The latest Tanariwen CD is officially the only thing keeping me alive these days. Their music is brilliant. Every track that comes on i blurt out "oh this is my favourite" before i realise i'm sounding ridiculously fickel because i said that approximately 5 minutes ago when the last track began. That's another point actually. Does this music last the standard wazzerish 3:20mins? No of course it doesn't, it goes on and on for an absolutely minimum of 5 mins which is just as well because it gives me an extra 5 minutues in which i may acutally be able to stop myself from throwing things as people. They blatantly only stopped at like 8 minutes because the wazzers who recorded them couldn't handle it, they clearly would have gone on into the night.
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Tinariwen also manage to do something truely amazing. They manage to un-do all the evil Jenny Valid and her whayt flute have managed to do to the image of that essentially rocking instrument. Are they prancing around in their silk pyjamas playing flute concertos in the corridor like my flatmate? um methinks not. Do they play the piano? obviously not, i mean what kind of self-respecting nomad plays the piano? As if their music wasn't enough on it's own they have to have a rocking story behind their formation as well. obviously.
They were all in Algeria in the 70s where they were seeing refuge from persecution in their homeland. They met in Gadhafi's camps where they had gone to train to fight the scurge of the nation-state that was the central government of Mali. My peeps the Tuaregs want autonomy from the government and more equal distribution of resources across the country, including the north where the Tuareg and Maur are the majority. In Algeria they sung about political stuff and about living in exile. They were also heavily influence by the American Blues they came accross during those years and when they trekked back to Mali rather than carrying guns they were toting guitars. doesn't get much better than that does it?!
Not only are they rocking musicians, they also reinforce the mulberry bush principle. People are not very bright, this we know, but in addition to this the worst things happen when people are in big groups. The mulberry bush principle states that people should not live in groups that are too big to be supported by a mulberry bush. This is why football matches are very bad, cities are evil and Italy needs not to exist.
Something tells me this is very very bad....
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One quote in particular got me;
"Viewers will see the women of the tribe speak with passion, emotion and humour about their lives, in a way that has not been explored before."
It's just great getting into the minds of these women, knowing how they feel, what their emoitions are, what they're thinking. giving us a woman's-eye-view of the world, if you will. What this programme really shows us is that despite living in these backward social groups, suriving on berries and roots they've dug up and not knowing what footspas are, these women are just like you and me. They get sad when someone tapes over their omnibus recording of Eastenders and feel like they can never have too many pairs of shoes.
Went to the see the ubergoat that is k'naan a few weekends ago. I was buzzing for days after it and for some reason while brushing my teeth today(as always!), i was reminded of it. The performance was brilliant etc etc but a couple of things still resonate with me.
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One was the brother pushing all the way from the back of the room to the stage and asking my man K'naan to sing the song again, he was like "huh, that's one thing about audiences back home, when they want an encore they don't want it at the end, they want it right there and then. So for the first time outside of Afrika..." and he sings it again.
And when he did his piece about the racist attack backstage on the Jamrock tour with Damien Marley, the whole place was on tenter hooks and at one point everyone turned around because someone's camera clicked. That's how quite the room was and that's how powerful his words were and it's only the tragically funny ones that stick with me to this day... "I thought this was Sweden a land of peace-loving vegans."
"...because Turkish and Mongolian are so closely related..." is the gem that my goat of a linguistics lecturer slips into class on Thursday. Well of course, i mean it makes sense if you think about it. Some people have told me i'm reading too much into it but i think there a signs everywhere i look. I just clearly need to be in Mongolia.
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Apparently for the last three years i have been messing around in the murky shallows of the second floor and the tepid stagnant pool of the fourth floor when the third was where it is AT. The third floor is ram-packed with linguistics goats. People who are not only apprently passionate about their subject but also already know my name, which is completely ridiculous because i'm a bare-ass, unabashed imposter. Is it full of briefcase weilding coperate lawyers? is it full of incompetent muppet men? me thinks not! So needless to say i have managed to squeeze every available nanosecond out of my timetable and have devoted it to the wonderful field of lingustics. i spend my time (when i should clearly my writing law essays) working out the morphemes in Zacapoxtla (a dialect of Aztec) and composing essential sentences in Korean such as Chelswu sent two letters to Suni. It's great.
coptic_pariah and i are now convinced we are fluent in the above languages as well as Persian, Basque, Thai and Chamorro which we picked up last week. I don't think even the goats on the third floor realise quite what a monster they are creating. When Basque flag-waving, bike-riding goats board the train in Turkey to cross Lake Van on route to Mongolia via Iran, speaking a Somali-Somoan pidgin they best be ready for the consequences. If Genghis could do it so can we. Who says i'm unemployable!
