Dutty Wine

 

I’ve been meaning to get this necklace for ages! It's from Omolola Jewellery and it is glorious!

Pre the global pyramid, right about now, I'd have been umming and ahhing about going to Carnival on the Bank Holiday. The first Caribbean Carnival was established by the epic Claudia Jones to celebrate West Indians in London. The same people who had been invited to the U.K. as British Citizens to rebuild the decimated country after it had been bombed to dust. They came with scotch bonnets. With plantain. With spices and seasoning and music and style and culture! Imagine leaving the balmy warmth of the Caribbean to come to cold rainy racist England and not even have the food you like? Yikes. At the very least, they had one another and thought, "We're fucking amazing! Let’s have a street party! No let’s make it a carnival! A carnival like the way we would back home! Embrace how fucking amazing we actually are!" (Watch Steve McQueen's Small Axe series!)

Notting Hill Carnival was thus born in West London and before Richard Curtis got his sticky fingers in the area, it was very much (like most of ‘urban’ London) where you went to party, to hear those steel pans, to smell the jerk oil drum smoke, chew on some sugar cane, jump and wave to dancehall, to eat and drink, to feel the joy of a culture that has tsunami’d across the world. Where else would John Boyega “catch wines”?!? 

And it was always basically on my doorstep! But then… We all got a bit of Carnival fatigue. The weather would never be good enough. There would always be too many people and you would never find your friends where you’d say you’d meet. The food began to be ever more expensive and the police presence more oppressive. Reality tv stars would go for street cred (I saw Proudlock from Made In Chelsea one year and told myself not to go any more!) And yet, on a Monday afternoon, I’d find myself on the tube, shuffling behind people in Jamaican flag print dresses, with whistles around their necks and vuvuzelas blasting at the tube platform to join my fellow carnival goers. 

No one would ever assume that I’m anything other than very African, so I would feel free to wear prints, huge Ghana flag earrings, paint a Black star on my wrist as a symbol of my patriotism to my motherland and found myself even more embraced by my West Indian family. You can’t tell me that doing “tunderclap!” simultaneously with fifty other people isn’t anything other than exhilarating!

I’m truly going to miss it again this year, probably more than last year because we’ve had a taste of freedom. It’s too great of an open air festival to risk apparently (didn’t stop masses from gathering during England’s World Cup run but let’s not talk about that disgraceful episode). 

So for a variety of reasons, one being bad ass from For The Last Time Paris Amihere and her outline tattoo of Ghana and the other being I couldn’t find any Ghana flag earrings, I bought this necklace. That way I keep the spirit of carnival as close as Ghana to my heart. 

Carnival 2022 will be a madness and I can’t wait! 

Happy Bank Holiday!! 

Island in the Sun

Sigh. Collectively, we really need to talk about the way we deal with Black women on reality tv. Love Island (LI) is back and to be honest, after the year we’ve had, post an Oprah Interview, BLM protests and George Floyd, I didn’t want to see another Black woman be dragged for merely existing. 

Kazana Kamwi is probably one of the best LI contestants ever cast. She’s bubbly, bright, sexy, intelligent and articulate. Her skin is smooth as cocktail ice and her bold choice of colours in her mini dresses and bikinis set off the richness of melanin in her skin. And yet, here come the critiques. She’s too happy. She’s too excited for other people. She can’t read that someone is not interested in her and obviously using her. She should say what’s on her mind with her chest. She’s doing too much. She’s not that attractive and the worst of all “she needs to go home coz the crying is too much.”

The lack of grace that is extended to Black women is just disgusting and disappointing. We are not a monolith. We don’t all react to situations the way that someone else would and certainly not always as we should. 

LI is an intense vacuum. You’re spending 24 hours a day with people very attractive people with NOTHING ELSE TO DO so of course feelings will naturally develop faster, like bacteria in a Petri dish in warm conditions. Four days to you and me in the LI villa is equivalent to months. So if someone is laying it on Factor 50 thick, selling you dreams about the outside world, how there’s no one else for them except you, wouldn’t you believe it? Apparently Kaz should have had her guard up on level ten and judge all men that enter by the standards of previous contestants. “Play the game!” The game is to find love, you bunch of bellends!

The same people complained about Yewande being too quiet and not making an effort. Worst of all, Kaz is being accused of “embarrassing us” as in the Black collective. I’m questioning how? Has she bullied anyone? Been violent to any other persons? Shown aggression? No! Not even remotely, despite obvious microaggressions. Her composure and restraint will become legend when this series is finished, I promise you. “Kaz would never!” will be the values by all future cast members will abide by! 

It’s perfectly acceptable to cry when someone upsets you. Why hold it in or back? It will make you unwell and is never good for your mental peace. The villa is a never ending void where you’re stuck with the persons or people who have hurt you in one way or another and those persons more than likely don’t have the range to communicate appropriately how they feel and acknowledge how they’ve made you feel. Can you imagine having no escape from that and then having armchair psychologists tweeting “it’s not what I’d have done.”

Really? Let’s see your dating profile at 24? Tell me who was selling you the world wrapped up in a Metro newspaper? Share with the class! No? 

What’s really sticking in my craw is the intense judgement that is laid on Kaz’s head for being upset at what we perceive to be manipulation - a man seeing a woman happy and deciding he doesn’t like it and needs to be a part of that happiness. Whatever decisions she makes now will be critiqued and theorised and dissected in the way that no other contestants will be. It won’t be admitted because this country is so fucking backward still but it’s misogynoir.  Always misogynior. Legitimately just say you hate Black women and go! It’s simpler and I can block you! 

