Notes on black male delusion…

If like me you are a computer bound office drone you’ll no doubt have suffered the lows of excruciating small talk, the awkward silences that fall in between the excruciating small talk and the gnawing anxiety that comes from wondering when the torturous deed will end.

And then there are the moments when you realize the company you are suffering is self-inflicted and the misery you are experiencing self-induced. Why I thought it was high time I  got to know everyone who works in my department is surely beyond me.


In fairness most of my encounters were a strait one on the awkwardness richter scale.  Characterised by overly long and tuneless talk about  how long colleagues had worked at the company.

But nothing could have prepared me for the horror show that was to be my run in with, let me think of a suitable pseudonym, ‘Barry’.


Barry, as you might well have guessed from the title of this article was black, delusional and male- a triple wammy if ever there was one.


This being the case I had decided long ago that my approach to him should be a cautionary one.


Black women the world over can attest, that trying to be friendly towards our black, delusional, male counterparts – (hereinafter referred to as BDMs) can be a perilous endeavour for the following reasons:


Make conversation with a BDM – he think’s you’re attracted to him
Make eye contact with a BDM – he think’s you’re asking him out on a date

Offer a BDM a biscuit- he thinks your wedding dress is waiting in the car


I hope reader, you can see the difficulty of my situation, one wrong word to Barry and he would think I had already picked out matching his and hers bathrobes.

After bottling the encounter approximately a million times, I took my chance to break the proverbial ice- catching Barry on route to the kitchen.

My memory tells me I began our chit chat with a gabbled comment that resembled ‘I always see you around, but I’ve never known your name.’

Barry introduced himself, as well, Barry.  And after hearing his surname I asked what part of the world it was from.

I learned the name hailed from an exotic West African state, and Barry asked me the origins of my own surname.

As any black person, with lineage in the new world knows, our surnames are the remnants of a painful and difficult legacy.  They are not really a subject for light conversation.

Barry didn’t seem to pick up on the fact I wasn’t necessarily in the mood to open the can of worms that is the transatlantic slave trade.

And so I was forced to spell out how I came to be given the name of Elliott- in black and white terms if you will.


Armed with the knowledge my heritage lay in the sun soaked island of Barbados, Barry proceeded to tell me that he had traveled all over the Caribbean.

At last, I thought to myself, we were finally on the hallowed turf of common ground!  I suggested Baz visit Barbados.  He said he already had, and couldn’t understand why Rihanna was so keen on it.


Yes, I did have to tell him Rihanna was from Barbados- and yes,he did seem genuinely shocked.

But worst of all he proceeded to tell me that as far as Caribbean islands went- Barbados was a pretty dull offering.


I believe this was Baza attempting to make sure I called off the wedding he assumed was taking place in my head immediately.


I saw the fear in Barry’s eyes.  He had been seen by his colleagues talking to me, a black woman for full two minutes.

 Poor B seemed to be wracked with terror- after all casual conversation is very much akin to introducing a serious love interest to close family and friends.

And then it happened, the beta male stood before me put in a call for back up.  It was a strange act, a primal scream, perhaps.


 An unknown white male, lets call him ‘Jim’ walked past us and Barry shouted towards him ‘have you met Jim?’  Poor old Jimbo was thrown for a Saturn sized loop but heeded Barry’s plea for help.


So there we stood the three of us in a situation more uncomfortable than a headful of day one cornrow.  What we talked about, and how long the ordeal lasted I can not say for certain.


But when I did finally manage to slink away, I started to get angrier and angrier.  I couldn’t understand how  my ‘getting to know you’ exercise had gone completely askew.

It seemed ridiculous to me that what was meant to be a friendly conversation had been taken as a full blown declaration of love.

Not to mention the fact that B wouldn’t even hit a seven on the looksometer.  Barry was in a catargory of his own just below zero called, troll.

And he’s not the only BDM I’ve met recently kids.  Apparently a smile is the ultimate come on, as  I literally saw the coffee-making-fool at my local Proteinhaus  grappling with the idea of returning the gesture.  Obviously women are just lining up to settle down with barristas.

Don’t even get me started on the worn-out, bus-waiting-for idiot I see each morning, who thought I was following him because I too was walking the well worn path to the train station.