I've heard that in Barbados people have managed to sell varnished cockroaches to tourists under the title 'mahogany birds' which of course makes them highly appealing to your average not very bright tourist. They kill the roaches (somehow) and then open up their wings and smoother the items with varnish so they're all hard and shiny - i swear people will go for anything as long as its shiny.
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if you thought that was bad wait for the news of today....... it is now fashionable / acceptable / surprisingly legal to buy jewel-encrusted cockroaches. No doubt marketed under some name which plays on the whole roach-broach situation, these pieces of so-called jewellry are actually that. They have really really expensive jewels and shiny things (please note) encrusted on their shell. Strange really, encrusted has always been one of those words that i only ever use in negative situations but i thought the same about roaches until now as well. Apparently encrusted has just gotten a bad press over the years and is now selling.
The pins are slid through the shell of the cockroach, the jewel attached with some kind of really sticky glue and hey-ho you're in rio. But perhaps you had not realised, as i had not in my fog of naivete that these cockroaches are still alive. ALLLLIIIIIIIIIVEEEEEEEE i say. For the love of all things good and sweet. As if having a lapel wasn't bad enough you're telling me you're going to stick a cockroach on it, with a shiny thing attached to is back and you're not even going to kill it first!!! what has the world come to.
The guy who is marketing these things, which are apparently really taking off, said, and he wasn't joking,
"it's perfect the roach-broach comes with its own custom-built box which contains dark places for it to hide in and we even put food in there. Cockroaches are great because they eat anything"
I know they eat anything, that's why they're bloody everywhere, eating everything and skuttling really really fast, and hissing AND flying, i repeat they can run AND FLY. RUN AND FLY. how many legs do they have, how many wings? far too many is all i say. We're talking here about mini-beasts that can eat themselves, eat each other and not only surive nuclear fall-out but can actually live for 9 days without their heads. NOTHING should be able to live for 9 days without its head but if it can i sure don't want it pinned to my clothes.jewel-encrusted or not.
yesterday i saw a film called Heading South. It was about a group of middle aged white women from Canada, Amreeka and England who headed to Haiti for some "fun" as they so charmingly put it. Upon arriving they quickly found the 'fun' in the form of a group of local young men. The men were young, muscular, semi-naked, charming and most importantly of all Black, a far cry from their experiences in their own homes.
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The three women who it focuses on find no shame whatsoever in popping dollar bills into the trousers of whoever they are 'having fun' with at the time. As well as their sexual exploits they shower them with gifts and watch with great pleasure as they feed the boys - and they are boys some of them. Legba the main character being 15 when he gave poor 45 year old Brenda her first orgasm. (wait wait, let me bring out my small stringed instrument which i shall proceed to play with a bow.)
The film was atrocious and one of my favourite bits actually had me laughing out loud. Sue the Canadian is talking about how she doesn't find herself attracted te her Black co-workers at home in Canada. She says;
" yeah it's true, they're different here, perhaps it's because they're closer to nature, closer to the sun"
Needless to say all of these women fall in love with these young men and poor Brenda who falls in love with the lithe Legba offers him a passport and a better life. Just about the only thing this film does have going for it is that he refuses. Having no interest whatsoever in obtaining a passport and heading back to Savannah, Georgia with her or with Ellen, the French Literature lecturer from Canada.
There is far too many naked Black schlongs in this film just to prove that even if there are trying to make a point - God forbid - they have fallen far short of the mark. Albert, the mardy old waiter at the restaurant was the only reason i didn't stop watching after the first 5 minutes. He's from a long line of proud Black men ( oh, you don't see very many of those around here these days do you)and he says of his father
"he used to say that whites were equal to monkeys. Whenever he saw a white man he used to have to look behind him for the tail"
The film is worth it for this line alone and for anyone who is thinking about going into film-making/directing as a brilliant example as to how not to do it. I'm still wondering whether Heading South was just a bad translation of Vers le sud or a deliberate double entendre.
an inocous small ex-fruit it is not. sultanas are evil and need to die.
