2012 New Yr's Fireworks: Sydney v London

–The Big Vote-off

© copyright: columbia

The film Annie musta had a real profound effect on me because to this day, wheneva I orgasm, I see my name scrawled across the night sky – just like in the closing credits of Annie – in red twinkling sparks, surrounded by an unrelenting cacophony of exploding, multicolored, fireworks. Such is the intensity of this recurring, lucid, visualisation, sometimes it is all I can do NOT to scream out: YAS, DADDY WARBUCKS! YASSSS!

Yes, I know, that was waaaaaaaaaaay too much information. But, it does illustrate just why I look forward to the New Year’s Eve displays so much, and tend to replay them on YouTube well into the new year.

I love it. It’s that uncontainable flash of brilliance, which can only be lived-out in darkness, and occurs in those fragile seconds between the kindled powder’s return to ash that gets me every time. Never once have I, on hearing the explosion’s final cadence, not wished for just one more. Just one more…

The BBC’s live coverage of the fireworks didn’t disappoint (although I preferred last year's soundtrack), and neither did Sydney’s six-million-dollar display, which I watched on YouTube.

As discussed in last year’s New Year's Day' post: Sydney used to be, in my opinion, the gold standard in pyrotechnical excellence. But these days, that’s a title I’m increasingly inclined to award to London.

As a bona fide "whinging pom" (that's Australian for: British person), it’s hard to tell if London’s [fireworks] really are better than Australia’s – or if I am a tad bias.

Of course, I'm being extremely pyro-nickety (that’s a homemade mash-up of the words ‘pyrotechnic’ and ‘pernickety’); after all, both displays were absolutely dazzling. But just for fun, and in honour of Daddy Warbucks, I've decided to post both videos and add a little poll (in the sidebar, right) to the old blogaroonie, where YOU can cast your own vote. Cos, as the old adage goes, “If you want flame, you gotta sparkle”…or was it “sweat”?

Anyhoo, I’ll leave the poll up for a month and the city with the most votes, if anyone votes, will receive a cameo in my next big orgasm.

Thanks for stopping by and feel free to leave your thoughts – or links to your favourite firework displays – below.

Have a great 2012!

–Cheyelle

COPYRIGHT ©2012 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED:  CHEYELLE OMAR

New Year…

…Same old problems

"Crimbo's done and anova new year's about to begun."

– Cheyelle Omar

That's poetry from a professional. Don't say I don't never give you nuffin.

***

Shells…

…with holes in them


Last year, I found my Christmas tree. This Christmas, I found my adornment.

The tree was purchased for €1.25 at the Euro Store (that's the Spanish equivalent of a Pound Shop/Dollar Store – the Chinese get about, don't they?). With the exception of a little woollen fairy (to sit atop), which cost €1, I had no intention of buying decorations cos I'm on the road. So, I decided to make them. I resolved – because I walk my dogs along the beach more or less every day – to decorate my tree with shells.

There was a time, in my youth, when I'd comb the beach for the most beautiful shells I could find. But in this year of my life, I combed the shoreline for the imperfect, the wounded, the worn down; shells with holes in them. It's amazing, if you take the time to look, just how many shells there are with holes in them. It's like there's a production line of mermaids somewhere under the ocean, doing it with drill bits.

The Rock River Files | File 3 | Pt. 2

–Potamolgy 101

Roundabouts

Despite the staggeringly beautiful views the house afforded me, I decided to stop and sit by the big roundabout at the edge of town. I can’t swim and can’t drive, so rivers and roundabouts are more or less the same to me; they both ebb and flow, they both have the potential to take you somewhere great (if you judge them right), and they both can kill you. But most importantly, roundabouts and rivers often have nice banks to stop, sit and think at.

I was sat on the gabions, watching tributaries of cars flow around the island, thinking: It’s over. And I’ll probably never come back. But that don’t mean fuck you. It’s just the way it is, the way it should be. I remembered it all, all at once, so I’d never forget: the most beautiful greengrocers I’ve ever seen (pictured below), my elderly neighbour Madame Francine (she hugged so hard I could hardly breathe, and helped me when my electricity cut out), the shortcut – through the field of purple flowers – between the supermarket and square (pictured left), my hamlet and its little winding streets (pictured three below, right), the sun, the light, the warmth, the smell of jasmine and freshly baked bread, the figs, the olive tree and the lazy cat by the drinking fountain. I smiled on the inside (where it really counts), then I didn’t think of nothing much, I just enjoyed sitting there knowing I was leaving…not knowing where the Disco Rollers would take me next.

As I watched the drivers going round, shadows of scudding clouds in the October sky made the distant mountain look as though it was bleeding, and the autumn leaves in the carbon monoxide slipstream flashed by like undiscovered gold. Yes, I thought to myself, this place is definitely a woman… a woman who knows a thing or two about Liberté. I thanked her for letting me in and letting me go. Adieu, Châteauneuf-Grasse. Goodbye, Michael's Castle. Au revoir, France.