Yes, you’re right, I want to take care of you and your three children!

So there you have it, another fine mess I’ve got myself into.  Now I have to hide behind the photocopier every time I pass a Barry shaped object.

Though there is the option of completely screwing with him; perhaps I should sign off my next email to him with a PS expressing a desire to get in touch with my African heritage…
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Notes on Piers Morgan…

Another day, another king sized helping of black outrage.

I don’t chide my community’s  suffering with a light heart; but with a heart heavy from the weight of exasperation- four hundred years of it, to be precise.

Playing the role of antagonist in this week’s episode of Minority Misery was none other than career villain Piers Morgan.

In a brilliant bid to further the cause of cultural sensitivity, Piers singlehandedly defused the media storm surrounding  a group of random white girls and their drunken recital of Gold Nigga- sorry Gold Digger.

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Piers lays the blame on a thoroughly confused Yeezy

The ladies- and I use that in the loosest sense of the word- performed a rendition of the Kanye hit, notable only for its remarkable lyrical accuracy.
It seems the excitable bunch were more than a little eager to let the world know  who Ye’s proverbial Gold Digger was not in fact  ‘looking for’.
Piers being, well Piers, came to the only conclusion that any sane person would come to; blaming the entire episode on the rapper.
‘Cause obviously that’s totally not offensive.  Nigga is like a term of endearment.  I mean I’m sure that’s what Piers calls his mum.
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Nothing like some good old fashioned racism to get the party started

 

I’m going to be honest here; I am not mad at Piers.

If the truth be told I don’t care a jot what he thinks of me or any other black person for that matter.
Do I find Piers and the actions of his group of girls gone wild to be extremely distasteful?  Yes I do.
It should be apparent to anyone there is something deeply sinister behind any attempt to justify the use of a word that is a synonym for degradation.
The women in question fully understood the twofold way in which their use of that word further undermined the status of  black people.
There is very little doubt in my mind that reducing black men to non-human entities and giving voice to a wider narrative in which  black men habitually demean black women, was a source of enjoyment for them.
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Piers when he realises no one is giving him attention

But what troubles me more is the way in which the opinion of a certified fool has black people in a state of perpetual feather unruffling.
Piers is a professional troll at best and a seasoned scab picker at worst.
Morgan goes straight for the achillies heal, aiming his parting shots at the queen of bark backs; black twitter.
And we fall for it each and  every time.
Perhaps it’s time we traded in the visceral thrills of socking it to the ‘man’ (or Piers for that matter) for a healthy slice of logic.
For the world in which we  ignore the persistent pokes and prods of Piers; is one in which his innate fear of irrelevance is fully realised.

The Single girls’ guide to Tinder…

Today as I sat before my computer, my hope Reader, was to entertain you with some hilarious titbit from my troubled dating life.  I thought I might share with you a recent encounter with a pervert, an oleaginous groper or even better a psychopath.  My hope – it seems- was an extraordinary one, as it appears even societal rejects no longer throw me a cursory glance.

 

Apparently the well has dried up, the water ceases to run deep- worse the barrel can be scraped no more for it is now broken.  I am now locked within the confines of an involuntary period of singledom, with my only day-to day male interaction coming from the hollow and tuneless voice of SIRI.  Ladies and gentlemen I present; the professional single.

 

Fear that I was on course to venture into Life’s dark and shadowy abyss completely solo, was first aroused on a sunny Friday evening.  Spending my working days in Canary Wharf, it is with frequency I encounter its regional charm. Namely water-front, alcohol-centric, two- dimensional vapidity- cleverly disguised as socialising.

 

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How my Tinder date would go in my head…

 

As I walked past a moving sea of Prosecco drenched, sun revelling, be-suited, cardboard cut outs, I couldn’t help but wish for my own paper-made lover.  For what is life without a generic and flimsy hand to hold?

 

And so I went in search of a hug-bearer, an affection-giver and a spider-killer (on the internet of course).  Choosing Tinder- an app which could easily win the category for, hosting the Web’s most extensive assortment of rogue males.

 

Experience it seems has taught me nothing; having conveniently wiped from my mind’s own hard drive painful recollections of my match.com date, ‘Al.’  Clever ‘Al’ had used a profile picture so old it must have been taken B.C; B.C meaning ‘Before he was ‘Bald’ and ‘Chunky’.

