When Thugz Cry

It's been a while since the last entry to this blog, but something happened today (or perhaps it was yesterday. I've been travelling for 16 hours or so and my grasp on reality is tenuous, at best) that i felt was noteworthy, and so, here i am, noting it down.

Yesterday, i found myself on a plane headed to Dubai, where i would then take a connecting flight home, to London. This information is inconsequential, but i thought you might enjoy the context. Did you? Good. We'll carry on then.

I have recently come to the realisation that sleeping on planes is a sucker's game. You've paid for in flight-entertainment and to waste your time sleeping, an activity you can do when your dead, is akin to throwing money down the toilet. My reasoning on this matter may be dubious, but it's the conclusion i have come to, deal with it.

Doesn't he just look like he's being played by the system? I refuse. I shall be the player. 

So, as part of my new drive to work the system for every penny, i found myself watching 'The Help'. It's a wonderful, uplifting movie that deals with the social injustice that African American's were forced to suffer in the 1960s. It is told from the perspective of a young, aspiring journalist and the Black maids she gets to help her write an expose on the way 'The Help' is treated.

Excellent movie. Everyone should watch it. I'm really coming round to that Emma Stone girl. 

Now, i'm not ashamed to say, this movie caused me to well up. It was a combination of the personal tragedies in the lives of certain characters, combined with the stark truth that people genuinely had to suffer gross injustice like this, every day and in some places, still do.

Before we get carried away with our selves, i was not balling. I don't do that. Just the odd, manly tear. In ordinary circumstances this would have been fine, but unfortunately these were not ordinary circumstances.

Sitting behind me was the rapper Fabolous.

Nice chain.

Crying takes on a whole different dimension when you're sitting behind someone whose art form necessitates machismo and false bravado. It's important to put this in to context, though (I seem to enjoy doing that). This is not the same as sitting behind, for example, The Game. A rapper's whose lyrics are filled with so much anger (and brilliance) that he would probably eat his own chain before allowing himself to cry.

Don't Let 'Em See You Cry, Game! Don't Let 'Em!

Nor is it similar to sitting behind, let's say Drake, who, as much as i truly love him, would probably hand me a tissue and have a little therapeutic cry with me, were he to discover me blubbering in the seat in front of him.

Drake makes it too easy to make fun of him. He's still the sickest around, though.

No, i found myself sitting in front of Fabolous, desperately trying not to cry, all the while, waiting for him to poke his head around and say 'Yo, every body, check this! This N*&^a's crying!', followed by whispers and mutterings of 'that's just embarrassing', 'Thank God i'm not him'...

I wish there was a moral to this story. I wish that Fab had seen me and explained that real men really are supposed to cry and that his faith in man had bee restored, but that didn't happen. Instead, because my brother was too afraid to approach him, i was forced to ask him if he wouldn't mind taking a picture with my sibling.

Perhaps the moral of this story is that my brother and i need to man-up. Yeah, that seems fair.

So Sorry I'm Late, But I Haven't Changed My Watch From BMT.

So, it's been a while - a very long while - since last i posted anything on this Blog of mine. In fact, though there was no official time for me to return, it has been so very long that one could say that i am late, and speaking of being late, i have an anecdote for you that may or may not tie in to the wider theme of this post...

(Did you see the ease with which i just did that? Applaud me). 

Not too long ago, i went to see Fela! at the National Theatre. It is a show that chronicles the adult life of the Nigerian Musician, Political activist and Father of Afrobeat, Fela Kuti. It was easily one of the best shows i have ever seen in my life, but that is not what i'm here to talk about. 

I'm here to talk about my friend who, at the time, worked at the National Theatre. He sat alongside me as the show was about to begin and told me a lot of what happens backstage. He explained that Fela! was always one of the more difficult shows to usher for and i innocently asked him why.For a brief moment, it appeared to me as if my friend was unsure of how to continue, but then he went on confidently to say 'Well, people are always late for this show. They just seem to turn up whenever they want'.

At this point, i turned around to notice that we were in an almost entirely Black audience, with a large proportion of those people being Nigerian and it dawned on me: BMT - Black Man Time, sometimes known more specifically as Nigerian Mean Time. 

