Say it loud, black and proud!

"THE revolution will not be televised, the revolution is now."
(Gil Scott-Heron: 1970).

TRUE, although I watched it unfold on the small-screen, and am still blissfully glued to it now.

It began on Sunday with the first ever black Formula One world champion, and continued with a landslide victory for the first US African-American President.

Chicago or Sao Paulo, may have been thousands of miles away, but as I scurried around the streets of Reading trying to cut my teeth as a trainee journo, I couldn't help feeling a part of it...

This week was a great moment to be a young black (mixed race) male.
Inspire before you expire: anything is possible...

(To be continued)

I’m off to India to become a Naga…

***

WOW! So I have my life back. After finishing my pact with the dissertation devil I can resume my favourite pleasures, namely: gossiping, partying, mooching, reading, and yoga, (but no DJ'ing as my decks don’t fit in my new room), and of course blogging – it’s been a while.

But one evening, after another 13 hour day slogging it out as a trainee journalist, I returned to a house full of ghosts, with no food in the cupboard, no money in the wallet, and the nights drawing in, and wondered whether it was all really worth it?

Retiring to my basement bedsit on the wrong side of town, I flicked gloomily through the credit crunching channels warning me of the looming recession, climate change, and the end of the world...

But something cheered me up – Channel Five's 'Paul Merton in India'.

The programme featured Nagas (the naked) who have no worries at all.

Living a minimalist life, and hanging around in tribes called ashrams, the dread-locked devotees to the Hindu goddess Shiva are devoid of material possessions, and clothe themselves in nothing but ash.

They spend their time worshiping, meditating, sun saluting, and sitting cross-legged on mats weaving necklaces around camp fires.

One evening they entered a beautiful temple to celebrate Shiva’s wedding, where they danced around whooping and hugging each other with eyes wide as space-saucers, and then jumped into a fountain - kind of like a rave without any music.

Personally, I frown upon some of their traditions, such as smoking copious amounts of weed, and balancing large rocks off their penis’ - but I guess they meditate enough to balance out the cannabis psychosis, and are too busy getting wrecked to start a family anyway.

So there you go, I’m shedding my worldly possessions and clothes, and heading for a trouble free life in the sun...

Namaste.

Red Road

LAST week The Secret Millionaire went to Glasgow to work as an undercover volunteer with disabled people.

Property tycoon, Nick Leslau left his Mayfair mansion, and headed off to Britain’s most impoverished city to help some of its most disadvantaged residents. An area that featured was the city’s Red Road estate.

I hate “reality” TV with a passion. Back in the day, when it was all shiny and new, it seemed like a novel idea, but now it’s endlessly churned out over and over again – The Diets That Time Forgot? What the hell was all that about?

The Secret Millionaire seems to turn it all on its head though…

The standard format:

- Someone with few life skills, and who’s done little of note appears on TV.

- They spend a period of time being as nasty as possible to everyone else on the show, and bigging up their ego.

- At the end of the programme they win a load of cash and everybody hates them.

- Why? Because they desperately want people to care about them.

The Secret Millionaire format:

- Someone who’s succeeded in their chosen career, and who’s relatively famous appears on TV.

- They spend a period of time being as nice as possible to everyone else on the show, and keeping as low a profile as possible.

- At the end of the programme they give away a load of cash, and everybody loves them.

- Why? Because they desperately care about people.

They say philanthropy is a shameless form of self promotion, but among other things, Mr. Leslau gave a generous £250,000 to a centre for the elderly and infirm. One blind man was so touched with a donation to help train guide dogs, he promised to name a puppy after him.

Glasgow is miles away from fashionable Mayfair. A 2004 study by the University of Sheffield ranked it as the UK’s poorest city, with 41% of households living in poverty. Male life expectancy in the suburb of Carlton is 54, nine years less than in India (World Health Organisation Report 2008). Some blame the Curry Mile, and all those deep fried Mars bars, others underlying health and social issues.

Red Road was built to re-house slum dwellers in the 1964. The site, consisting of 1,300 homes in two 25-storey slab blocks, and six 31-storey points, dominates the urban skyline.

When first built, it was accoladed as being the highest residential buildings in Europe. Today there are no accolades. It’s notorious for crime, poverty, crack and skag, and in May 2008 the Glasgow Housing Association announced plans to raze Red Road to the ground

Despite their foreseeable demolition, the flats are eternally engrained in history thanks to a BAFTA winning 2006 self titled film. Yes, the flats will live on in the memories of residents, and in the minds of my housemates who I invited to watch it…

If the estate is bleak, then the film is bleaker. It was supposed to be a gritty insight into inner city life, and as I’m doing my MA on council estates, I thought it would be worth a watch.

However, the plot was crap, the acting was crap, there was no insight, it went on forever, and the lead female character did something so stomach churning with a condom I won’t mention it here. After the film, we all felt very sick, and Scottish Jenny told me that I was never allowed to choose a film for the house to watch again.

