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…

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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.

Drake’s More life; More like slow death…

I don’t know about you, but I’m beginning to feel that Drake and I have a relationship that’s becoming more dysfunctional than a parent reading Valley of the Dolls, at bedtime.  The inevitable peaks and troughs of a musician’s career, on the whole, tend not to shake the staunchest of fans.  But Drake’s musical stock, soaring at one moment and plummeting the next, is causing a confusion only comparable to that of the Middle Aged attempting to use self service checkouts.  Views, an album packed wall to wall with gems, marked Drake as a risk taker with an ear to the World.  It was (and is) a delightful honey coated, African Diasporic infused serving – and then there was More Life…

 

Just in case you were wondering, this is not the bit where I painstakingly review each song. (I’ve already lost the best part of an hour thanks to Spotify ‘New Releases’, God knows I can’t lose another.) But, right off the bat, I knew that More Life and I would likely get off to a rocky start.  Owing to its declaration of being not an album, but a playlist.  Like the word ‘curated’ and everything else that seems to have trickled down from the world according to Hipsters; the label felt like a cynical attempt to hoodwink listeners into believing the project was anything but, an insubstantial and hollow offering.  Or was that just me?

 

I believe I am not alone in wishing to unsee the horror of Madonna, gnawing at Drake’s lips like a rabid St Bernard.  But, perhaps the pair’s lip locking was less of a kiss and more of a symbolic baton passing.  Drake certainly seems to have taken on the Madonna approach to hit making.  The approach being: when in doubt, seek out an underground black subculture hello Vogue and liberally sprinkle it over said album playlist, all for added cool factor. In his defence Drake has given Grime artists; Giggs, Skepta and Sampha an introduction to the world stage, and I give him kudos for this.  But I can not help but think in songs like No Long Talk and KMT Drake’s aim is not necessarily to showcase the brilliance of British artists, but to let the world know he is now culturally evolved.

 

Six songs into the playlist, I began to think that scientists may finally have succeeded in their bid to make time travel a reality.  Spotify repeatedly skipped past my song choice of Madiba Riddim taking me back to 2016’s Too Good.  Nope, sorry my bad, they just sound exactly the same.  Blem, too seemed to be woven from the tired fabric of rehashing, with its remarkable similarities to the 2009 hit Find Your Love.  Another crushing let down were the opening lines of Gyalchester, which are as follows: ‘Hermes link, Ice blue mink’.  The disappointment of a latte made with one espresso shot, and not the two you requested, sprang to mind. (And those were just the good bits)

 

 

I’m just kidding there were plenty of highlights, for instance Young Thug’s verse on Sacrifices and um… * Sound of crickets * Let’s just put it this way; if you’re looking to be whined to, intermittently then, look no further as Drake does this beautifully on Nothings Into Somethings.  In fact, More Life sees Drake transform the monotone complaint into an Olympic sport, requiring nothing but persistence and dedication.

 

 

Sadly, they do not yet award championship rings for whinging, nor do they award them to those who struggled through Drake’s 22 newest songs.  I know you won’t believe me, but I actually like Drake (all evidence to the contrary).  Nothing will make me get up out of my seat faster than hearing the first notes of 10 Bands.  Mr Graham in case you had any doubt, in the words of Tyra Banks; ‘I was rooting for you’.  We were all rooting for you.  But unfortunately, for me, listening to More Life, was a trying ordeal, to say the least.  Sort of like going through the process of euthanasia, only to find that you are in fact, still living…

 

I’m sorry Mr Jackson…

Did anyone else hear the distant rumbles of disquiet emanating from the world of the perennial fake smile, also known as Acting?  If not, have your cups ready, because I’m about to serve, not Lovely’s piping hot tea, but a witch’s brew.  So apparently someone has like finally decided to say something about America’s involvement in the mass importation of foreign born Black Africans Actors; more specifically those from Britain.  That someone was Samuel L. Jackson, and I believe him to be…how shall I put it?  Displeased.  His gripe is, that much like America’s car industry, many of Black Hollywood’s meatiest roles are now being outsourced to cheaper foreign counterparts…or something like that.   With the the ‘facts’ out of the way (sort of), let me get right to the serious and sticky business of my thoughts on the matter…

While the stormy and difficult plight of the overprivileged nearly always rates highly on my personal barometer of concern.  The sympathy box, which I store right behind the last can of My heart bleeds soup; seems to be running curiously low.