The “be kind” rhetoric never covers Black women, does it? It’s always “she’s a lost cause.” (For not picking a Black man during Casa Amor week.) Why is she still crying!” (Because the boy she coupled up with tried to gaslight her on his return) “She’s doing too much!” (Because she told said gaslighter about himself with savage precision) “She’s moving mad!” (For being exactly who she is!) 

I am relieved there were no cameras around when I was 24 years old; making insane decisions and crying over people I didn’t need to waste a tear over! I swear to God, I don’t know how I’m alive with the shit I pulled. I’m giddy that I’ve got the perspective of age and distance to be able to judge my actions and not live vicariously through a girl who hasn’t lived through what I have and shouldn’t be hardened by the mill the world runs women through before Black women are sent off to the harsher grinder to be drained of any lightness and positivity and confidence. It’s clear to me that Kaz is a gorgeous woman of her convictions in an environment that has the most beautiful of girls doubting themselves. 

Because she is a dark skinned Black woman, Kaz absolutely deserves even more of our patience and our care and our understanding. Why should we be so quick to wash our hands of her, as if we’re her parents twenty years ago and she only got 98% on her English exam? It’s “support Black women!” Until it’s actually time to do so. 

The time is right here, right now. And before you say, it’s just TV, remember that the presenter, Caroline Flack and two contestants committed suicide and previous Black cast members received death threats. Even the most recent evictees have had awful messages of hate and racism. It’s just TV, but these are still people. Human beings, not SIMS characters. 

Give Kaz and the Black women you see on TV some grace; some patience and most of all some damn kindness! In a world that’s not going to do that for her, you do it! Do for her what wasn’t done for you and if you can’t, go to therapy and stop projecting the mistakes you wish you could undo onto her. I beg. 

https://www.psychotherapy.org.uk/find-a-therapist/

BetterHelp | Professional Counseling With A Licensed Therapist

Side Eye

Hiyaaah. It's going to be me dragging this country again - and it's not as if it doesn't deserve it! 

Something twigged in me when I was listening to a space in Twitter. People don't know that Britain had a civil rights movement. The laws in place now, the shoulders upon which this government is claiming that we are now almost a "post racial society", formed on the efforts and struggles and determination of Black and brown Brits. We had our own version of Black Panther Party, feeding people, providing education. We had Bristol Bus Boycotts - same city where the Colston statue was brought down last year during the BLM protests. We had riots in Brixton with water hoses from fire trucks knocking protestors off their feet. We marched, we got into parliament, and demanded change. That people are convinced that British racism has never been direct but covert, is so incorrect, it's concerning. Understanding that this has always been the way for this country needs to taken in. 

Let me take you into a very brief history. Britain has been exceptional at rebranding. Despite 18 and 19 century architecture, arts, education, and hilariously, philanthropy being directly funded by the transatlantic slave trade, Britain has done its best to distance itself from its origins. To the point where it's not taught at school. Only that William Wilberforce is one of the "greatest Britons" for forcing the end of slavery. The funny thing is, British slave owners were paid off with a government loan to end the trade. What's even funnier is that my family only stopped paying towards that loan to compensate in 2015. Two thousand and fifteen. Meaning that I have paid it off. Me. A Black African. My parents. Black Africans. Have compensated slave owners in this country to end the trade. Me. 

Some people don't know about "the Greatest Briton" Churchill's role in the Bengal Famine that killed around 3 million people. Or his efforts in Kenya where concentration camps were used and killed around 14,000 people. They then burned the paperwork to hide their involvement in those deaths. Or the UK's involvement in the Middle East (including Iran and Iraq) that began the issues in Israel/Palestine. Or that present day Zimbabwe was named Rhodesia after Cecil Rhodes (a violent racist "imperialist") or that the current government was very anti-Nelson Mandela and were against sanctions on South Africa. One of our Prime Ministers, David Cameron who not only benefitted from that slave owner compensation, but was involved in a group at Oxford University that called for Nelson Mandela's assassination. 

Racism isn't just calling someone a monkey or the n-word and that's what Britain has been very good at. "What's wrong with calling you black, that's what you are, isn't it?" Yes I may be a fucking bitch, what's my Blackness got to do with it? It's never been forward facing here. It's always been "it's for your own good" "it's because you don't know how you" "it's civilized" "you wouldn't survive otherwise" "we know better than you and it's not because of race at all, why would you be so awful to even suggest that?" The Irish know this. Southern Asians know this. Black Africans and Caribbean know as well. The open racism of the 50s to the 80s - the "no Irish, no dogs, no Blacks" has stepped to "migrants are the bane of our country and we're full up". It's been rebranded to cover up what anyone non-white will know and understand clearly to be as racist as possible. And then the best part of that rebranding is that they can say it's not racist. Prove that it is. You're the racist for bringing it up.

It's never been covert. It's as blatant as it's always been, it just needs the history to understand what it is. That's why you have white 'allies' saying "it's just a few of us!" or "that's not who we are!" Yes it is. It's what this country, who colonized three quarters of this planet for spices that they don't know how to use, has always been. A man with a superiority complex and a small dick. 