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My hatred of sultanas began at an early age. My dear Grandmother who has almost lived in three centuries makes what she calls a curry by adding sultans and apples, yes that's right sultanas AND apples to her beef casarole.
Yesterday i had the pleasure of attending a 90th birthday party of an old next-door neighbour.Old in that he's 90 and that he was my neighbour 21 and a half years ago. Said neighbour now lives in the hell that is Dover. Not even Dover in fact, something worse - a willage near Dover.Contrary to my estimations i was not the youngest person there. I was however the only person there not in floral frocks, who had arranged the floral table display and done the floral icing on the cake and i was definately the only Blek.
It appeared nobody wanted me and my long-suffering mother sitting on their table nor to talk to us so we quickly found ourselves in isolation in the corner of the room between the members of the WI and the macrame group. Finally it was time to eat. We had been travling for hours in fact days to get there and the thought of a meal, or at least that British favourite -"nibbles" at the end of it all was the only think keeping us going. The jury's still out as to whether i am always this stupid or whether i was having a particularly vacant day. what was i thinking? there would be no wali na mchuzi, not even any tambi, this was whayt do and the food was going to be very whayt.
As we neared the table i saw handy-yet-whayt labels explaining what everything was. This were not really needed anyway because it was self-explanitary. Eat me and you will die. Coronation chicken -didn't that happen about 55 years ago?, salmon mousse, eggs with maiyonaise -eggs and mayonise TOGHETHER, quiche lorraine, ham and mushroom quiche, gammon, haddock, past salad with spring onion sauce, potatoe salad, sausage rolls, scotch eggs, oh and the list goes on. I quickly scanned the giant table for anything that looked unoffensive and that's spoon hadn't already known (in the biblical sense)any meet or fish. Almost impossible but tucked away in the corner my eyes spotted the most unlikely thing even. Tabbouleh. No it couldn't be i though. couldn't possibily be. well it was the safest looking thing by far so i made a beeline for it. i managed to make it back to my table with a tiny spoon of the offending substance and a great big hunk of bread. The Shakleswell tabbouleh turned out to be made with Quinoa rather than bulgar wheat -even more surprising and wasn't that bad all things considered BUT, you've guessed it. It had sultanas in it. Why? why? it just makes no sense to me whatsoever. There was no way i was going to eat them but likewise i coulnd't really leave 60 sultanas on my plate, i had already drawn enough attention to myself as it was by just turning up, what to do? i looked around desperately, not even any ashtrays or bins in sight. i looked to my right. it was my only option. i stealthly began depositing spoonfuls of the sultanas onto the plate of the toad of toadhall-esque woman sitting next to me who was so busy telling us about her new Stannah stair lift that she didn't notice. phew. i made it out alive and live to tell the tail. until we meet again sultana.
all my life i have been the subject of the NHS racialy slured policy. When i was little i was forever being jabbed and tested for sickle cell anemia. When i went to have my teeth taken out in my early teens i was given yet another sickle cell test "just in case" i was going to be a sufferer. The europeaness of my socially conscious afrikan american mother seemed to be of no importance to the doctors who clearly needed to go back to their secondary school biology classes to be reminded there was almost no chance of me being a carrier. As if that wasn't bad enough i was also subjected to random, secret HIV tests, again "just in case". You never can be too sure about these things. The fact that i was a 13 year old Black lass obviously helped the proceedings.
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This time however the Health Service has gone one step too far. People in england are suddenly obsessed that people from "migrant communities value male children over female children". As a resultof the lack of civilisation of Black, yellow and brown people and their sheer backwardness, the health service has decided to take matters into its own hands. A friend of mine is pregnant. She is Black and she is not allowed to know the sex of the baby. It has always been standard practise in England, from as long as the technology existed for people who wanted to know to be told to the sex of their baby. From now on however all people from 'ethnic minority communities' are barred from this information.