For some reason, i couldn't tell you why, Black people are almost incapable of being on time. It's an unfortunate genetic trait and many people are still unaware of its existence. Though, i am not even writing this to spread awareness so much as i write to spread love. It is not our fault that our Body Clocks run to the beat of their own drums. Rather than getting angry, embrace it. If you need your Black friends to arrive for a movie at 5, tell them it starts at 3. That way, you'll only end up missing the adverts, and who wants to see those?

I leave you with this simple phrase:

When Black People are late, don't hate, tolerate. 

A Rose By Any Other Name...

As i'm sure you may have noticed, i have changed my name. No longer shall the title of this blog read 'The Rantings of An Angry (Middle Class) Black Man', they shall now read 'The Musings of An Angry (Middle Class) Black Man'.

Why have you made this change, i hear you ask? Well, i'll tell you.

The reason for this change is that it has occurred to me that i cannot rant in the written form. Let us not get it twisted, i can rant with the best of them, but it seems that i am only capable of this orally. Those who know me will be fully aware of the fact that, provided you set me off on a topic that i care about i will not stop until my opinions, have been expressed. Whether or not i know anything about the subject is irrelevant, i will start on a verbal tirade and though many have tried, nothing will stop me. I even have a vein on the left side of my temple that appears only when i'm ranting for the gold.

This same unbridled passion doesn't take me when i write. Instead, the written word gives me a space to form carefully constructed arguments, and pithy statements, (or complete and utter nonsense, depending on your perspective) in a decidedly more calm fashion.

It is for this reason that i have decided to change the name of this blog, to ensure that it was in-keeping with what i actually do, which is muse.

That being said, i feel that i should leave you all with a parting rant, to commentate what once was, and so i give you this:

You know what really grinds my gears? Double faceted taps!

They are the most ridiculous thing in the world. They are clearly more trouble to make and yet people continue, in this modern age, to make them. By their very nature, they exclude the possibility of compromise and so what you are left with is a choice to either scald, or freeze. It’s ridiculous!

And on that note, the Ranting Black man bids you adieu and leaves you in the capable hands of the Musing Black man. 

F&%k The Police.

I'm young, and i'm Black, and though my hat's not particularly low, the first two attributes to my person have caused me to be mistrustful of the police. I couldn't tell you exactly when this mistrust began or what it was based on, perhaps it was from watching too many movies in which Police officers would ruthlessly pursue innocent Black men as a child. Maybe it started in my adolescence when i saw with my own eyes, Police officers treating people of my skin colour with less than the greatest respect, as exemplified on one particular occasion when i witnessed a Police officer force a young Black man to strip to his pants in the middle of the road, in the heart of Croydon shopping centre, a performance i later found out was illegal, under the PACE act of 1984. Luckily for him, he wasn't a tighty-whitey man, and he was wearing some pretty free flowing boxers. They weren't especially fashionable, but they saved him some dignity. The rest of his pride was lying in the fetal position, crying like a little bitch, before the Police man's heel, but that's beside the point. It's possible that my distrust of police comes from growing up with my mother constantly telling me, 'Don't trust white people, O! Especially not the Police'.

Like i said, i really couldn't say why, but i've never been particularly comfortable around the Police, so much so that i often bring unnecessary attention to myself by looking extremely shifty and anxious in their presence. However, despite my suspicious behaviour in their presence, i had always managed to avoid being stopped and searched by the police by perfecting the art of appearing harmless. This mostly involved styling myself on Carlton from the Fresh Prince of Bel Air. Police officers just don't feel the need to stop and search a man wearing a pink shirt and a brown vest jumper, even if he is black.

Now, this method worked for years, until one night when i found myself walking home from a party in the early hours of the morning. I passed by a Police car and, as i usually did, went out of my way to appear nonchalant, and short of whistling and twirling a walking stick, whilst wearing a bowler hat and monocle, i was about as contrivedly nonchalant as it got. I made it passed the car, and was thinking to myself that being a nineteen-year old Black male, having never been stopped by the police was impressive and perhaps i should have been given a medal.

It was then that a second Police car pulled up and a single Police man got out. I tried to walk past, nice and casual-like, but he very politely asked me if he could stop me for a minute...  I had spoken too soon and jinxed myself only moments before. He claimed that i fit the description of someone who had escaped from a local precinct. I imagine the description was 'Black, with black hair, and black-black, black, black and black. Oh, and he's short'. Luckily for me, the final characteristic of this escaped convict was that he had a scar on his forehead, which i did not.