From the census in 2011, 13% of London is Black (African/Caribbean) and across the UK 3% is. It's not a lot, but given the number of us, the change we have effected and impacted on our own is vast and shouldn't be underestimated or understated. While it seems dire right now and overwhelming, because of social media and because of traditional print media, there are so many of us still fighting, still educating, still doing our utmost to challenge Britain's goodie goodie, gentile image and thank God for Meghan Markle and Prince Harry because if anything that's blown that image to pieces, it's them. You look at young Black athletes and sportspeople openly calling out the nonsense they experience not just in print but on social media as well. You can't gaslight an entire section of the population and not have all your grimy roots exposed. It means persevering. It means continuing to call it out. To undermine the rebranding so it can't be hidden behind. I hope that this country doesn't ever get to escape its racism and xenophobia and that its treatment of its Black and brown people, particularly its treatment of Meghan. Ever until there is acknowledgement, remorse and reparations. 

I said to a friend and I'll say it again, this country will never move forward until it accepts and makes reparations for the extensive wrongs it has done and the abuse it has inflicted on its Black and brown populace. Until then, I am happy to tear this country a new one until it does. 

Clink clink bitch! We're having a glass of rose to go with this!

Apples and Bananas

 

I love how I'm spamming my own blog with this book... Then again, it is my first book in a long time and it's the first book I've been able to make available on Apple Books!

Grief, the way I was emotionally tested by this; how long it took to upload, the additional formatting... Let me never go through that again, please Lord, I've been good (ish) I don't deserve it! (much)

So enough of the wingeing and on with the linkage: For The Last Time on Apple Books

This is an ePub version for those with the Apple Books app. Paperback will be on Amazon shortly and if you want a PDF? Email me. I've got you! 

The Last Time

 

And it's here!

Goodness that took a long time to review. Not that it's long as hell (once more with feeling, it's 102,000) but I used the new Word feature called "Read Aloud". It's never not hilarious to have an automated female voice repeatedly stating "what the fuck?" 

Anyway! Let me celebrate my first release in over eighteen months! I hope you can read it. It's a difficult subject and it was difficult to write at times, but first and foremost my new favourite phrase is to preserve your peace. If it's going to be a triggering subject, don't read it. There's been enough disturbance over the last two years (let alone a global panasonic) not to unbalance whatever calm you've cultivated. 

What my characters experience, my female characters in particular, is toughhhhhh. One of my oldest friends, after I explained the story and some spoilers, looked at me over a rather large glass of wine and said "Do you need help?" She said it with a laugh, but there was a slight professional edge to the question (she's in psychiatry). I told her I worked it all out of my system in this book and to be honest, reading it and giving myself nightmares probably helped even more. 

With that sense of freedom, you can read For The Last Time on Amazon here: For The Last Time on Amazon

I'm waiting for Apple Books to release the goods, but in the case you can't get an ePub or PDF version, feel free to email me your request. I have PayPal and I have formatted the devil out of this book!

As Issey's daughter says, "Talking is healthy."

It truly is... 

You Don't Know

 

Shall we get ready to rumble?! While I get stuck into formatting this badboy of 102,000 odd words into shape, I can tell you a little bit more about it, because I can't keep this to myself. I mean, I made my editor cry, I made myself cry and I actually had a nightmare because of this too. Yikes! Not selling it am I? Imagine writing a book and then it keeping you up and night because you have literally scared yourself silly. I mean there isn't a demon or a ghost running around the pages of this story, but... some of this truly is messed up. I did it to get some things off my chest and while I feel like it was literary therapy for me, it's still very close on the surface of what I've actually processed and there's not enough emotional distance for me to box it up into the 'that happened and it's acceptable' rather than traumatising. Oh God, I'm going to traumatise you lot too, aren't I?

I've already warned that's it a different lane from the usual Billy London fare, in that it's not an out and out romance. It's undoubtedly a love story, but a love story between family - family that you choose and family that you don't. Oh, my characters are going to bang like bunnies, it wouldn't be a story by me if they didn't, but it's banging in keeping with the people that they are. And there are jokes. I can't help myself, like my main character, Issey, I tend to make light of terrible situations, so I can manage it in my brain. But as you'll see from just the trigger warning, you'll need to be in the right place to read this and even then some of it may still shock you. 

Let me explain: 

Blurb - 24 May 2021

T/W - discussions of suicide, sexual assault, stalking and suicide

“My name is Issey Deroche-Maurel. My mother was married to Derek Carpenter. He was my stepfather and twelve years ago, he was murdered on my wedding day.”

At the height of the macabre delectation of true crime podcasts and in the midst of a global pandemic, Issey Deroche-Maurel and her traumatic past have been discovered. Seizing upon the opportunity to tell her side of an impossible story, before it's told for her, Issey gives herself the voice to speak. For herself. For the people she loves. For the very last time. 

Now that I've set it up, read on here:

Excerpt - 19 August 2008 

Issey’s shoulders began to ache with the effort of keeping as much distance between herself and the officer as humanly possible. “I talked to over a hundred people. I can’t recall all of it.”

“Why don’t I believe you then?”

“Because I’m sure recalling a conversation is far easier with a recorder or a notebook to hand,” she snapped.

His eyebrows drew together slightly, a slight wrinkle forming there. “What are you trying to hide?”

“Absolutely nothing,” she lied sweetly.

Roylings softened his voice. “What you’re doing is obstructing justice. You’re legally required to help the police in our enquiries.” She blinked at him. “Do you know what happens to pretty little rich girls like you in prison?”

Oh, don’t you fucking dare, she thought, despite how her stomach dissolved in sudden fear. She shook her head.

“Things that make Harvey Nichols seem a long way away. Things that make period pains look like a walk in the park. Things that make women a lot stronger than you go mental. Things that make you wish for a weapon. Do you understand? You help me out, Mrs Buchanan, and you’ll never need to know.”

She scratched her neck. “I told you I can’t remember.”

“You’re doing it again.”

“What?”

