Ode to being white

So in my next life, I need to come back as a white woman.

In my current job, there is a thirteen week waiting list to see a psychologist/psychiatrist (I’m dealing with all the adolescent nutcases of inner London, from crackheads, to potheads, to alcoholics, you name it.)

So this woman calls about an hour before her appointment to cancel it. Her excuse: she’s just taken her cat to the vet, and now she’s too tired. And as she’s seven months pregnant, she doesn’t feel that she should be expected to go out again.

I’m thinking, mate, there are women who deliver their babies in the fields or the rice paddies. Then pull down their skirts, pick up their hoes and get straight back to work, to have more babies, cook more meals and take care of their families.

And not complaining about the alleged “headache”.

And the award goes to…….

So I went clubbing Saturday night, to be more accurate I went to a club and spent like 9tenths of the night sitting down. I knew there was a reason that those dancing shoes had been retired from active public service.

My body is now officially kaput, I danced like less than 10 songs the whole night, and I was there for FOUR hours. My back wasn’t even just creaking, it was like a banshee on steroids during a full moon. And as for my legs, well, someone with four wooden legs is better off.

Anyway, twasn’t all bad. Ndakakechwa na postman. Half English, half Maltese. So from about midnight till 2am we were talking, I’m thinking he’s cool. Now he’s walking me home and complaining about the weather.

Me: Tis bitter cold and I am sick at heart
Him: huh?
Me: It’s one of the opening lines of Hamlet
Him: (blank gaze in my direction) Huh?
Me: Hamlet, by Shakespeare
Him: (further blank expression) Oh, that one!
(to myself: Duh, no, Tower Hamlets!)

Fair to say that after that I was like there’s no winning in this life. Dumbing down is not an option, what does a girl have to do in this life to get hers?

Partying a la zimbabwean

It’s been a while, my first world computer seems unwilling to host third world websites.

But I digress. So, yet once again it has been confirmed to me why it is that I tried to stay away from Zimbabweans this end of the diaspora. My uncle turned 50 and so his relatives decided to throw him a ‘suprise’ birthday party. As organisation goes, these people could be taught a thing or two by schoolground bullies, coz the words ‘piss up’ and ‘brewery’ immediately spring to mind.

This thing was supposed to start at 2pm and the first prayer (I kid you not, the first of many, many a prayer) was said at 9pm to get proceedings rolling. They even had church songs. It turned out to be more of a prayer meeting than a party, although on the booze front, they did alright. Us Catholics and a spot of the strong stuff, can’t hold us back from our boozy pleasures, since the whole celibacy thing seems to be a big deal (think 27-year old virgins. PLEASE!).

I ask you. Peeps get me out of my house in sub-zero temperatures to force me to pray on a day that’s not Sunday, what’s wrong with folk? And who can forget how natives love the sound of their own voices, and that tedious habit of announcing zvipo, punctuated by a church song and a prayer. A bullet to the head would have been kinder, kinda like putting a dumb animal out of its misery.

Times like that make me wish for the hedonistic bliss of Scud and Nanny.

As sorry performances go….

and this is no reference to what’s been happening in the sack either. Or not been happening in all honesty.

It’s just not cricket: Zimbabwe losing to Kenya, and looking like they are going to hand the series to them on a silver platter. 134 runs was a poor total to have to chase, but to then compound issues by putting on the scoreboard just half of that, that’s just inexcusable.

Chero boozers league yaana Trevor could put up a better show than this! Remember playing rounders as a kid; this lot are just overpaid, over-inflated ego-ed seven year old rounders players!

Agony Aunty Elle to the rescue…..

From my observations in the recent past of my male peers, it seems to me that a lot of them are in need of some reeducation on the point of the female psyche. I do believe it was Andy who earlier pointed out that he’s never yet been with a woman who did not need to be told he loved her before he could gain access (and I’m guessing it was limited access at that!).

Let me start by saying that most of you are going to be dealing with the 99% of women who have not read THE BOOK, and therefore are not enlightened. Trust me when I say that this will open up many, many avenues.

First point is this: when you tell a woman that you love her, you are essentially painting yourself into a corner no larger than a square inch, that will cause you more headaches than the few awkward gropings that she will have indulged you are worth. What you need to tell her is this: that you are afraid of commitment and that you are afraid to fall in love because you are afraid of being hurt. That you may not love her yet, but that you are prepared to try.

Second point, women will not accept truths that are unpalatable to them. So when you have told her this, her brain cannot accept the fact that you could possibly be inured to her charms, and what she will hear is that ‘it was only all the other women before her that you were afraid to commit to and could not fall in love with, and she could be the one to change all that.’

If she’s anything like any of the women I know, she will then literally bend over backwards to ensure that she keeps you happy, and will entertain almost all demands (of course this would be the appropriate time to test any boundaries). All women love a lost cause and a bad boy, it brings out the reformer of missionary zeal in them. Women always want to believe that they can change a man to suit their needs and purpose.

How many women do you know who knowingly go into a relationship with a man who they know to be involved elsewhere, but hang around endlessly in the hope that like Saul on the road to Damascus, he will one day see the light and see her for the nubian goddess that she believes herself to be.

Which brings me to my third point: because you have now told her the truth about how you are not in love with her, and have made her no promises, it makes it that much easier to leave. She has no recourse for complaint, as they say in the fine print ‘the judge’s decision is final and no correspondence shall be entered into’. You can thank her for any services that she may have rendered, but she needs to get a-packing and get a-stepping. Of every 100 women that you come into contact with, this will undoubtedly work on 99 of them. I have that much faith in the general gullibility of my female counterparts.

So go forth and multiply; a word to the wise, do not try to change this winning formula. Stick to the plot and the results will speak for themselves. If not, I will chop off my dreadlocks, fry them in butter and eat them one by one.