 

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Verses the reality of a Tinder date…

 

On Tinder I found myself to be no less luckless in the losing hand of love.  In the record two minutes it took for my profile picture to go live, I found that I had been ‘Super liked.’

 

To the Reader I must stress that the use of superlative here, had the opposite effect of the delirium it was meant to inspire. For, I sensed that my ‘super like’ came from the nimble thumbs of a socially inept, bedroom masturbator.  Who more than likely was incapable of a relationship in the ‘real world.’

 

 

As I stared at the unknown face on my screen, it came as very little surprise the villain before me was dressed as Heath Ledger’s Joker. In truth I expected nothing less. I merely assumed I’d ticked the box which offered matches with nutjobs as an optional extra.

 

 

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Maybe I’m just being too fussy

 

Perhaps all his regular clothes had been in the wash that day, and had we met I would have found that beneath the make-up there lay a passing resemblance to a 90s Brad Pitt.  Either that or he would have come as first date favourite Nosferatu…

 

I won’t even attempt to recount my other Tinder horror story. Which involved moi and a gentleman who thought of himself as a vampire/werewolf hybrid (I kid you not).

 

My hopes of finding a better half, or any kind of half for that matter have now dissolved, rather like a scribbled wish thrown into the mouth of a bubbling volcano.

 

Perhaps I ought to have given that vampire a chance…

Baby’s first wimbledon…

July has been a slow month for social opportunities, where a woman can put on a good dress and her church wig.

Notwithstanding my attendance at a scenic gay wedding in the Lake District and a cava soaked stay on Barcelona’s elegant Paseo de Gracia, I’ve barely had any reason to stir from my (Egyptian cotton) sheets.

That was until I heard the five words every London socialite longs to hear; ‘we’ve got you Wimbledon tickets.’

I’m sure I’m not alone in my belief that entrance passes to the World’s only grass court grand slam (try saying that after a couple of Pimm’s) were urban myth at best, a terrible rumour at worst.

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Visitors of colour can expect a warm welcome

But I am happy to confirm that to those working in the soulless hub of Canary Wharf tickets are still available.

So, off I trotted, Bayswater in tow, to the hallowed ground of SW19.

Nothing (and I mean nothing) can prepare the average human for their first foray into the old-monied grass constructed dream of Wimbledon.

As I floated up and out of my body into the strawberry scented air, I spent the entire day watching myself.

My periodic moments of lucidity lead me to believe that I bore witness to the dissipating ashes of  Andy Murray’s  2017 campaign.

I also found myself making small (and surprising) talk with Boris Becker, while remembering to clap in all the right places.

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Wimbledon doing their bit for diversity

Admittedly my dream like state was punctured just long enough for me to make the un-remarkable observation that Wimbledon is like, whiter than an Alabama Klan Rally.

And why wouldn’t it be?  Given that most of it’s members are old enough to accurately recall the horror of the Crimean war and the subsequent fall of the Kaisers.

So, The All England Club, is more ‘The Old White People Club’.  Who could have guessed?

I for one was comforted to see so many nonagenarians soaking up the last rays of their existence. Proving there really is life after 90 (if you can afford it).

Come to think of it as white supremacist sounding names for organisations go; The All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club is pretty up there.   Although I think Rights for Whites just edges it out.

You’re most likely drawing to the conclusion that; (how can I put this delicately?)  the folks at wimbledon haven’t gotten beyond the Neolithic Age when it comes to this whole diversity thing.

In all fairness, you would be completely right.

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The strawberries and cream is more diverse than the tournament

Truth be told I’d never felt so out of place in England’s capital.

Being the sole woman of colour in the tournament’s press centre made me a visible oddity and the subject of many a curious stare.

And what of it?

For anyone venturing into a world established by those who lived long before the notion of equality was born and maintained by those who wilfully seek to ignore it; this my friend is par for the course.

It certainly didn’t stop the sisters Williams.

If possible my appreciation for them has swelled to new proportions after experiencing first hand the scrutinous and frosty gaze of Centre Court’s patrons.

So, Wimbledon’s members haven’t taken to multiculturalism quite so well as the Kardashians it seems.