“Batting those lashes at me to see if I give up. I’m sure every male you’ve come across has bent to your will. There’s always an exception to the rule.”

“Yes. I married him.”

She looked at Roylings, her eyes bright with laughter. “I’m sure the floor’s clean enough for you to roll over whenever you’re ready.”

Roylings leaned in a little closer, and she could see the dark blond stubble that coated his lower jaw, and that his eyes weren’t black or brown, but a deep, very dark blue. “You’re playing out of your depth.”

“Something to strive for while I’m not on honeymoon.”

“How about you strive for bail when I arrest you for obstruction to justice?”

Issey’s temper finally surfaced. She was not one given to making threats, but hey, when in Rome… “How about I do you for harassment, sexual and racial discrimination?”

He laughed in her face. “I would love to know how you’d even attempt the last one. Go on, Mrs Buchanan. Enlighten me.”

She cleared her throat and said in her most delicate lady-of-the-manor voice, “The moment you met me, you have made your dislike of me patently obvious. I would figure that to be some deep-seated dislike of women in general and right now you are using your height and weight as an advantage over me as a woman. Sexual discrimination. Your methods of interrogation are proving to be rather brutal, given you have offered no form of counsel and no tape recorder. I am assisting you with your enquiries, not being questioned. You made that distinction to me. With the recent family bereavement in mind, it is hardly admirable policing. Harassment. The fact that you’re an inch from my face, I’m immensely surprised that you cannot see that my father is Black.”

She saw his eyes widen in astonishment, as she concluded, “Racial discrimination. I am a fantastic journalist, and I can spin this in such a way that you’ll be collecting your pension this time next fortnight. You wouldn’t want to be responsible for the Met being under scrutiny for the way they treat ethnic suspects, yet again, would you?” Her eyes gleamed as a rather malicious smile tilted the corners of her mouth. “I like a good fight.”

He looked at her as if he had discovered a new species. “What box do you tick when you have to fill in those equal opportunities forms?”

“Mixed, obviously,” she said, trying not to show how irritated she was in making the clarification.

“Those laws are there to protect the vulnerable in society,” he reminded her, as if they were having a congenial conversation. “Those who are truly abused by the system.”

“And I am taking advantage of that law.” She lifted her brows. “Why, do you think that racial discrimination is reserved for those who are all black or all Asian or all white? I deserve to be protected from unwarranted slurs against my character. You clearly have issue with me. And my proximity to Blackness may be one of many.”

“You are unbelievable,” he told her in part admiration. “You know that it would be laughed out of any court.”

“The very fact that you suggested that it would be constitutes an abuse of my right to be protected by that law.”

“I doubt it.”

“You would,” she derided, “you’re the one I’m pointing the finger at.”

“You are very defensive.”

“I always am when men try to bully me.”

“Help me out,” he encouraged. Good Lord. Any guilty person would have told him what he wanted to know to stop the range of moods he went through.

“Why don’t you ask Clare Windsor?” Issey said eventually. “She was right next to Derek when we had our instantly forgettable conversation.”

“Who’s Clare Windsor?”

“If you stop hovering over me, I’ll show you.” He stretched up and watched her flick through the pictures. “Here. If that’s all, I’d really like to go home now.”

Roylings inclined his head in the affirmative. “You can tell your mother that she’s no longer needed either. Whatever you’re trying to hide, Mrs Buchanan, it’ll be better for you if you own up to it now.”

“It’s Ms Deroche-Maurel,” she corrected, only to be promptly ignored.

“Take a note,” he said with a taut edge to his voice. “This is the part where you’ve walked freely into the lion’s den. Don’t scream if you get eaten.”

Issey picked up her purse. “No one can eat a whole me. There’s far too much to go around.”

He laughed suddenly. “You always have to have the last word, don’t you? Does your husband have any idea what he’s got himself into?”

Eyes wide open. She lifted a shoulder. “I doubt it.”

He opened the door for her and walked her towards the reception. “Anything else that comes to mind—a conversation, perhaps—please, let me know.” He stared at her, as if he had recognised his sparring partner, and was looking forward to beating her stupid.

Over Derek’s dead body? No, thanks, I’ve got better use for my time. “Of course.”

He held the door open for her and she slipped her sunglasses back onto her nose. Vanessa was still on the phone, standing by her new Audi.

“Of course, of course, yes, darling, very soon. Bye-bye.” She turned to her daughter. “All done, darling?”

“You’re my witness,” Issey ground out.

“To what?”

“That…that poor excuse for a police officer is trying to stitch me up.”

Vanessa rolled her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. He likes you, that’s all.”

Issey sucked in a calming breath. As she had a feeling that Roylings could be watching her from the station, she stopped herself from shaking her mother to sanity. “Mother, your husband was murdered. The faster they sort this out, the better they look.”

Vanessa waved her hand through the air. “I think they’ve made a terrible mistake. No one would go out of their way to murder Derek, and not at your wedding.”

You and I came pretty close, she was so close to retorting, but she held it back. Her mother continued, “Honestly, it’s the most upsetting thing I’ve heard, next to George Best being an alcoholic. Broke my heart.”

“Really, Mother? Unless you want to add daughter convicted of murder to that, then watch out for me.”

Vanessa gurgled with delighted laughter. “He seems so intent on you because he finds you attractive. You shouldn’t be surprised, not at this age. Just because you’re married doesn’t mean it won’t happen.” She tweaked at her hat smugly. “Well, you are my child.”

“He’s just…”

Vanessa pressed the alarm release to her car. “You ought to go out. It’ll be good for you. Here…” She handed over a gold-embossed invitation. “Derek and I were supposed to attend Zack’s charity dinner for that heart foundation. I suppose Lorccán will still be at work.”