The moral of this story is that the Police are not to be trusted.

Unless you're white.

Time Travel Is Inherently Racist

Not too long ago i was involved in a hilariously awkward moment that i would like to recount here, for your reading pleasure. I arrived at my flat to find that two of my flat mates were entertaining male company. After looking back at that last sentence i realise that it gives the impression that my flat mates are prostitutes, and so i feel the need to clarify that they are in fact not Ladies of The Night. It is interesting to note, though that we did, after having moved in, discover that our flat was a brothel in the 80s and so, living in a house of three women, i could be referred to as the Pimp of Drummond Street, but i'm not and i think i'll get back to the story. 


Now, whilst the girls were getting ready, i engaged their friends in conversation. For some reason, the topic moved on to the question of time travel. Interestingly enough, the topic is not quite as rare in our household as one would expect. Anyway, one of the young men in question, let's call him 'The Goose' for the brand of whiskey he drank said that of all periods of history he would love to go back to the 60s. I quickly chimed in with my agreement, my gaze cast high, thinking of all the wonderful things i would be able to witness and hear, i also would love to go back to the 1960s, in particular the USA in the 60s. 


A silence descended over the room. 


I crinkled my brow as i thought of what i had just said. I turned to my left, to the second young man that we shall call 'Ralph' for the fashion label his shirt belonged to. He wore a slightly puzzled expression. I turned to my right to see that The Goose wore a similar one. It occurred to me that perhaps i had spoken carelessly. 


'Actually, maybe the 60s wouldn't have been so fun for me...', i admitted. 'You guys would be alright though...'


We then went on to discuss the inherent, but often over looked racism of time travel. The Goose and i then decided it was absolutely necessary for us to write a short skit involving  a black man attempting to purchase a trip to the 1960s America. It would go something like this. 


A young black man walks into a Time Travel Agent's office. He walks up to the main desk and waits politely for the white travel agent to notice him.


Travel Agent: Can i help you?


Black Man: Yes, i would like to book a holiday to 1960s America, please. 


The travel agent looks at the black man with a blank stare. 


Travel Agent: Umm, pardon?


Black Man: Er, i would like to book a holiday to 1960s America.


Travel Agent: Umm, are you sure? His brow furrowed


Black Man: Quite sure. He says, smiling.


Travel Agent: Um... You're black.

The End.

I think it has real promise. 

The point of this post is that time travel is horribly racist and Black people have a very limited product range as a consumer of temporal holidays. It's simply unjust. 

Stylish Blogger Award

So i have been awarded the coveted Stylish Blogger award by the wonderful Melan, writer of the blog London Girl Up North and so, having graciously received my award, i submit to their conditions

When you've been awarded this you need to -

* Thank the person who awarded you and link back to them: http://londongirlupnorth.blogspot.com/

* Share 8 facts about yourself

1. I am 21 this year and unlike the majority of my friends, i relish the thought of aging. It gives me license to behave like a grumpy old man. 

2. I play the guitar and i sing. http://www.youtube.com/my_videos?feature=mhum

3. I am a HUGE comic book fan and minor Otaku. If you don't know what that word means, take it as an indication that you are less geeky than i am. 

4.  I rant with a great deal more ferocity than the written word gives me opportunity to express. 

5. Jesus is my home-boy. (Now, that phrase is so clichéd, you have to wonder, did i use it ironically, post-ironically, or is it now so clichéd that i can say it with complete sincerity?) Seriously, though, i am a Christian and i have taken the Lord as my personal Saviour. Brap. 

6. I also fancy myself a bit of an actor. 

7. I'm working on a few short stories (by working i mean i think about them and occasionally write things that end up in the bin, cyber or otherwise). Maybe i'll put them up here when they're done. 

8. I have what i consider to be far too many shoes for a heterosexual man (14 pairs) and i have no idea how i've accumulated them all. 

* Pay it forward to 4 other Bloggers and let the Bloggers know you have awarded them 

I award this prestigious honour to:

http://thesilenziempire.blogspot.com/

http://beebabs-stinglikeabee.blogspot.com/

http://angel-esque.blogspot.com/

http://londontocornwall.blogspot.com/

Having read this far into the blog, you may be thinking that this 'award' is not actually quite so prestigious, but i would like to point out that i am amazing and if i give some one an award, even a chain-mail style award, it means something.