Here’s a trailer of Red Road, but if you choose to watch the whole thing, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Do something useful with your time and watch The Secret Millionaire instead...

Fix up look sharp...

***
YESTERDAY, I took a trip to the barber. I love going to the barber. As you’ve probably guessed from my previous posts, vanity is my forte. Therefore, I love entering the hairdressers fuzzy and unkempt, like an overgrown bush, and departing looking slick and sharp and walking on air. Yes there’s no-one I respect more than a good barber.

On the other hand there’s no-one I fear more than a bad barber. When you step in that chair, you’re at the mercy of a man with a selection of very sharp instruments…

What about the dentist? You ask. Well, I admit they are also terrifying. But you are more likely to meet a barber than a dentist. You only visit the dentist once a year if you are good, or every six months if you are very good. Anyway, with the shortage on the NHS, and the extortionate fees charged by those in the private sector, many people in this country haven’t had an oral check up since the 1980s!

However, unless you’re an aging Terry Nutkins, or a angst ridden 15 year old EMO, most people go to the barbers at least one a month. Therefore, I reckon that statistically, you’re more likely to be meet your maker after taking your turn in the swiveling seat, rather than the reclining chair.

Even if you put up a fight, and escape with a few cuts and bruises, and both ears and your neck still intact, it’s likely they’ve taken a cheeky swipe out of your barnet. Despite being unharmed, your ego will have been cut to shreds, and that’s worse than death...

Furthermore, the sneakiest of assassins will engage in polite talk with you, whilst carving an obscenity on the back of your neck. You’ll only realise when you get home and by then it’s too late…

MUM: “Don’t tell me that’s fashionable these days?”

YOU: “Oh no! No wonder strangers were walking up behind me and kicking me on the way home!”

Thank goodness my barber was of the first kind. Sadly, yesterday was my last trip to Errol’s as I am leaving Sheffield shortly.

Errol is great. He is swift, friendly and hooks up a fade with precision. Despite being the sole member of staff, people are happy to wait as he lets them watch DVDs and martial arts videos. The price is reasonable, and the chat is intellectual…

“Da parents, dem no discipline the kids. Dat’s wha’ gwaan wrong wit society dese days,” he laments.

“We need to teach dem yoots respect. Ye get me?”

I nod in agreement - although not too avidly or I could end up missing an eyebrow.

Yes, Errol is a legend. He even has a claim to fame: He travelled the USA with former featherweight boxing champion Prince Naseem as his personal barber!

Therefore, Errol is officially my favourite ever hairdresser. Here’s the others who make it into the runners up places…

1. Dan – He’s cut my hair more times than anyone, and kept me entertained with jokes about Eddie Murphy, Luther Vandross, and Fresh Prince of Bel-air.
2. Gemma et al – Manicured my afro for free at the Vidal Sassoon salon. Applied funky colours as I strutted my stuff on the catwalk.
3. Jeff – Had endless fun sculpturing Kid and Play flat tops and B.A. Baracus mohawks.
4. Nariba –Braided and twisted whilst teaching me the grace of the gospel.
5. Bev – Pulled my cornrows so tightly, I couldn’t smile for a week.

Finally, here’s an unconventional barber from Memphis, Tennessee…

Skylight...

***

THERE’S so much I’m going to miss about Sheffield. From an early age, I’ve realised that you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone – so make the most of it. I've always try to do just that, but it's nice to reminisce…

...In this reflective frame of mind, I’d like to thank Justine and the Words Aloud team, and their community of artists and writers especially Jude for all their support...

http://wordsaloud.org/
http://judecalverttoulmin.blogspot.com/

...Words Aloud run a great night in an awesome venue, and I'll really miss them. I’ve loved having the chance to read my work on stage in front of an amicable audience in the cosy Lescar pub. I’ve loved the support of my adorable friends, and the talented poets and thespians who have cheered me on…

...I hope to continue to read in the future. Here’s a copy of my parting reading, and ends my fleeting moments of fame in the Steel City…

******************

SKYLIGHT

I’ll miss my windswept attic up in the clouds, in a house on the hill overlooking sprawling Sheffield…

Homes tumble down the slope to the church tower, then a shallow drop to the landscape below. A panorama of cranes, multi-story glass towers, defunct industrial chimneys, wasteland, and 1960s prefabs…

The Tinsley cooling towers standing like nuclear reactors and the mighty M1 pencils a border on the brooding horizon…

I’ll miss jumping out of bed, pulling back the blind and letting the light flood in. Of feeling the fresh air on my face and the wind in my hair, and loving life – the life of the dreamer up in the attic...

