marketing chould've let the idea marinate for a bit - black jamrock man, Trident gum, Trident force, black on black crime...hmm. Far-fetched, but these are the parallels my peers have drawn all the same.

So you've got a black man doing some dead out "comedy" routine. Then in consequent ads, you've got a middle-class white man and woman with Jam accents harping on about 'sensations' to their white counterparts. Again, I don't think it's racist, just way out of date and non-sensical. How're they still trying to evoke the quintessential Brit as a reserved, stiff upper-lipped tea drinker when we all saw typical Brit Gobby Goody shouting her mouth off on Big Brother (157,000 complaints I might add. Now the 100 really does seem insignificant)? If everyon'e so PC, and this was our Shilpa Shetty moment, where were our front page news spreads? Our Sky News Live links to the West Indies with the rastas having a go? Oh, I know, Advertising Standards is an 0901 number, and you're on T Mobile's five day pass, right? Is that what it was?

Akwaaba to open-mindedness! (Welcome to open-mindedness!)

2007-03-08T15:35:00.001Z

Ten years ago, you had the well settled Caribbean’s referring to the recent influx as 'boo-boo's' (name calling= possible hostile familiarity of our own Windrush journey nearly 60 years previously). Now, however, name calling is not just for those form opposing sides. ‘Af’ doesn’t mean ‘of African heritage,’ as I frequently hear Ghanaians and Naijas etc referring to their own not-so-well adjusted counterparts as afs, freshies and JJC's (Johnny Just Come).

Growing up with heavy influence by my (mainly Nigerian) sistas, I'd like to share my cultural musings with you from a Jamaican/Guyanese P.O.V. I, personally, love the cultural melting pot that's going on, though some may not agree. Last year, I visited Ghana for my birthday. To me, it meant sunshine, food, education, but you'd be surprised how many times this conversation occurred:

Them: You're going Ghana. I didn't know you were Ghanaian. Me: I'm not. Them: So what are you going to Ghana for? To which I'd say, ' Oh, you're not English. What are you doing doing here then?’

I expected that small-mindedness from my parents’ generation. Is it ignorance or a fear of the unknown? Rebellion against the multi-cultural world we live in? Or is it purely an attempt to retain our identities and culture without it being watered down? Maybe it's a mix of all of these things, though we're not as dissimilar as we may think.

You call it plantain; we call it plantin (though the adding salt to it will never make sense to my sweet taste buds). Speaking of salt, there's another commonality: high blood pressure. You have yam pounded, we have it whole with ackee and salt fish. Ghanaians are on banku, we've got our cornmeal, but tilapia and escoveitch fish are essentially the same dish.

I'm sure that 'malt' should be THE continent wide drink of Africa. There's not an Af household I know of without a crate of the stuff stashed somewhere, meanwhile, while us Jamrocks appreciate supermalt, pass us a dragon stout, Red Stripe or Guinness and we're bredrins for life! There's only one mystery that defies me. Why is it that when you're offered stew, you're offered chicken or meat (pronounced mit)? What, because chicken isn't a meat all of a sudden? And what is meat? Beef, lamb, goat, veal?! Boy whatever it is, it tastes good! Answers on a postcard anyway!

Even though it's just a comical look at food, and I’m fully aware of the complexities of this subject, you can see, there's nothing to be scared of! We inhabit some of the most beautiful, culturally rich countries in the world and we should delight in, not shy away from proudly sharing our histories and our futures. I'm on it, if for no other reason than knowing that I can bop into one of my many 'aunties' households, pronounce 'Ebi n pa mi' (Yuroba for I'm hungry!), and I'm sorted with a plate of Jollof quick time!

One thing I know for sure is that I'll be donning my kente cloth and jamming to Mz'bel come Saturday! Not because I’m a culturally inept 2nd generation Brit, but because I delight in any forwardly progressive, stereotype changing, celebratory exhibition of my blossoming, powerful, black people. Ghana Independence means I'm honourary Af for the day. Head tie and all!

Welcome to Urbanite

2007-03-08T11:31:00.000Z

Welcome.

You were probably just intrigued by the blog address. Well, stay for a while!

So, why am I here?

In short, to try and bring something real to the table. There's nothing out there for the young, multicultural, conscious woman. Nowhere that has the guts to talk about the things that I see on the street, or live on a day to day basis. I'm SO bored with the unrealistic body images, diet after diet, what we can buy to make us happy; of celebrities famous by genes, spouses or lack of clothes becoming journalists, designers, perfumiers, fitness coaches just because of their name.

And another thing...

This is for the many people like me who are more than a label. For the "bounties," the "neeks," the posh and "the hood rats"; the many skin tones between light, olive and dark as seen on the beauty pages, those with thighs and batty that can't fit in topshop skinnies, for those that can, but are fed up with people assuming they don't eat because of it; and especially those that have been made to feel that being DIFFERENT is a bad thing.

So I invite you to Laugh. Relate. Think. 'Cos we're more than hair and beauty.