Perhaps they should be advised that the march towards the 21st century does not have to be a bumpy one.

It’s kind of like the switch from ios9 to ios10, at first you wish you’d never bothered with it..  But after a very short while you begin to realise it’s not so very bad…

New balls please…

Oh What a Time to be Alive! As I live and breath I never thought I’d bare witness, to the grinding wheels of the Tory machine, falling away quicker than a five year old’s milk teeth.

Our sovereign leader, it appears,  has learned in the most public and  mortifying fashion that calling an eleventh hour election is about as good an idea, as asking the peanut brained people of the United Kingdom if they’d like to play hokey cokey (the EU edition).
Mrs M, in a vote that was meant to be sewn up tighter than a bleeding head wound, some how managed to convert David Cameron’s hard won majority into, well, a hung parliament.
Voters, not content with May’s self congratulatory response to all lines of questioning: ”Brexit means Brexit‘, decided to gift the PM an election night more turbulent and tumultuous than a dinghy ride on the North Sea.
Lefties will be happy to know that the fun and games of June 8 were not the sole reserve of those at the very top.

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Zac Goldsmith clung to his parliamentary seat in Richmond (like a dress two sizes small) by a margin of only 45. A figure not generally large enough to sway a council vote on street lights.
With the loss of Kensington and Chelsea too, the summer of ’17 will be a marked as a notoriously sad time in the Tory annals.
It will be remembered as the breath taking moment when even the over privileged residents of a royal borough saw voting Conservative as less than a viable option.
Now TM must face the discordant music coming from the screams of the Tory chorus.
As you can imagine they are not best pleased at the prospect of forming a minority government.
A minority government, which can only be made possible by a display of distasteful cozying up to the DUP.
A party, whose members are known to call on the exacting science of Creationism, when faced with calls to stem climate change.
A party who are anti same sex marriage and abortion.
Sadly they are not anti Tory, though negotiations between the two factions seem to have been going on longer than a Russian novel.
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So, Great Britain is faced with another round of political Jenga.  Once again it is ”all change please” on the Parliamentary Express and reinforcements have been called in to
steady the ship; namely Michael Gove.
I believe the Conservatives are now locked in talks with Shergar and Kermit the Frog, in a desperate bid to find a new leader.
George Osbourne, a pear poached in the sweet syrup of Schadenfreude, on this rare occasion is completely and utterly correct; the Prime Minister is indeed a ‘dead woman walking’.
I for one, would not be abashed in admitting there is a joy in observing Theresa May and her cabinet desperately scrabbling about in the dirt and dark. Though I do feel a reticence at the smirk it surely has brought back to Osbourne’s face.

We Won’t Stop? Notes on Miley Cyrus and her return to the mainstream…

Was I the only one, who reacted to Miley Cyrus’ highly nuanced and informed perspectives on the genre we call Hip Hop, with nothing more than a lethargic eye roll and a non-committal shrug of the shoulders?  For those of you who thought the best response to the non-story, would be to carry on with your own lives; wordsmith Miley had the following to say:

‘… I love that Kendrick [Lamar] song [“Humble”]…because it’s not ‘Come sit on my d**k, suck on my c**k.’ I can’t listen to that anymore,” said she.

Okay, so valley girl, so good…“That’s what pushed me out of the hip-hop scene… It was too much ‘Lamborghini, got my Rolex, got a girl on my c**k’ — I am so not that.”  Nope, still don’t care, in fact let me go hang my ‘drag a culture vulture cape’ right back up.

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Miley’s comments should neither provoke outrage or surprise; Cyrus was merely copying the musical motif of Disney Star’s past.  Mickey Mouse eared popstar with large fan base but corny image needs cool factor and credibility (cue black people).  After attaining said desired level of success, said popstar throws said black people under, said bus.  That’s how America was built right?

Despite the bitter history of the continual cultural and musical exploitation of African Americans, many of my people oddly enough chose to believe that Miley really was ‘ ’bout that life’.  While those of us with brains knew all too well that the only thing Miss Cyrus was ’bout, was that paper, and of course that fame.