Julia Roberts would have nothing on me

In my not so numerous dealings with black men, a phenomenon manifests itself inevitably, when within a few short minutes of meeting them, they utter the words ‘I love you’. Now if you want me to break out in hives, and run screaming into the hills, this is probably the best way to do it.

For those of you who may have watched Julia Roberts in ‘Runaway bride’, she could not hold a torch to how fast I can scarper into the middle distance at the sound of these chilling utterations. Granted one looks for the most surefire way to guarantee a shag, and I’m sure with a lot of women it undoubtedly works (why change a winning formula and all that), but that’s a sad indictment on black women then.

If all it takes to get them on their back (or for the more adventurous, on all fours)is just to hear the words ‘I love you’. Lust is a concept I’m very familiar with, and am more than happy to indulge. Don’t waste my time by telling me that you love me, what can you possibly love within 5 minutes of meeting me. Life would be so much easier if people were just open about what it is that they wanted, and were out for. Please someone tell me why these shenanigans continue?

To compound the issue, once you dump her (which inevitably happens because like the ‘love thunderbolt’ that would initially have struck, it’s all over in a flash of lightning) you have a bunny boiler on your hands who won’t take no for an answer. Who won’t stop calling. And won’t stop texting you. And won’t stop making demands of you. And won’t stop reminding you of how good you once were, and could be.

And six months down the line she is still stalking all the places that you frequented in happier times. So is it worth the hassle?

Dusting down the cobwebs

One of the drawbacks I’ve suffered in the recent past as a direct result of moving to this country is the freefall of my social life into a dismal abyss. In real terms, what this means is that when any excuse for mafaro comes along, I grab it with both hands and doggedly hang on for dear life, oblivious to any nascent disappointment.

An acquaintance of mine had a party this weekend. So a sister decided to invest in some glad rags and bring the dancing shoes out of their forced retirement. (I think they are actually going to be retrenched soon, they seem to be superfluous to demands). The big day dawned bright and clear, and all preparations were deemed to be satisfactory, not to toot my own horn, but my sh** was together and definitely on point!

This party was supposed to start at 7pm. Fair enough you give natives some leeway, punctuality never having been one of our strongest suits. 8pm rolls by. Only women are in attendance. 9pm, and I’m starting to get a bit pensive about the lack of any male showing. 10pm, and a certain panic has set in. By 11pm, I’m in a state of hysterical agitation as no persons of the opposite sex have put in a showing.

To exacerbate the pitiful state of affairs, there was not even a drop of any alcoholic or intoxicating substances to dull the edge of such a slump. Celibacy, I can handle. Sobriety might take a bit more work, but that I can handle that too. But to have both unilaterally imposed upon me, that I unfortunately cannot take in my stride. I can be both sober and sexually frustrated at home; no need to leave my house for that cruel and painful death throe.

Jean-Paul Sartre summed it up best when he said that hell is other people. So, now I’m waiting for Christmas. To get me some of that Christmas cheer. I’ve got a week in which to perpetrate some form of evil.

I do believe that Santa likes bad girls, he sits them on his lap and asks them: ‘Do you want Santa to come down your chimney’? Wink! wink! Merry Christmas folk!

If anyone discovers their own planet any time soon…

I have the immeasurable joy of working in a call centre, and thus having to deal with the great unwashed in the form of the English public. The satisfaction I derive from my job can only be compared to committing suicide by gouging myself repeatedly with a rusty and blunt nail.

Or similarly throwing myself in front of a moving train and then failing to die (if its an NRZ train it will probably have run out of fuel before it arrives at my prostrate body, or is it coal they use nowadays).

So anyway, in one of my numerous dealings with the lower ranks of the multitude, this woman is in the process of telling me her registration phonetically: ‘P’ for papa, she says. ‘T’ for tango, she proceeds. ‘X’ for christmas, she declares. I’m like, sorry? ‘X’ for christmas she boldy repeats. MAAAAAAAN!! To compound this, a bloke after that tells me ‘X’ for exit? I ask you!!!

These are the same people responsible for choosing governments, which in turn run the world and shaft those of us in the third world over. Doesn’t that just give you a warm and fuzzy feeling inside. (like how it would feel if you went toe to toe with Ali in his heyday, with you standing at all of 110 pounds).

And speaking of idiots of a very different nature: a male friend of mine sent a relatively innocuous text message to a female colleague. Doesn’t the baba vemba come out breathing smoke and fire challenging him kuti who are you to her? Just when my faith in the male species was being restored! Not! What’s that about?

Why would you want to waste precious shagging time by hunting down any male that comes into contact with your mrs? He had the gall to say: X was too busy to get back to you, so she asked me to find out what it is you want. My friend was tempted to say, oh I just wanted to thank her for the BJ last week. Just to really stir it up.

So if anyone out there discovers an uninhabited planet that’s needing to be colonised, sign me up, coz I needs to be finding me some idiot-free space!?!

And so the story goes…..

and which one of us footie fundis did not see that one coming: from the halcyon days of 1999, to the steady decline of semis, then quarters, then not making it past the knockout stages, the chickens are surely coming home to roost for Fergie.

So for all their grand talk of ‘doing it for Bestie’, it all amounted to nought on the night. To add insult to injury, not even making it through to the Uefa cup!!! And it is with a certain glee that I rub my hands as I await the fallout of this, what with the Glazers having saddled the previously debt-free (allegedly biggest club in the world) Red Devils with hundreds of millions of pounds of zvikwereti. The only red thing they might be seeing for a while is the balance books.

Truth be told, it couldn’t have happened to nicer people. This is one of those situations that will sieve out the wheat from the chaff, and quite a few might be defecting to Chelski in the not too distant future. Or whoever will be topping the Premiership at the time.