For the record, as a Black Brit, the success of my peers across the pond, made me feel nothing but pride and excitement.  Until 12 Years a Slave…  That, is when I believe, I first thought that those in film were beginning to make bizarre and ultimately jarring choices behind the scenes.  Here we had two Brits one of Nigerian and the other of West Indian descent and a Kenyan born Mexican taking centre stage in telling the story of the African American experience.  While it is clear to me that (sadly) the common threads of Colonial Rule, Subjugation and the struggle for Autonomy run through the entirety of the African Diaspora.  The scars that have been etched on to our souls all differ slightly.  In truth, when I saw that Martin Luther King and his wife Coretta, would be played by British actors, I was deeply disturbed.  Europe seemed an awfully long way to go, in search of actors capable and willing to tell the stories of individuals, so deeply woven in to the fabric of Black America.

The question is; was Samuel L. Jackson right to call this out?  I’m going to say no and here is why.  Jackson has fixed his ire at Jordan Peele’s casting of Daniel Kaluuya in the masterpiece that is Get Out.  However the Hollywood fetish for exotic negroes, did not begin in Black film, and here I think Uncle Sam is guilty of being disingenuous.  Jackson knows very well that he, like many others who frequent the highest echelons of Black Hollywood, made a fatal mistake.  It is the same mistake made by every house negro that ever there was; believing that the preferential treatment he  received stemmed from a place of genuine regard.  That is the real problem here; the elites like no one, and foolish is the Black Actor who fails to realise that the exchange of African Americans for Black Brits is nothing more than a game of power.  Hollywood’s key players are much like slave owners who thought that an auction would be the best way to deal with a slave who got too big for his boots.  Their continental casting choices should serve as a reminder to Black Thespians everywhere, that Hollywood is not in fact ‘our’ house, but ‘theirs’.  It is all very well for John Boyega to brush aside Jackson’s comments, but my hope (though it is a vain one) is that he will come to the conclusion that if America can turn on its own, it will surely not spare the rod when it comes to outsiders.

There is another reason why Jackson’s comments trouble me.  They are a clear indication of the unhealthy dependency Black’s have on the elite.  Jackson is essentially saying that Massa is doing him wrong.  Hello, Massa has been doing the same thing for 400 years, and it pains me to hear a grown man whining.  Mr Jackson I put this to you, instead of relying on the very people who have shown nothing but contempt and disregard for you; start a revolution, start a production company, start a studio, start a film school.  Yes, I hear you, it won’t start out as big or as shiny as what they have over there.  But I can tell you one thing Mr Jackson; it will be ours…

Dearly Beloved Barbz

As the world, and when I say world, I mean Black Twitter attempts to pick its shock soaked jaw from the ground on which the career of Nikki Minaj now lays.  I find myself in an unadulterated serendipitous state of total and complete indifference.

 

Bypassing the tried and tested methods of good old fashioned murder, massacre and crucifixion; Remy Ma instead chose torture.  Teasing her victim, she painstakingly dismembered the body that once was the Minaj Legacy.  Cruelly scattering the charred and unrecognisable remains for all to see.  Though, of late, Nicki has been drug up and down the social media battle field more times than a piece of farm equipment at harvest time; I’m having trouble locating the balm of sisterly care, I am told exists within me.

 

For years Minaj has behaved like a Chihuahua, unaware of its size.  Snarling at other dogs regardless of their stature and fighting abilities.  Almost forgetting the inevitable circumstance would arise in which she would agitate a dog who would ultimately bark back.  But in this case, not only did Remy Ma bark, she bit, and did so savagely.