Terrified that all people who score anything above a late on the beverage scale will abort their pregnancies if they discover it is a girl, the whole system has been changed. This got me wondering, what if you're a late but your babyfather is a capucino? or what if you're just a slice of apple pie, the babyfather is also a slice of apple pie BUT you're no longer with him and the guy who you're at the hospital with is a wedge of chocolate cake? what is the protocol? are they going to start looking at the names of mothers-to-be and saying "oh i think she'd prefer a boy, best not tell her"? what will be the next terrifying step the NHS will take? perhaps the next time i go to the dentist with a cavity i'll have not just a test for anemia, sickle cell anemia and HIV but i'll also be prone to an involuntary pregnancy test and a pyschometric test to ascertain my my likelihood of aborting a girl child. maybe i already have been.....
we were getting on fine, things we going pretty smoothly all things considered, no arguments, neither of us were seeing other people - more out of practically than anything else - but then it all had to end. Two months ago it hit. My teeth had let me down. I had a cavity. My first in years.
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After years of bad teeth during which i had memorised my dental chart backwards and forwards, about 8 years ago finally left the office-cum-dentist sugery along with the hundreds of other kids at my school with the much saught after "clear" ringing in my ears. I would skip around school all day and not eat or drink anything that had even been on the same shelf as sugar for weeks afterwards.
My dentist was a small, friendly man (aren't they all), but he had the most impressive nervous tick ever and would blink about 10 times a second. I am almost certain that he would have been refused a driving licence on the grounds that he clearly wouldn't be able to tell if the lights were green or red but apparently it was fine for him to be unleashed on small innocent children with a drill in his hand. The fact that he spent more time with his eyes closed than open never seemed to have caused a problem to his sucessful dentistry career.
Once i left school there was an absolutely BRILLIANT Ghanian dentist where you didn't even realise you had even sat down in the chair and he had already finished and sorted everything out. But then there were privatisations and extended stints in far away places and i found myself in a woeful situation - dentistless.
Unfortunately my hyperactive paranoid (dear) mother managed to get me the only NHS dentist left in the land and i waltzed into the surgery confident. Thoughts of "Clear" making me positively cocky. But wait, get a grip, that was 8 years ago! a CAVITY had been detected, apocalypse had truly come.
That was two months ago now and i had managed to skillfully avoid going back to have said CAVITY( duh duh duuhhhhhh) filled. But alas no longer and today was D day. Several morphine filled needles, noisey drills and patronising comments later i left the surgery with spit dribbling down one side of my face, considerably poorer and im not sure any more beautiful......and now i have just dicovered that a bit of the tooth that was supposedly drilled away is in fact lodged between my teeth and no going anywhere. all for what?????
teeth, you let me down
So it was the first time in a long while that i wished i was also drunk. Either that or that i could hack away at my arm with a tiny penknife and not feel the pain, you know like those people who get stuck caves and things.
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What began as an innocous jam session, passed through the stages of great fun and musical mulfuddery and landed unceremoniously in accute cringe syndrome.
If you had told me beforehand i wouldn't have believed that i would want to leave a room full of bongos, guitars, a multitude of harmonicas, a double bass and a whole host of shaky jangley things. In my head i still put it down to the alcohol but i think i'm probably being generous and the turn the conversation took was as inevitable as it gets. This was the point at which i did actually burst out laughing.....
"where did you get your skin from?"
Now look, i'm usually quite patient person and perhaps too often try and make excuses for people's sheer ignorance but this had me on the floor in stiches. Telling her I got it on offer from Marks and Spencer would not have cut it. Fortunately for her health she kept on speaking/slurring and i didn't actually have to answer the question.
I should really have seen it coming when quite early on in the evening the topic of the those unmentionable books came up - needless to say positive comments were flying left right and centre. I just went off on one as i do with few other things to the same level as AMS and the lady's detective series. Before i knew it i had managed to silence everyone in the room with my views which were obviously not held by the other people in the room. so really i should have anticipated some kind of ridiculous comment but it still always catches me out. The ingenuity of people's idiocy is truely impressive!
if you have your application for asylum turned down by the UK smotherment it would seem you have two options. One you go back to the country that they think you came from. This may well be on the opposite side of the planet from whence you camebut no matter. last year a man from Surinam was sent 'back' to Nigeria for example. Some people do of course go back to the country they did originate from, a few months or years later, often taking with them children who have no memories of that land and do not realise that they hae not lived in England all their lives. That however is a different issue.