Issey twisted her keys about her fingers. “I suppose so.” Best place for him, really. Out of each other’s way.

Vanessa opened the door and gracefully stepped into the car. “Don’t brood too much, will you, darling? It rather undermines my widowhood.”

Look Back

I've been quiet on here - obviously not on Twitter if you follow me there, that's where I write all my nonsense - because I've been working hard both with the day job and with the edits on the book! Round one finally submitted! 

So to celebrate, let's get some music on board. It's the only thing that's sustained me through the madness of this tale. I've been toying with this story for a while. It's a whodunnit because why not? Then the pandemic hit and we are all wearing masks, not touching, having video calls with our grandmas and how would a whodunnit at a wedding when the guestlist is down to thirty with no reception work? Cue Hot Muse Hank. While listening to a great podcast by John Sweeney, HMH told me that I could keep everything as is, but have the characters talk about what happened to them as though it happened years ago, rather than currently. 

"You're a fucking genius!" I said to Hot Muse Hank. He made a face and said, "Well try it and see if it's easy."

Spoiler alert - it was NOT easy. You really forget things that were happening last week, let alone twelve nearly thirteen years ago, and then thirteen years from that date. I changed names and forgot to change names all the way through. I changed genders and forgot that I'd done that and read through thinking, who the hell is she? when I meant he. Foolishness. Did Hot Muse Hank help? Did he fuck. He reminded me that while it'd been his idea to take things way back into time, it was also my idea to follow his idea. 

Also, let me do an early warning on the content of this book. While it'll have my trademark humour, it's pretty dark. There's a lot of murder, discussions on sexual abuse and assault and stalking. Once I have the book up, you can download a sample to see if it's for you but please be assured that if it's not, I promise you, I understand. 

Anyways, the podcast within a book within a whodunnit takes place in 2020, with the murder at a wedding taking place in 2008. With me? For authenticity, all the music tracked is either from last year or 2008 or earlier. If you had seen me having a whole concert to myself doing this, you would agree with Hot Muse Hank that I have lost my natural mind. All good though! 

Music a la podcast style:

For The Last Time Soundtrack

1. 2WEI – Echoes
2. Sam Sparro – Black & Gold
3. Foals – Like Swimming
4. Tom Mc Rae – A Day Like Today
5. Interpol – The Heinrich Maneuver
6. Rufus Wainwright – Not Ready To Love
7. Placebo – Pure Morning
8. Björk – Unravel
9. Kate Nash – Nicest Thing
10. Zero7 ft Mozez – I Have Seen
11. Tom Ashbrook – Klass
12. She Wants Revenge – Tear You Apart
13. Radiohead – Talk Show Host
14. Bloc Party – Biko
15. Jimi Hendrix – Voodoo Child (Slight Return)
16. Guillemots – Little Bear
17. TĀLĀ – Cabin Fever  
18. Portishead – Undenied
19. MJ Cole – Sincere
20. Aqualung – Good Times Gonna Come
21. The Naked And Famous – The Sun
22. Amy Winehouse – Tears Dry On Their Own
23. Damian Marley – Welcome To Jamrock
24. Kanye West ft Consequence, Cam’ron – Gone
25. Stevie Wonder – I Don’t Know Why
26. Madonna – Candy Perfume Girl
27. David Bowie – All The Young Dudes
28. Tricky – Ponderosa
29. Portishead – Strangers
30. Radiohead – Nude
31. UNKLE – Price You Pay
32. Madcon – Beggin’
33. Lamb – Lullaby
34. Coldplay – Spies
35. Paramore – We Are Broken  
36. Death in Vegas – Hands Around My Throat
37. Damien Rice – Eskimo
38. Tom McRae – Walking2Hawaii
39. Bat For Lashes – What’s A Girl To Do
40. Tricky – Hell Is Around The Corner
41. Basement Jaxx – Everybody
42. Mark Ronson ft Daniel Merriweather – Stop Me
43. New Young Pony Club – Ice Cream
44. Massive Attack – Teardrop
45. Massive Attack – Unfinished Sympathy
46. Radiohead – Paranoid Android  
47. The Ting Tings – We Walk
48. Low – Breaker
49. Radiohead – Everything In Its Right Place
50. 702 – You Don’t Know
51. Cassie – Me & U
52. Ledisi – You And Me
53. José González – Killing For Love
54. Sigor Rós – Svefn-g-englar
55. U2 – If God Will Send His Angels
56. Bobby Womack – California Dreamin’
57. PJ Harvey – The Garden
58. Faithless – Crazy English Summer
59. Little Dragon – Twice
60. Malcolm McLaren – About Her
61. Bon Iver – Creature Fear
62. Air – Photograph
63. Bonobo ft Fink – If You Stayed Over  
64. White Lies – Unfinished Business
65. Coldplay – Prospekt’s March/Poppyfields
66. Alexandre Desplat – Elegy
67. Linkin Park – Hands Held High
68. Bloc Party – Kreuzberg
69. Vanbur – In Cold Light
70. Active Child – Cruel World 

Insane In The Brain

I've never flung a story so hard at my editor as I have my latest, For The Last Time. It needed to go, I'd held onto it for too long. Poor Queen Barb. I don't envy having to edit 102,000 words of my depressing words. Now that it is out of my "lemme tweak just one more thing/ lemme just change one more name/ lemme throw some sex at this here" hands, I can move on. 