 

Let’s face it Barbz, you can wrap this situation up in a bow any way you want, but she had it coming. I’m no Taylor Swift fan, (if ever they held a ballot of women who should be voted of off the planet, I know who my ‘X’ would go to) but when Minaj tried to call out Swifty, because she felt overlooked by the VMAs, and then pretended she didn’t.  Few including myself leapt to her defence.  Why?  Because, though Nicki boldly declared she was speaking on behalf of Women of Colour, anybody with two brain cells knew Nicki Minaj was speaking on behalf of her-damn-self.  The only time Roman ever seems to find a voice to speak on issues regarding race is when it directly affects her.  Prosecution I refer you to her confrontation with Miley; her tweet based exposition of Iggy Azalea’s ghost-writers and her recent spat with Giuseppe Zanotti who apparently spurned her desire for a sartorial collaboration. The star’s protestations over the treatment of black women in the music industry all boil down, to the bitter soup of self interest; and when you take into consideration her consistently disrespectful, belittling and disdainful approach to the original Queen Bee; become at once laughable.

 

It is universally acknowledged that the emergence of a Chris Brown or an Usher is entirely dependent upon the existence of a fierce burning star like Michael Jackson.  Similarly, there would be no Nicki Minaj, without the wondrous multi-coloured be-wigged fabulosity of a Lil’ Kim.  No one is asking Onika to fall to her knees at the altar of Kim, in preparation of an hour of self-flagellation.  But a simple ‘thank you’ would be nice. Nicki snatched Kim’s wig off, like literally, snatched it off.  Along with everything else that made Kim the legend she is.  Instead of waiting for the torch to be passed, she stole it, not realising that eventually its flames would burn.

 

So, Dearly Beloved Barbz, I want you to remember the times of joy you shared together.  The jarringly, over-bright lipsticks; the wrongly matched foundation, the tooth decay, and the flipped implants.  Here lies the body of one who sang, who rapped and who sadly and untimely was Shethered.

The Beautiful Black Man and the Beast

 

Without giving too much away, I’m now at the age where the group of friends (call it a pool if you will) I once had in my twenties, has now been whittled down to a puddle subjected to a Sub-Saharan summer’s day.  With the majority of my girlfriends having succumbed to the casualties of marriage and babies, I feel as though I have been left as the proverbial last (wo)man standing.  While I wish my friends nothing but the best, I can’t help but crave to have my own ample slice of the pie we call happiness.

Growing up in a quiet mostly White Middle Class suburb, I, along with my friends, hit life’s key markers.   University, travel, decent(ish) job, but as the token only Black girl in our group I seem to have taken home the coveted prize of also-ran in the game of love Monopoly.

The dearth of ‘Good Black Men’ and its effects on ‘Good Black Women’ is oft spoken about, and has (almost) become part of African Folklore.  Edging out ancient African proverbs espousing the wisdom of ‘de lion’ come new sayings speaking of the pain of ‘de single Black woman’!  Okay, I’m erring on the side of silly but you catch my drift.   To put it plainly; I simply cannot kiss anymore frogs.  The road to becoming someone’s better half has been pathed with rogues and vagabonds.  One experience in particular with a rogue (or was he vagabond?) disturbed me so deeply, I feel that I must share it.

I am certainly not in the habit of man bashing, but in the last few years I have developed a growing awareness of a mutant strain of men.  Their emergence seems directly linked to the popularity of one A$AP Rocky.  The men in question are defined by their aesthetic charms, the fitness of their bodies, the acquisition of stylised designer clothes, the delicate form of their features and to all this they add a generous sprinkling of self-absorption.  Even Narcissus would have to fight to get hold of a mirror in their presence!  Sound familiar at all?  Yes, my date had all the symptoms of one suffering from what I like to call Beautiful Black Man Syndrome.  Disclaimer:  my date, (let’s call him John) artfully concealed his true nature, in our earliest encounters.

I should have known that a romantic liaison with John would have been a miss- step of gargantuan proportions after our first (almost) date. A text sent kindly requesting he meet me at a location closer to my home town (I have no car) and a little further from his, was met with this response verbatim:  ‘I could but, I think it would be cheaper to have drinks here.’  I know right, hardly the stuff fairy tales are made of.  Make no mistake, I made sure that he felt my ire and for obvious reasons I declined his enticing cut price offer.

A later chance meeting in the office kitchen, meant that the wonderful John was able to explain away the many (many) faults of his text.  Inwardly I thought how many single, childless black men, holding a BA and a Masters with their own flat (and own hair) are there left in the world?  Of Course I caved, and I stood in line, like a dummy, for a second helping.