I’ll miss the rain thundering down in sheets, mocking corrugated iron huts in South East Asia, awash with hail and spinning cyclones…

Or the October wind howling round the chimney pots like witches on broomsticks, and their cats with glassy green eyes…

I’ll miss lying on my back in winter, upside down watching snow flakes rushing towards the cold pane from the blanket white sky…

I’ll miss watching the snow pack melt like a retreating glacier as the pallid January sun radiates its tepid glow. The snow shrinking to sugary crystals, then draining in a web of braided rivers…

I’ll miss the warm summer twilight. The sunset in the west, a golden peach haze, turning salmon as each second slides by. The scudding cumulus clouds ripening to blueberry, and down below the darkening landscape is lit up by thousands of street lamps…

I’ll miss those same street lamps as I stumble up the spiral staircase at 7am as the dawn advances on the sleeping city, and ghostly party people return to their graves. The stars fade and Venus orbits…

I’ll miss those drab days of deadening northern drizzle, when my attic is shrouded in cloud like a castle on a misty mountain, and I’d rather just snuggle under the covers of my four poster bed…

I’ll miss spinning tunes, getting ready to go out, and late nights struggling to meet deadlines typing deliriously on a laptop that glows like iron in a steelworks…

Yes, I’m going to miss my windswept attic up in the clouds, in a house on the hill overlooking sprawling Sheffield…

Kids of today...

A FEW months ago I made a solemn promise to myself that I’d challenge IDIOTS on public transport. Last week, I broke that promise, for two reasons…

• The boys in question might have MASHED me up
• These were child GENIUSES.

Let me explain:

Back in the 90’s, when I was growing up, we had these gadgets called WALKMANS. They were portable cassette tape recorders. So if you were on the move, you could still listen to 2UNLIMITED through earplugs. Clever, eh? The device was named a PERSONAL STEREO.

Kids of today? Well it’s all I-pods, and flashy mobile phones that double up as mp3 players. But it’s not personal anymore. Every time you get on a bus you’re subjected to whatever garbage the spotty, greasy adolescents are listening to…

But wait! Hypocrite, you say! What about the GHETTO BLASTER? Well yes, kids of the late 20^th Century did sometimes bring BOOM BOXES on the odd public transport trip. But that was different: with one of those babies you could blast out KRISS KROSS (or other hippety-hoppety) loud and proud, at a decent decibelage. Now, groups of pikeys slouch on the back seat, listening to something that sounds like it’s coming out of a TIN CAN…

....Come on! If you can’t keep it PERSONAL, at least you should play your tunes through a device with a decent amount of bass!

Anyway, I promised myself that I’d challenge these fools next time they got on the bus.

The problem is, EVERYONE on board can’t stand the rackett but NO-ONE does anything. Rows and rows of grown-ups sit there and cringing, or playing with their mobile phones as if they were video games. How many texts are you sending? Adults have become COWARDS these days, and it’s EMBARRASSING…

…I mean, ok there is a rise in STABBINGS and SHOOTINGS over the last two years. However, when I turned towards the back seat once, it was only a pair of 13 year-old girls with pig tails. GANGSTERS? Please! No somebody’s got to be grown up and take action.

Yet last week, as two HOODIES sat down behind me, I didn’t kick up a fuss, but got out my pen and pad. You see, this summer I’ve immersed myself in the life and culture of residents on a Sheffield council estate as part of my degree`. These two, with their swaggers, wonky baseball, and coarse language, set the scene of urban life perfectly.

As I looked out of the grubby windows, the rattling BASSLINE HOUSE, pumping from their pathetic MOTOROLA’S provided a gritty backdrop the grimy streets that flashed by. I was even nodding my head and tapping my feet to the beat. YEH BWOY!

Little did they know, but they were actively engaging in an MA in Print Journalism! I really wanted to congratulate them on how clever they were, but then stopped myself – I didn’t want to get SHANKED!!!!

Why?

BRIGHT young minds have encouraged me. Many infamous bloggers have set the script over the past ten months...

The ginger ninja with killer cooking skills, the naturist who chews twigs whilst playing the clarinet, the talking haggis, and of course the English rose who laughs in the face of authority, and has trouble eating marshmallows.

This summer, as we sit in a house on the hill, drinking port, eating cheese, and gossiping about our social circle, I realise that I know a special group of people:

Over the past year spent my moments with many gifted characters. The pixie from the East End, who is always late, the handsome tractor boy who loves soggy biscuits, the Yorkshire lad who dreams of being an anchor man, and the Irishman with an indestructible, or invisible liver – I can’t tell which one.

So why I am I writing this? I guess, as we all part our ways, it’s a way of keeping touch. A way I can share the hopes and dreams of these beautiful people. I love them so much, and blogging means we can all see how our lives unfold.

They have given me some great times that I’ll never forget: except when I was woken up at 3am on a freezing pavement by a stranger who paid for my taxi home. So if you are on my wavelength, and catch my drift then read on, if not you don’t know what you’ve missing out on...