For The Last Time was an epic bit of therapy for me.  You'll understand when you read it. If you read it. I don't know if it will be your thing at all. It's dark. I mean for me, it's dark. I can't imagine writing anything where the characters aren't living through their pain with humour. How does anyone else survive, if not to mock and take the proverbial? 

I'd given myself until the end of March to complete and I thought I'd have the mental freedom to go onto my fluffier tales for a bit of relief. And yet, I am tethered to this story, even more so now that I've got to go over it again for edits with all my errors in tracked changes. It means I'm effectively retraumatising myself with each page. Such fun!

For those concerned, there will be a trigger warning in the blurb to prevent any blindsiding. Although, I actually put a demon in the title of a book and someone was still shocked that a demon was in said book. I don't know how effective the TW will be then if that's the case... 

With that, pray for me. It's going to be a loooong week!

Little Sister

 

I am near the finishing line with this story! While I would normally be excited about completing a tale and letting you guys at it, this has been a toughie. I did say that I wasn't writing something light, didn't I? It fits in with how hard 2020 kicked my arse and how hard 2021 has been for me so far. 

I don't have sisters. I always thought it would be a chore and an outrage sharing things like clothes or make up or god forbid shoes! And then I met a woman who made me feel like I was a part of her family. And I know why I haven't mentioned that she's left this world, because it's honestly one of the most painful things I've experienced, but I need to let some of it go, for my own sanity. 

She was only in my life very briefly, but long enough for me to want to call her and talk about all sorts of things - from the spiritual to the inane, tv joys and travel highs. I'd have happily shared my entire wardrobe with her, looked for her approval to anything I was doing. Nothing made me happier than when her name popped up on my phone if she was calling or texting me, or when I saw her we'd have the best hugs. Any meet up would start with a cup of tea first, then we'd move onto the hard stuff - obvs, you know me by now. And I don't really take calls. I'm like "text me" but if she called, we'd talk. I really miss that. 

Her illness came from nowhere and it robbed her and us of her. It really stole my friend, my little sister from me and I'll never get her back. There's a reason for me talking about my friend. The story I'm almost finished with, is really about the vitality, the necessity of sisterhood. Doesn't have to be by blood - I've written enough about dodgy relatives (looking at you Angela!) to know that blood is not always thicker than water. But that connection with someone who you could have easily grown up with, someone who makes you smile just thinking of them, that you'd do anything for - this is that story. The lengths these women go for their chosen sisters is wild. Truly and honestly but to paraphrase Chris Rock "I wouldn't do it, but I understand!"

Before my friend left us, there was a very narrow list of people that I'd do anything for. My niece - she's got my card details, my bank account like a scam from a Nigerian Prince - but she's a bubs, so everything needs to be as an example for her, for her future. Can't let her grow up a scamp! And I struggled to understand that level of unbalanced, unconditional love where you think "What laws? Prison? Fuck it, ain't no problem!" I know it now. All too late, but I know. And I wish I'd done more. I could have done more. But hindsight in 20/20 is never useful. 

When you read this madness of 103,000 words (it's really long, I'm so sorry), you'll understand what I've rambled on about. As much as it's about do anything for your sisters, even beyond the realms of reasonableness, it's about the depth of sororal love, beyond that of any other kind of love. 

Funny. Funny weird, not funny haha. I had a sister all this time. And while she's gone, the love remains. 

Dangerous

 

This last week has been a trial! I actively want to scream about wtaf happened! First we had International Women's Day, which is always blocked by "what about International Men's Day!" Then the UK had the Meghan and Harry with Oprah interview which opened up a new doorway to hell. Any institution that has benefited from colonialism, from the subjugation of Black and brown bodies, which to this day, is pocketing the money repeated from said subjugation... racism is going to be present. Some of my friends have questioned 'what would Meghan expect marrying into that institution?' Listen, the global image that Little Britain has presented, is that we're above racism. We don't sully ourselves in the mire of judging people for where they are from. We're nice and tolerant here right? We're nothing like America, right? I cannot see how anything, save for Jesus Christ himself appearing to Meghan and telling her that shit is about to go down, that would have prepared Meghan for what she was subjected to. I remember my mother asking me when Prince William (before his hairline abandoned him for his waywardness) went to St Andrews, and whether I would think about changing universities. I found it ridiculous as I went to university in the greatest city in the world. (I can't remember three quarters of it, but that's because I had a fucking great time) Secondly, there would be nothing that would induce me to not only to alter my entire life for a man, but marry into the same family that basically abandoned Princess Diana to the press hounding wolves? No, no thank you. So that was all of Monday, and people finally realising that Kate Middleton is every white woman who is offended by your existence in the work place and wants to interfere in your project. If you gently correct her, the tears will come and you'll be having a chat with HR, discussing what you need to adjust any perceived 'aggression' in your presentation. 

Tuesday, a florid man with a too small shirt collar for the thickness of his neck, who felt offended that Meghan Markle didn't abandon a press junket for him to go to his pub and have a picture taken with him and invite him to her wedding, decided on national television to claim that Meghan was lying about having suicidal thoughts. He felt brave enough to do so. In contradiction to the broadcasting rules and regulations - he called her a liar - even as journalists in the royal rota (I call them journalists for ease only) admitted that Meghan had come into difficulties, that she had been deeply unhappy and often in tears. We'd all seen it in South Africa where she thanked a journalist for asking how she was because not very many people had asked. Yet, he under the umbrella of the privilege of his whiteness, felt in his power and bile to call her a liar. Not thinking that 40,999 other people would do so, I complained to OFCOM. He needed to be stopped. It was enough. 