At his suggestion, I agreed, though unwillingly to meet at his local pub.  The pub was part of a chain, nation renowned for their cheap prices and sterile atmospheres.  In short it was the McDonalds of the beverage world. (Oh Coran, Coran, Coran).  A promise was made, that our next date would be of the extravagant/salubrious kind and since I didn’t have a car, John would foot the bill for my taxi home. His offer had all the appearance of what they call a ‘win, win situation’, or so I thought.

The evening began with an explosive and emotional foray into my date’s disappointment at a recent, but unsuccessful job interview.  With scenes rivalling that of a Greek Tragedy, arms flailed about the table as he repeatedly asked me ‘Do you know who they picked?  Do you know who they picked?’  Later he looked me dead in the eyes and uttered the following words: ‘I’m very fragile you know’.  Who doesn’t want a partner who leads with the masculine trait of fragility?  But don’t worry it gets better.  Apparently a great believer in the virtues of self-promotion, John felt no hesitation in telling me of his conviction that he was in fact the ‘total package’ and that though I had seen pictures of his six-pack on Instagram, it was ‘even better’ in real life.  Other high points included him calling me ‘not very bright’ asking me ‘what makes me moist?’ ‘Did I remind him of Jean-Michel Basquiat?’ and the question that every woman wants to hear on a first date ‘do you want to make a baby?’  I won’t even bother mentioning his mid date declaration of: ‘I really want to go and smoke weed’.  Of course I was invited back to his flat to partake of the illegal activity, but I took this final insult as my cue to exit.  My carriage awaited me, or so I thought.  John in the highest (or lowest) form of flakery now asked that since I had gotten paid on that day, and he didn’t get paid until the next month, could I now pay for my taxi home, and he would refund me the cost at a later date. There really are no words.  No like really, there are no words.

I’ve never been one to shy away from a little self-deprecation and though many laughs were had owing to the overwhelmingly bizarre nature of the date, as I settled the fare for my taxi ride home I could not help but feel an intense wave of sadness sweep over me.  Ignoring his obligatory ‘I had such a good time’ evening text it dawned on me that this man, beautiful as he thought he was, felt so comfortable and confident in offering me, this woman, absolutely nothing.  He wanted me to play the role of a sponge, soaked and stained in his own misery, frustration and delusion.  His declaration of fragility, obscured and overshadowed my femininity.  If he as the man in our union had committed himself to weakness, then by default I would have to draw on a strength that would sustain the both of us.  With strength bestowed unwillingly upon me, his natural conclusion was that I of course could fend for myself, hence the self -funded drive home.  My date had decided that he would play the part of one to be objectified, admired and fawned upon.  This would be his sole and meagre contribution to the evening; and in that moment I realised that the roles of Black men and Black women had been cruelly inverted.  He would not provide, nor would he mark himself as a pillar of dependency.  His frailty would be my burden to carry and protect, with his aesthetic raised above on a pedestal for my worship. In short he would take up the woman’s helm and I the man’s.

It was the bitterest of pills to swallow, but I suppose these are the inevitable results of a generation of men parented by MTV.  Clearly they have not yet received the memo that ‘cool’, as far as I’m aware, is a non-tangible asset.  As for me the search goes on…and on…and on.  There will always be a line around the block of frogs waiting to be kissed.  Only next time I’ll be sure they have my cab fare ready.

Hate to say I told you so…

Reader I hope you will permit me to make the most shocking of confessions.  Once I have shared this nugget of truth with your good selves, it may very well lead you to request the forthwith revocation of my proverbial ‘Black Card’.  There too remains the possibility that you may question my status as a true millennial and I am certain that you will think me a poor example of a generation that grew up on a diet of lacto-vegan hipsters, topped with a sprinkling of ‘me me me’.  But if the truth be told, I am not, nor have I ever been a fan of Kanye West.  This is not say that I am unable to recognize his talent, but as Kanye stepped out of the shadows of production, taking centre stage as a solo artist I always felt between myself and him a terrific disconnect. Despite Mr West possessing all the vital components that comprise a top tier rapper, to me there always appeared to be a vacancy in his character.  The discrepancy between who Kanye believed himself to be and who he actually was always somewhat perturbed me.