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the matter at hand here is what have become known by the lovely british terminology as 'Destitute asylum seekers'. Under the current system in England a person can be in the situation of having their claim turned down and their grounds for asylum not accepted but at the same time it be acknowledged that it is not safe for them to go back to their country of origin. In this case their meagre allowances that would have been getting up until this point are cut off, they are thrown out of any accomodation that they might have been allowed to inhabit and that's it. full stop.
"We recognise that it is too dangerous for you to go back to your own country but we're not going to give you refugee status or support you in anyway"
These people have nothing. Absolutely nothing. This is the proverbial icing on the fruit cake with marzipan, the chocolate-orange gateaux. As if the system were not already a mess they just have to add this into the works. what do they expect people to do? i mean seriously, beg, steal, borrow from their already poor friends, what?
Oh yeah, and one more thing, under the government policy they are not allowed to recent NHS medical treatment after their refusal meaning that women in labour are being asked if they can finance the cost of giving birth to their child-to-be and people are being refusing medication that their lives depend on.
people are really not very bright
so just when i was thinking it was time to give up on the world completely i saw a shadow of hope emmiting a dull glow on the side of the street. Just up the road from me there is a commmunity piano. It's outside someone's house for public use. It can be played by anyone at anytime between 9am and 9pm. What a genious idea. The piano, that awkward, expensive, immobile, exclusive, whitest of instruments has now been opened up to whoever would like to have a go.
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Needless to say the local council was not too happy about this situation and they tried to get it removed. They served it an eviction notice and said it was a health and safety risk, causing a hazard on the road or getting in the way of refuse collection. "RUBBISH" said all the local residents who rallied to its support and the piano was allowed to stay. It has been given an arts fund grant for maintainence etc and is now completely at home on the pavement of an inner-city road. we need more of this. LOTS more.
So here's the problem. I drum. I love drumming and since being back in Sheffield i have managed to wangle my way quickly back into quite a good drumming group. The problem is they are ALL, without exception, wazzas.
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Let me set the scene. Last Sunday we had a gig at a local community festival. This week we were really lucky in that we had a great Gambian Kora player to play with who is over here for a while trying to launch his European career etc. So he's doing his thing on his kora with his socks and sandals and we're drumming, you know, as you do. BUT... the guy who leads the group - the Dyspraxic Weasel is jumping awkwardly around the front of the stage with a great big West Afrikan drum between his legs banging away on it. Every now and then he drops to his knees and starts tapping at an upturned calabash with a couple of sticks, apparently beatig out some kind of rhthym (apparently). As this was the first time i had drummed with this particular combination of people i sat there, in front of the quite sizeable audience trying just to keep breathing. How on earth had i ended up there i kept on asking myself. I vascilated between positive thoughts of being the only Black face there to not so positive thoughts where even i myslef could have understood any deaths threats that might have come my way from my fellow Bleks, Calads or brown people who were by this time comprising the vast majority of the audience. The only way i could cope with it was to try and distance myself from the whole fiasco that i had found myself in the middle of, perhaps by smiling a bit and move around as though i could actually hear the music and had at least one rythmical bone in my body..
At least the Dyspraxic Weasel was showing some level of activity and in his defence he was 'getting into the music' (shudder). The rest of the group were sitting there as though if they move a single muscle in their bodies, including any muscles relating to smiling or enjoyment, the cosmic order of the world would be disturbed. They looked like the most miserable bunch of people in the world, who by chance just happen to be drumming some really funky up-beat music.
No concensus has as yet been made on what we shoud wear. Two of the people have chosen to wear 'authentic' Afrikan tops and the rest of the group rock up in an assortment of mismatching 'colourful' clothes. This again sits somewhat uneasily with me although it is far preferable to us all having to wear some kind of faux 'ethnic' print leotards.only just though.
So is this it? is this my future? If i want to be involved in any of these kind of events in this wretched continent are my playmates always going to comprise of badly dressed aging hippies -the true 'etnofreake' and wazza ones at that? Am i doomed to beat out amazing Afrikan rythms with a white man from Slough or an assortment of pastey people from assorted equally as unbearable places? will my practices rooms always be full of empty cheap beer cans and most importantly of all, will i be shot if i smile? what should i do? next practice is tomorrow.
my new job at the Ethio-Cubano restaurant in Steel city warrants a blog all of its own. It is the ultimate job. In fact i think it is almost my ideal job because in a way i am being paid to learn a language.