We should also take care not to forget those who took it upon themselves to hand Miley an access all areas pass to the ‘Museum of African American Life’ along with the illusive and proverbial ‘black card’. Yes, black people men I’m talking to you.  More specifically Mike Will Made It, Juicy J and Pharrell Williams.  I must also give a dishonourable mention to J Hov himself ‘twerk Miley twerk’ and to Migos who delivered the gift of hope to no ass having white women everywhere in their 2014 classic ‘Hannah Montana’.

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For a former all smiles, no cerebrals child star, Cyrus certainly knows how to play a winning hand.  Luckily for Miley, dignity among black men is pretty thin on the ground.  Those around her were all too happy to contort and twist themselves into a human pedestal on which to raise a white, female popstar, remarkable only in mediocrity.

Our ire might well find a convenient target in ‘The Climb’ singer, but unless it can be proved Mr ‘Ear Drummers’ himself collaborated with Cyrus, as an AK47 was pointed at his head, it is certainly miss placed.

And now, Miley has abandoned the Hip Hop ship (and all who sailed in her) running back into the safe, beneficent and patriarchal arms of white society.  They in turn have welcomed her de-grilled, de-twerked and de-ratchet self home.  Cyrus celebrates her prodigal return with an ode to the blonde and the vacuous, entitled ‘Malibu’.  My people, on the other hand, find themselves commiserating with a performance of the ‘white people done robbed me’ soft shoe shuffle for the 500th year running…

Young East African Gurl…

I watched the strangest and saddest little YouTube video the other night; entitled ‘I’m African, He’s Jamaican’.  A more apt name for the disconcerting post would have been ‘Random crap on your feed, which you can’t unsee, but wish you could’.  (Although I don’t suppose that has much of a ring to it.)  Having seen close to a billion of this type before; ‘I’m black, He’s Jewish’, ‘I’m Muslim, He’s Hindu’, ‘I’m a Martian, She’s TransDimentional’ (you get the drill), I waited for the anthem of the love-sick and the deluded:   ‘I got mushy with someone across the border.  Let’s throw Racism a leaving party.’ What eventually transpired though, would turn out to be something of a far more dark and troubling nature…

 

Beating King Kanye, in order to be crowned ‘The World’s Most Psychologically Disturbed Black Man’ is a great feat indeed, close contenders Gilbert Arenas and Kodak Black fought an admirable battle, but I believe this year’s victor to be YouTuber Shakeel Romero.  Throwing his audience a curve ball, Romero’s video was not in fact an informal chit chat about the slings and arrows of cross cultural relationships, as his title suggested; but more an impromptu and unsolicited rendition of the Beyonce hit ‘Why don’t you love me’ (sort of). Viewers quickly learned that the beautiful Somalian woman sitting beside Mr Romero, had so far resisted the ‘charms’ and clutches of the Muslim convert, much to his chagrin.

 

Any avid connoisseur of YouTube dross knows that you try your absolute damnedest not to make snap judgments in the opening moments of an upload; and Reader I tried, I really did.  But, the mere act of witnessing  Romero’s laboured interactions with Somali Muslim, Somaha, (don’t know if I spelled that right) was something akin to the sound of frayed fingernails dragged across a school room blackboard. Somaha, having spotted a band of rogue hairs deciding  to make a break for it, noted the ‘frizzy’ appearance of her tresses on screen.  Dim witted Shakeel’s antidote was one of enlightenment. On the off chance that Somaha had been absent from any small part of her existence, or never met her own parents, Romero reminded her that she was after all ‘East African’.  And thus the riddle of the frizzy hair was solved.   Embarrassingly for the YouTuber he had mistaken the word ‘frizzy’ as a synonym for the word ‘curly’ (It’s hard for some people).   Romero unwittingly revealed himself to be hair brained, but like literally hair brained. His confusion was an example of the Freudian Slip if ever there was one.   Somaha to him was not a woman, but a headful of loose curls upon which to hang his distorted and disturbed projections of beauty.