To call Ye contrary is to call Donald Trump polarising; he is the Black Revolutionary whose song Jesus Walks positions Christianity as a cornerstone of personal strength.  (Despite its introduction to peoples of the African Diaspora being highly contentious given its role in replacing indigenous religious beliefs and its use in the justification of the enslavement of African people.)  Kanye who eloquently rails against a love of all things material in New Slaves, later informs us that his hallway looks like a ‘Monastery’ in his collaboration with Big Sean and Drake Blessings.  Which leads me to bestow upon him the auspicious title of the world’s only anti-consumerist, consumer, who is consumed by consumerism.  Of course we must not forget his fantastically misogynistic labelling of Mixed Race women as ‘mutts’, despite the fact that he is now the father of Mixed Race daughter. Oh Kanye, Kanye, Kanye confusion is thy name.

Yes, ladies and gentleman hindsight is a wonderful thing, and of course I don’t blame you for wilfully overlooking the (endless) signs that suggested Kanye was steadily speeding in fifth gear to destination Crazyville.    But at what point does one abandon ship?

The last three years have seen Yeezus partake in a series of ever more disturbing interviews.  He seems to be more tightly wound than a Swiss watch, so numerous are his ravings that I have to keep a bowl of popcorn to hand for every time YouTube comes up with the suggestion ‘Kanye West Rant’. The general consensus was that Kanye’s madness had reached its apex after that Sway interview. Surely there were no new depths of lunacy for Ye to plummet to?  Trolls the internet over rubbed their grubby hands together collectively relieved that the general consensus could not have been more wrong. A Twitter meltdown ensued in which West begged for handouts from the  elite and also admitted to being $53 million dollars in debt.  Then an interweb feud with Wiz Khalifa lead to the revelation that West does indeed like a ‘finger in the booty’.  And who could forget his May 2016 appearance on Ellen?

There is something distinctly repetitive about the approach West has taken of late to the media in general.  His mind rarely veers away from his frustration with the fashion world.  His self-announced alignment with greats such as Shakespeare, Walt Disney and Steve Jobs.  The limitless virtues of his two dimensional wife and his monosyllabic proclamation ‘we all slaves’. Though Kanye tries to spin his maniacal ramblings as a call for self-contemplation en masse, I can not help but see his words and actions as little more than a reflection of himself. Is his disillusionment with top couturiers a result of their lack of inclusivity to fashion outsiders?  Or a result of their open refusals to include him?  As West cries foul at the Western phenomena of brand worshipping, it seems unlikely he would scoff at the chance to have the public worship him.  Some might say, he would relish the very idea of us 99 percenters being enslaved to his label.

Of his  wife he has declared that she should be seen as no less than a modern day Marilyn Monroe, and when speaking to Steve Harvey he made the startling claim that Mrs West had broken barriers in fashion.  Apparently prior to discovering her cosmetically enhanced form, designers saw women of the curvaceous variety as merely an after thought. Serena Williams and Jennifer Lopez please take note, Queen Kim is an innovator, not an imitator.  In the same interview he also bizarrely declared that had it not been for Kim, interracial couples would be afraid to go to amusements parks. Got that Mrs Loving? Had it not been for Kim Black people the world over would not have the right to choose a partner who burns in the sun and pays £3.50 for a coffee. Kanye’s keenness to remind us all of Kim’s infinite contributions to humanity, only magnifies his own acute awareness of popular attitudes towards her.  The most common being that she is a turd artfully covered in multi-coloured sequins and not his not –so- secret -crush; Beyoncé.  Kanye seems to be going for gold in the buck dancing Olympics, I am expecting any day now the arrival of a new rant in which he heralds this truth; that God did not in fact create mankind on the sixth day, it was the work of Kim.

The days of Kanye challenging the Bush Administration’s anti-black sentiment are long gone, and in its place a new era has been ushered in.  An era of blue contacts, unseasoned Father’s day chicken and styling Caitlyn Jenner. Was I right in my distrust of the simpering, flake-like, wisp of a fool they call Kanye West?  Well I hate to say I told you so…

I do believe there maybe some small hope for our man.  Should he heed the advice he imparts in his song Heard ‘Em Say’.  It is as follows: ‘Wake up Mr West’.