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Yesterday there was only one, yes ONE, wazza* couple in all night. That means that for the rest of the 500 hour-long shift that i seemed to be doing i only heard English for about 45 seconds, given that i wasn't actually sitting at their table. The rest of the time i am truely immersed in the joys of Amharic. I can now say, cool, two beers please, more injera, small black plate and what did you say? I'm working on the minutia that are greetings and counting past three but it will all come in time. Yes i may well be spending the majority of my time with my arms up to my elbows in skin soft fairy liquid which i tell you leaves your skin not particularly soft unless soft in a concrete slab that has been submerged in sea water for 3 milenia, BUT i am loving every minute of it. Plus i get a meal. This is VERY dangerous as anyone who knows about my love of Ethiopian food will realise and seems to be the only thing that has got me to take up jogging again.
The staff( um there are 3 of us) are odd. Some lovely some not so lovely but all of them are Ethiopian, cue cheer for another wazza free environment and more chance to forget that i am in this wretched continent again.
Just about the only downside is i have been asked at least ten times if i am halfcaste- seriously people i thought we agreed to leave the 1950s behind us. At least the majority of the time people just talk to me happily in Amharic and im none the wiser until i bring them one plastic hippo instead of two anwazi tibs!
* wazza -slang from the Kiswahili word Wazungu = white people =people who get dizzy and run around in circles. coincidentally rhymes with chazza =Hebrew for pig.
Some of you may not have noticed but the Fallopian national team is not present at this year's World Cup. This is not, as the media would have you believe, a failure on their part to qualify. The Fallopian national football team has been the subject of a visicious victimisation scheme and one which must be brought to light.
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In short Fallopia were disqualified from the competition by the way of a minute FIFA sub-clause ruling which does not allow wooden spoons over 6' on the pitch. No self-respecting Fallopia, especially not a sporty one would go anywhere without their giant woodenspoons which everyone knows must be 6'1'' long. By way of some minutia in subsection 113(c)(1)(A) FIFA are claiming that this extra inch of wood turns the wooden spoons from their innocuous position as an implement in a traditional game to a piece of viscious weaponary.
Dear friends, it is on this minor detail alone that our beloved football team have been disqualified from this important international sporting arena. I call on you all to boycott this shambolic competion in solidarity with your fellow Fallopians. Although the egg and spoon race will always remain the national sport of Fallopia, the warm-centred Fallopia people are always willing to accept new interests into the region and swimming has recently proven popular. The World Cup is football's chance to make its dint in Fallopia and we must unite in this blatant discrimination currently being experiences by our nations sporting heroes.
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So according to a friend who last night went to a nightclub called Sin on Tottenham Court Road, "I have issues".
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Asked, in a very somewhat condescending way, if i ever go out i replied truthfuly "No" and was subject to this lovely reply
"Ha ha you're such a joker you must go out last night at Sin there was really good music and three rooms although i was in the VIP room so the music was best and there were free drinks all night and i was in there because i met some big people and god i was wasted and i got dropped home and it was just great and you're such a freak you're such a joker we'll go out together"
Please correct me if i'm mistaken but i thought i just explained that i do not go 'out'. why is it that no matter what you answer to'out' questions you always end up there?!
Do you want to go...?
are you going....?
shall we go....?
are you wearing that...?
which bag shall i take...?
have you got the matching dog to go ......with?
What is it about 'out' that gives it such invinsible properties. Any normal person talking about a normal subject would accept no as an answer and move on perhaps ( if you're lucky) shame-facedly.
"shall i saw your leg off?" simple and trustworthy response " no thank you i quite like it" - done deal. the person does not generally continue undeterred and pull an blunt double-toothed saw from their tool bag and start hacking.
So why when it comes to this will no one ever listen to a word i have to say on the subject? No i do not want to go to 'Sin' and be felt up by some letcherous old men with more money than sense. no, no, honestly i'm fine i'm not going to go to 'bed' or 'house' or 'motions' or 'fountain' or 'clockworks' or 'factory' or 'the hellpit' this evening, i'm just going to buy a giant packet of satsumas and sit peeling them decadently all by myself and wallow in my selfpity.