Wednesday, whether it was a PR stunt or not, florid man walked off his tv show after repeating his disbelief about the Duchess of Sussex' suicidal ideation and being challenged by the only other person of colour on the same show. We then found out that the number of complaints to OFCOM were in the 40,000s and that the Duchess had also complained directly to ITV heads and in his probable negotiations in staying with the channel or going elsewhere, he left. I for one, was relieved to not be walking into an old office and having to explain why this man was bad vibes for the morning and that his clashes with government should be standard for any journalists and not someone to be admired. After all, this was the same person with his nose so far up T*mp's arse he could have eaten the McDonald's for him. That same day, it was confirmed that a woman who had gone missing from an area of South London that I have walked, repeatedly at all hours of the day, with headphones blaring, on my own - as I often am - had been discovered an hour and a half away in a different county and dead? I was unbalanced by it all. In discussing florid man, Sharon Osbourne decided to peak white woman and verbally attack her co-host, demanding to be educated and raging. Also Baldimort (someone related to Prince Harry) claimed the Royal Family is 'very much not a racist family'. I don't know anyone who didn't find that utterly hilarious. (I know good people!)  

Thursday, we find out that Sarah Everard, the woman who had gone missing, was likely murdered by a Met police officer. I wanted to throw something when the major cry was "you're supposed to protect us!" ***stares in Black woman*** I didn't want to derail because people were hurt, but Black people, Black women have not had the luxury of trusting the police. Ever. Black children have been murdered and it's been said to be in the public interest not to pursue their murderers. In 1981, there was a fire in New Cross which killed 13 young Black people. A certain Head of State had the opportunity to write to the families of the survivors and chose not to. The fire was started by white supremacists. The police instead decided to close the matter claiming that the fire was the fault of the party goers, who were aged between 14 and 22 years of age. Only last year, two Black women were murdered in broad daylight. Did you know that photographs of their dead bodies was passed around a police WhatsApp group? Do you think those officers still have their jobs? Of course they do. Rape and sexual assault have been pervasive throughout our society since its inception. We as women cannot do anything else more to prevent violence against us. I was at my local bus stop on my way out (yes I did look fire, thank you!) and a man tapped me on the shoulder and told me my Oyster card had fallen out of my pocket. I thanked him and he said, "You shouldn't have your music on so loud, so you're not aware of your surroundings. Anything could happen to you, you know!" The worst things that have happened to me, is when I haven't had music on, when I've been sober, in places where I should have been safe. My headphones have protected me from a world of nonsense. I didn't tell him that. I didn't even tell him that I'd been sexually harassed and assaulted on buses before, but I had no other way to get to where I needed to quickly and cheaply. Instead, I thanked him again and got on the bus.  

Friday, Davina McCall, a television presenter decided to join in the #notallmen cry despite a survey confirming that 97% of women in the UK had suffered sexual assault or harassment, and ignore what happened to Sarah Everard, to worry about the impact on men and their mental health. Of all the pickmeness. Of all the derailment. What was the reason? What was the purpose? Yes, men do suffer but we're not talking about men right now. We were talking about the lengths women have to go through just to be out in the streets alone - wear bright clothing, call a friend, stay in well lit areas, keys between the fingers - but we should be concerned about men as to the impact of speaking about what women have to do to be safe? She was dragged expeditiously and deservedly. And before you ask, yes she is.

Saturday, after Charlie Hebbo decided to post yet another racist cover. A vigil was to take place for Sarah on Clapham Common. Baldimort's wife turned up, without a mask, in plain clothes (clearly contradictory to what Meghan had said during her interview.) This is someone who has had bodies turn up on her front lake and not said a thing about it - seemingly emptyhanded, looked appropriately sad for two seconds enough for a photographer to get her profile and left. As soon as she left, the police moved in under 'Covid rules' and began arresting women, throwing them to the ground and handcuffing them. As a Black woman, I could have told them that if the police decided to use those powers that they tend to take out on us on them as white women, but sometimes, you only learn by experience. Now they know. Now they're echoing what we've been screaming into the void for years. The police abuse their powers. 

Sunday, the front pages of papers were full of pictures of Baldimort's wife and how she was displaying class and grace, rather than the violence inflicted on the vigil attendees. People were upset on Twitter and again, sometimes people only learn through experience. But it was very obvious from the reaction to the BLM protests last year compared to the vigil how much they had seen and how much they had ingested because the same lines were being regurgitated. Sunday was also Mothering Sunday in the U.K, while people with titles and honours and London mayor candidates were showing their anti-Blackness and their arseholes for the social media world to see. 

Are you tired? I was exhausted. Honestly, I've felt a weight on me for days and it has. Not. Stopped. I have been tired of the change in narrative. I have been tired by the gaslighting. By the denial of humanity for women who are Black or have proximity to Blackness. By the attempts to paper over the cracks of the monarchy and the 'the countries I've colonised have been Black!' By the immediate reaction to protect men from the violence they wield against women, rather than making laws, rules, demands that they start changing. I can only hope that this week is better and a relief because it's been far too much. If anything, this should spur me to finish my current book, get it out in the world and then I can sleep. It's the one commodity that's fast becoming too expensive and all too rare. 

 

Killer Queen

I'm slowly getting back into the swing of things (trying to balance the work life with the book life). Now words are flowing once more, I'm going to do a takeover on Facebook!

The delightful and crazily talented Kenya Wright has invited me to a celebration of all that is Mafia in her group K Killers. If you're not already a member, add yourself and join me on Friday 12 March 2021 at 8 - 9 EST which is 1 - 2 am GMT.