 

Readers will be happy to know that there was to be more horrifying hairbrainery; Shakky in all his wisdom thought it necessary to let the lovely Somaha know that Somalian women were of the kind, that men wanted to date because (and I quote) ‘ you have long beautiful hair, your skin is dark, but it’s still smooth’.  Yes, I nearly dropped dead on the floor too.  You’ll be alarmed to know that this is not the worst of it; Romero’s desire to visit the country (though it is a region to those of us who possess brain cells) named ‘East Africa’, was tempered by his fear that his hair, being of a courser texture, would make him stand out in the newly formed Republic.  So much so that  in his own words he tried to get ‘waves going’.  Feel free to breath when ready.  The crescendo of the monomaniac’s hair raising performance saw Romero dreaming of a future starring himself, Somaha and some ‘crinkly haired kids.’ A plate of hand rolled dysfunction to table seven please.

 

 

I wish I could say that dear old Shakeey improved on further watching,  but like a prospective boyfriend who shows up late on a first date; he didn’t. In fact he began to err on the side of desperate, and dare I say it; creepy.  With the uncomfortable spectacle taking on all the appearance of a silent and prolonged tango. Somaha attempted to explain the fundamentals of Somali parental expectations.  Romero wanted to know why their expectations couldn’t be reconfigured to encompass a Jamaican shaped son-in-law. Somaha attempted to explain the intricate nature of Somali familial ties.  Romero like a child of six, asked why said ties could not be loosened.  Somaha explained that for Somalis being Muslim alone was not necessarily the only qualification needed to get the green light for a marriage to a beloved daughter.  To which Romero replied ‘why won’t you accept us Revert Muslims?’.

 

And there it was!  The apex of this excruciating dance.  Romero could not bring himself to ask Somaha to reverse the curse of his West African heritage.  Nor did he have the courage to admit his need for the love and validation of women opposite to his own image.  He, like so many black men, desired a Beauty; in order to erase the stain of the Beast.  I feel for my sisters descended from Africa’s Horn, admired and despised in equal measure for their perceived proximity to the European aesthetic.  No woman wants to be fetishised and worse reduced to nothing more than a hair type.  The ‘hair type’ that opens old wounds and rifts within African communities.

 

Of course Romero ended on a finale of deprecation, referring to long suffering Somaha as ‘Little East African girl’.  Let us all hope that when he finally does take a trip to the small non-existent country of ‘East Africa’, a good pilot might be kindly employed to lose his way.  If not; ladies you have been warned…

Eww My God Becky!

What in the name of Doctor Miami is going on with Kim Ks posterior?  Unretouched photos of the shape-shifting star surfaced last week, in which Kimmy emerged from the Mexican sea, looking remarkably like an unidentified creature; thrown up from the bowls of the ocean.  That was rather unkind of me, I’m sure if you squint Kim could pass for a nappy wearing, alternate life form, who took a wrong exit on to planet Earth.

You’ve most likely surmised that I will not be attempting to rouse furious and wrathful feminists everywhere into the sacred act of shielding the Good Sisters Kardashian; and my friend, you would be right! Kimberly will have to look elsewhere for a shoulder on which to pour her tan streaked tears.

Coverage surrounding the exposition of Kim’s lumpy and malformed bottom has been schizophrenic at best and patronizing at its absolute worst. The ‘We should all be feminists, or womanists or whatever’ camp in their bid to prop up the plastic surgery addict, sang to the tune of faux and fowl cries of ‘body shaming’.  While the disingenuous, pot-stirring hacks seemed hopelessly concerned with asking us civilians to wrap our pea-sized brains around the riddle of Kardashian’s rapidly south heading rump.

I don’t mean to saddle us mortals with the brutal and honest truth, but let’s face it kids, anyone with two eyes and a couple of brain cells knocking about could draw their own accurate conclusions, given this horror- story picture show.  Pockets of the mainstream (and I mean you Susanna Reid) seem hell bent on railroading us into the belief that our outrage over Kim’s dimpled and puckered rear stems from a societal dislike of female imperfection.  Got that children?  The problem here is us.   As a people we just haven’t evolved sufficiently enough to embrace voluntary female bodily mutilation cellulite. Thanks Susanna.

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What we were all in fact gawping at was obvi Kardashian West’s foray into the world of freak show attraction.  She is now nothing short of being a human cut-and-shut job, having copied and pasted, African inspired curves onto her own tiny Armenian frame.  What the star didn’t account for, was the incompatibility of the two distinct formats.  (There is a donk to thigh ratio, you know?)