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es gab zeiten
um sie vor detschen gaskammern
auf scwangerschaft untersuchen
bevor sie ihnen
in türkische pässe aufdrücken
um drei wochen urlaub
- Nevfel Cumart -
there were times
to german jews
to rescue them
from the gas chambers
make turkish woman
undergo pregnancy tests
into turkish passports
a three-week vacation
attention all Namibians in the disaspora. You country is currently being invaded and needs your help. No it is not the Germans again, nor is it even everybody's favourate newly democratic Sowth Afreeka, no this time it is ailiens.
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They came on their spaceships and have taken over a hugh area of this country. But why Namibia? why? They say they prefer the arid climate of as it makes there lips swell up even more. And as it is the 'craddle of human civilisation' it should bethe easiest place for them to exhulme the remains of all of their long lost relatives - every Eurovision Song Contest contestant ever, that are rumoured to be burried in the Namib desert. They came years ago in serach of green lands and easy listening and ended up in Swakopmund. At first friendly these imposters seem to be taking an increasinly violent approach with more and more weaponary appearing. plenty of anti-aircraft missiles have been spotted and there is even rumour that they will spawn. Although unusual in the martian world where adoption the peferred choice, this particular batch seem to be with child and soon untold chaos will be released on the country.
We urge you all to take up your weapons and return to the land that has tried to squeeze the life blood out of you, return to the land of Grossbarmen, brokkies and goffels. its not too late. if we mobilise now we may just be able to get in before the second generation arrive.
Why, oh why did i not pay more attention at Heder? I can't believe that i let this significant Jewish festival creep up on me completely unaware. I mean it is my duty as a self-respecting Jewish woman to know about these things but every year Shavu'ot (Festival of the weeks) pounces on me like hijabi Fula in a rave. every year.
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For the last two i have noticed the comment on the bottom of exam registration forms that people who need to make special arrangements due to the Festival of the Weeks should let the exams board know as soon as possible. This year due to my continental displacement i only found out about is yesterday. i mean YESTERDAY. Could there have been anything better? it's almost at though it were planned.
Tomorrow, thankfuly is my last exam. Yes indeed, they have dragged on insufferably. yes, its ridiculous to be being examined on a course that i never learnt anything from, which was taught by a cartoon character and an 84 year old man with one tooth, AND which takes 'history' to be 1800-1976. Yes, i sit in the library with its newlight-sensitive blinds dreaming of Paul Daniel and Debbie Magee and still wondering whether that's really how you spell her name. Yes, i am going slighty bonkers, barmy, loosing a couple of my smoothed balls of glass so that i will turn up to the picnic a few sandwiches short. All these things are true. But i only found out about the Festival of the Weeks last night at 1130. 11:30 i tell you! it's no time to discover an important festival which would otherwise have given me a brilliant reason not to sit my exam.
" sorry no i can't tell about the influences of the Christian Missionaries on the Spread Swahili in 1900 because it is Shavu'ot. I am off to eat as many dairy products as possible and put up lots of green things and plants in my house. oh is that a problem? thought not. ok byyeee."
It is at this important junction of the year that i should be eating my dairy meal to remind myself of the milk and honey and not do any work other than read Torah. so why is it that i am still pretending to be reading Historia ya Kiswahili in the library and planning exactly which bag and bikinis i'm going to take to Brasil?
i should have paid more attention at heder. should have listened to my mum.
sometimes i really think the world is against me. who me, paranoid Black woman? But seriously. So this is the story of the hour as it were. My kiswahili teacher, who will remain nameless, apparently commented to this other guy on the phone that "they(ie us) are just a group of girls who have gone to East Africa to have sex with the local men". This my fellow humanbeans is coming out of the mouth of MY supposed Kiswahili teacher. The man who is responsible for my education at this tertiary level, oh and a whole more than half of my degree. He thinks that i went to East Afrika, not to learn Swahili but rather to get laid. The sheer ridiculousness of this affronts me every second in a slightly different way. my first thought was to storm up to his door tomorrow and demand my money back. If my only reason for going to East Afrika was to have sex with a guy then i was severly short-changed, hard done by and i never saw the goods. i demand my recompense. in fact, i demand a quick shag, the sooner the better really, preferably on some kind of desk or swivvel chair. how dare he. how dare he.
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