Looking forward to talking about all things tall, dark and affiliated tomorrow!

You Should See Me In A Crown

 I'm absolutely going to age myself here, but I remember watching Princess Diana's interview with Martin Bashir. I wanted to write to Princess Diana and assure her that she was loved by the people, especially me (who copied her at every possible opportunity). I never did and then she was dispatched. That was my opportunity to express my concern and appreciation for what she was doing gone. 

I was not going to let the same thing happen to the Duchess of Sussex. The racists were out in full force from the moment it was revealed Prince Harry was dating her. There was a pap picture of them at a wedding and the glee with which people were commenting I don't think he likes her very much. The way she's grabbing him and he's not interested! Oh he was interested alright. He married her. 

In the roar of claims that Meghan had made Kate cry, she was nicknamed the 'Degree Wife' and she worked a 'different' way to the rest of the royal household, it started to bite at me. I've been minding my Black business when I've been accused of being 'aggressive' of 'making people upset' of making changes that 'aren't appreciated'. I've worked since I was sixteen years old. There has never been a job where I haven't been outsted, belittled, undermined, harassed or accused of making other's feel small because I exist. 

A man was physically aggressive with me in my office but I was a problem for voicing my concern with his behaviour (I left that place and he tried to follow me by petitioning to my then boss that we had worked well together! Imagine! He didn't get the job thank God!)

A colleague said I was 'scary' because I told them exactly how they had fucked up and how that would damage not only me but the reputation of the business. 

I've been accused of being aggressive because I didn't mollycoddle yet another man as to how to do his job. Not my own - his. 

It is all that magical ingredient we call racism, and it is strong and pervasive as fucking garlic and yet, this country continues to question whether it exists, setting up roundtables of white people to judge the issue. 

I am very obviously Black. It's the second thing noticed, after my boobs (because like Lydia Caristo's boobs, they are fabulous). And that Blackness is never divided from anything I do, even if I express myself in the meekest way possible, it will always be twisted to suit a particular narrative because of said Blackness. The same playbook is being attempted on the Duchess and I'm actually glad it's being played on a global stage, so the world can see the madness this woman is having to endure. Prince Harry married the lightest, mixed race woman possible (I say this not to disparage or negate her Blackness but to confirm that no matter the shade the Blackness is always a “problem”) and the vitriol she's faced for the audacity of having a Black mother has been difficult and disgraceful to watch. So when she was still contactable through one of the many palaces, I wrote to her. I did what I wanted to do for Princess Diana and I told her over four pages of my Jo Malone scented printed stationary, how much she was appreciated, how proud I was of her for her work and her words and her ethics and she had my love. I won't share her response , but I still pick it up and read it every so often. 

There is no doubt in my mind that Meghan is a decent, worldly, intelligent and graceful woman. And in a world that makes a mission to humble such women, especially if they have a drop of colour in them, I can see the campaign against her for what it is. Utter nonsense. I hope you see it too. 

For this reaction, playing the 'bullying, terrible, Black woman' book to undermine the first time the Duke and Duchess are freely speaking about their years of madness, you know what they tried to do to Meghan was bad. Really bad. We saw her tears and despair in South Africa. We saw how protective Harry was and remains. So, in satin pyjamas and a cold glass of prosecco, I will be watching that interview with Oprah and be ready to petition for the end of the monarchy. No institution that campaigns against a woman of colour thereby telling citizens of the same hue that they are deserving of such a reaction when they are protecting a literal paedophile, deserves to remain. 

I want my money back, thank you. 

Choices (Yup)

 

During a rather boozy celebration of last week's ten year anniversary (pop a bottle man! Ten years is a long time!) my beautiful friends asked me a casting question. Who would be your leading men, if you could have anyone, no questions asked, no budget worries, anyone? 

"You can't have the Duke of Hastings," one friend reminded me. "He's not on any of your covers, and you dragged a certain author for blackfishing covers."

Oh yeah, I did, didn't I? Good times... So obviously, my current book is a shoe in for the His Grace, Simon Basset aka Regé-Jean Page. But the others? (insert awkward face). 

When I do my cover requests, I hunt for pictures that fit my characters as best as possible and it's always harder to find Black women than it ever is to find sexy white tanned muscled torsos. So anyways, Windows' initial inception (well revised to include banging) coincided with my obsession with Eddie Cibran and his dimples. I have no idea who would be throw the knickers away, they're no use right now enough to make me tattoo his name on my body. No, I lied absolutely. Henry Cavill could do it with a grin and a sideways glance at my bustline. (It's the first thing men look at guaranteed). 

For Murano, the Beppe inspiration was the delightful Oliver Cohen-Jackson, of the Haunting of Hill House fame. He does dangerous/mad/funny/loving beautifully well. 

My other male character obsession was and for the large part still is Bren Macclellan from Wynne's Surprise. Oh my god, I haven't loved off the laptop like that since, well since Nick. And his inspiration was Jai Courtney. But with a Scottish accent obvs. Like Hot Muse Hank was deeply worried, the man took over my day to day for months. I'd dream about him, it was weird and wet dreamy and I should be embarrassed but it was great for the book. 

Have you seen the body on Lucas Gil? Coz that's who would play Remains' Jamie. Niels Strøm would be played by the Kingslayer Nikolaj Wadu-Costa and Arthur McWorth of An Art To It allowed me to cougar my way into Harry Styles' fanclub. I adore a bit of Harry, I truly do. 

So those are a few of my potentials, if I could cast the mens. I'll show you my ladies next week. Thoughts, suggestions, reminders all welcome!