Kimmy has learned the short and hard way, that inflating your behind more times than a balloon artist at a child’s party, does apparently have its draw backs.  With even the Michelin man raising an eyebrow at Kim’s blow-up backside.  Perhaps matching your ass to your man, isn’t the same as matching your purse to you dress, Kimberley.  Just a thought.

It’s rather fitting that K Dash has now become a curiosity for disgusted and excitable consumption. The age old adage of ‘being careful for what you wish for’ has come back around to sinks its sharp teeth into her pneumatic not so juicy doubles. Kardashian’s desperation to acquire the physical trappings of black womanhood, has landed her a king sized helping of unwanted extras.  For Blackness, unlike her famed salads, does not come with a choice of sides.  If it did, I’m sure that Kim would have plumped for something a little more palatable than, the bitter tasting; jest and ridicule.

Darling I’m holding a general election in a couple of weeks…

So, I was sitting in front of my fancy Apple computer, when the volume on the office TV was suddenly whacked up to its maximum capacity.  In an announcement that almost made me spit out my courgetti; the artist formerly known as ‘Big T’ proclaimed that the game of political musical chairs (in which the nation has played the role of long suffering fiddler) was not in fact over. We Britons, who have been dreaming of the illusive and distant hope of a ‘quiet life’, have once again had our hopes dashed, most cruelly.

Theresa May standing at the ‘plinth of shame’, (and looking every bit the demon headmistress) casually informed the nation of her intention to hold a last minute general election.  Pretty much in the same way that you send out a group text to an impromptu barbeque being held in your back yard. Apparently May, wants to take Corbz outside for an after-school scrap; in which the victor wins the prize of steering home the Good Ship Brexit.

 

For want of more articulate and nuanced phrasing; this is all getting rather silly.  I really am beginning to feel the withering effects of having to choose between catastrophe ‘A’ or ‘B’.  Although choosing between wanker ‘A’ or ‘B’ is no fairer a prospect.  And of course let us not forget the other course on today’s political menu; ‘Would you like your Brexit hard? Or soft Madame?’

Brexit has been the bomb, that just keeps on exploding.  This little island has seen an endless procession of reshuffles, rearrangements and resignations.  But, now faces the real (and gloomy) prospect of committing for the next five years to a conservative government hell bent on financially throttling Britain’s poorest; while simultaneously dismantling the NHS as though it were an ill constructed set of Ikea draws.  In fact, I believe Theresa and Co have planned to sell off hospital fittings and fixtures in an hour long special of ‘Cash in the Attic’.

But never fear Corbz is here.  We’ve only got to wait until the ‘end of May’ to get our hands on Labour’s manifesto.  Perhaps the delay is in part owing to the possibility of Earth being little more than a stricken wasteland by late Spring, courtesy of DT.  Things are looking up.

Lefties will be glad to know that the Labour leader has his shoulder pressed firmly to the wheel and is tackling this election’s big issues head on; declaring his unwavering commitment to the introduction of four extra bank holidays.  You couldn’t make this stuff up – no really – you couldn’t.

Either way, I think it’s safe to say we’re totally screwed.  It’s kind of a relief in a way, sort of like that feeling you get when you’ve made a total cock up at your dream job interview.  You know there’s nothing you can do but endure the ride, holding on for dear life, however rocky the course.

For what it’s worth, I’d rather throw the country (and myself) into the power of a Corbin lead Cabinet.  Corbz may have the disposition and delivery of a geography teacher who lets you call him by his first name; but I believe he operates from a position of fundamental concern for Britain and the people living in it.  The Conservatives irrespective of their leader have clung to their age old mantra of standing for those ‘who want to work hard and get on’, never once acknowledging that their continual swift and silent pulling of the rug from beneath the feet of the vulnerable, makes this nigh on impossible.

hitting an all time low…

Sadly, I’m now beginning to learn there is truth in the age old adage; ‘all the good ones are taken’.   Though the saying should now be updated to include that all the ‘completely average’ and ‘just about passable’ ones have also been snapped up too. Leaving us poor singletons with a choice more dire than a ‘half off’ Tesco Value chilled cabinet.  I’m dangerously close to stumbling into Carrie Bradshaw territory here, in terms of the ‘whiny bitch Richter scale’ but I am literally so over the legions of pasta-brained male narcissists, posing as the best their sex has to offer. *And Breathe*

‘So what’s his name?’ I hear you ask.  Reader, knowing me, (as you do) to be nothing but an unshakable pillar of discretion, I won’t put this unidentified gentleman on blast by giving such a personal detail away.  However, I will give you enough dirt to satiate your inner voyeur, or at the very least give your tired eyes a well earned five-minute rest from the torrid business of Instagram stalking.

After my hell date with ‘John’ my karmatic guidance system seemed to indicate that there were no new depths for me to plummet to, in the losing game of Love Russian Roulette. Apparently, much like Google Maps and Satellite Navigation devices, the Gods of Karma can also be inaccurate; or in my case completely wrong.

Technically my meeting with ‘Boris’ wasn’t actually an official date, it was more a chance encounter.  We’d met the week before in Starbucks (where else?) after I’d asked him to babysit my MacBook while I visited the restroom.   When I came back we did the whole you’re creative, I’m creative, let’s talk thing, and Boris seemed to be a nice enough sort.  On my bus ride home, I sent him a text asking where I could learn more about his business.  The reply for which came an unduly prolonged, hour and twenty minutes later.  This to me, marked Boris out as a game-player of epic proportions, and immediately my interest in him waned.  Just in case you were wondering, I did not respond to this last text, and heard nothing from Boris for an entire week.  By which point I had sent him to the final resting place for failed paramours; ‘The Island of Lost Men’.  But, our love for over-priced coffee was to reunite us the following Tuesday, and I was left to the torturing tinkering will of the Arabica Gods.

I joined Boris at the table, and being the chipper sort that I am, made light of his week long disappearing act, by asking him ‘which limb he had been in danger of losing’ and ‘if he had managed to find a cure for cancer.’  As Boris laughed along to my bespoke comedy routine, I first told him that I’d love a sip of what had been, in the now empty cup, that sat on the table.  * Crickets * I then said that I’d love a coffee.  * Crickets * By this point, I threw in the towel and bought the bloody drink myself.  After schlepping to the counter and back, Boris was, I believe midway through a business call, okay fine. The call was proceeded by texting and a spell of business calendar organisation; all while I sat in silence at the other end of a table drinking the coffee I payed for.  I flat out told him that the situation was erring on the side of weird and that I really did have better things to do with my day.  To which he responded by asking me to show him pictures of myself (strange I know).  As I scrolled through the pictures on my phone, little did I know that my afternoon was about to get weirder.  It became increasingly and worryingly clear that dear old Boris, was particularly keen to see photographs that captured the image of my body, and not those that captured solely my face. Having now judged Boris to be a pervert, he confirmed my worst fears by making a comment about the virtues of my chest and asking if he could run his fingers through my hair.  Wanting to put a swift end to my stay at Bates Motel, I accepted Boris’s suggestion of ‘going for a walk’.  Which in my head went a little differently, namely with me doing an Usain Bolt.

Our walk contained horrors as yet unknown to me.  Boris trying to hold my hand; me trying my best not to.  Boris demanding a hug from me; me trying my best not to.  The hugging thing was seriously perturbing as the lecherous Boris Kept asking me to hug him over and over again, as apparently I wasn’t doing it ‘right’.  After several thwarted attempts at kissing my neck (revolting I know) Boris asked if I wanted to sit on a wooden stump in a children’s park, you couldn’t make this stuff up.  He then invited himself round to my flat, saying that he could see me tomorrow before his meeting.  Lucky me, just what every woman wants, a complete stranger in her home.  By this point I was more than ready to ditch this bozo and marched off leaving Boris in my wake.  He insisted on waiting with me at the bus stop, owing to the fact that it would be the only way he would get a goodbye kiss.  Realising that his long awaited kiss, would be a ‘no show’, Boris tried to bully me into the promise of lip locking at our next meeting.  Needless to say after waiving goodbye to him from the safety of a moving bus, I never want to see Boris again, despite his undignified texted pleas.

At this point, I’m completely ready to call it a day with men.  Sign me up to be the old lady who wears pink everyday, who lives with a menagerie of animals and whose decomposing body is eventually found to have been grotesquely gnawed at by her gaggle of cats.  Franky it would be less painful…