***

Gone Fishing

–Back to Back

Sometimes just the mere thought of a comma turns my stomach. I'll be back when I'm done enjoying the sun on my back.

me and boycie – today

COPYRIGHT ©2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED:  CHEYELLE OMAR

Rebecca Ferguson

–My Jam!

Dis is my jam, right now. Rebecca Ferguson came runner-up in last year's X Factor. This song, co-written by Ferguson, is her first solo release. It's called Nothing's Real But Love. And I do love it.

Rebecca Ferguson - Nothing's Real But Love (Acoustic Version) from Rich Lorenzo on Vimeo.

Nine. Eleven.

© Copyright Mark Gudmundsen

The Podigal Daughter™

–An Ear-wok Adventure

Guess what? It's that time of the month again. No, not that special time of the month when the Austrian press reveal details of their latest basement abuser. But rather, it's time for this month's edition of the broadcasting noisefest that is my podcast - Cheyelle Omar: The Podigal Daughter.

This month's show (the last in the current series) includes: show tunes, dwarves, Beyonce's baby (& man), French perfume, diner with Leann Rimes, the cruelty of fat women, and when my friends from Glasgow came to stay.

To tune in press play on the player below, click here, or subscribe free via iTunes. As is customary, below are the links to accompany the show.

• Leann Rimes gets told to eat (Mail Online)
• Definition of a 'lollipop head'
• SJP's skinny arms
• Demi Lovato – "Get over it!"

• McCaffery
• YouTube clip from Seven Dwarves - Channel 4
• Press from Seven Dwarves (Mirror)
 • Seven Dwarves Channel 4 (homepage)
• Small Teen Big World BBC3 (homepage)
• Dwarfism
• Ewoks
• YouTube clip from Small Teen Big World

• Joe - A Misplaced Boy
• Glasgow
• Mo'Nique's skinny women sketch (YouTube)
• Warren G (YouTube)

Enjoy me…

Podcast Powered By Podbean

–Cheyelle Omar: The Podigal Daughter

COPYRIGHT ©2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED:  CHEYELLE OMAR

The Rock River Files | File 3 | Pt. 1

–Potamology 101

Castle Sole-Stab and the Blue Disco Rollers

They say an Englishman’s home is his castle. Well, my father must’ve been Irish cos when he left, he left us in rubble…literally. I’m not here to besmirch him. In fact, I kinda wish he could’ve gone the distance. I liked him. He hit me good. If I’d been naughty, which was often, he’d grab me by my arm and lift me up (NOT off the ground, just upright) and smack my arse. I’d wail like a banshee, but it was indignation rather than pain. I don't think he ever tricked, kicked, pinched, slapped or used a tool on me. Like I say, he hit me good.

My dad was the king of good intentions. Take the house rubble he left us in, for example – the one on Spring Gardens Terrace (pictured, below). His intention – to make the ground floor open-plan by knocking the two ground floor reception rooms into one (the ground floor rooms were separated by stairs which led to the two bedrooms on the first floor), and bring the outside toilet inside by creating a spilt-level toilet/shower room on the ground floor – was good. Trouble was, he was a better writer than builder. Which is saying something considering he didn’t go to school but two days in his entire life. Still, it didn’t stop him reducing a perfectly livable two-up, two-down into something that resembled the East End of London during World War II. I suppose you could say: he hit that house good. Then, just like our stairs, floors and walls – disappeared into a cloud of smoke. 

I often think it ironic that that house was on a street called Spring Gardens Terrace, cos it was always fucking winter in that house.

My mother – often prone to sweeping problems under the rug – put a blue carpet over the rubble; a ladder (in lieu of stairs) up to the hole in the ceiling of our ‘open plan’ living room; and put buckets, pans and bowls in the lean-to every time it rained (to catch the water). It rains a lot in Wales. And that’s how we lived…for years. I can still recall wet weekends, shin deep in a river of shit, having to mop up the rainwater that would build-up in our concrete ‘split-level’ bathroom. I imagined myself in a billion different places – exotic places, sunny places, American places (like on TV) – while mopping out that godforsaken toilet and cursing my father, the king of good intentions, with every twist of the mop (while my mother lay upstairs in bed with her boyfriend – Trevor). I was like a Welsh Cosette from Les Misérables, dreaming of castles on clouds while ankle deep in crap.

Anthem For Doomed 'Youts'

–Rebels Without a Cause

© Copyright AP

So, I didn’t get much sleep last night. I was in bed, here in the south of France, with the lights out and my laptop (tuned to BBC News) perched on the bedside table. The pixels on the screen illuminated a small corner of the bedroom and flickered across the walls as if London’s flames had traversed the English Channel and breached the locked room. I felt incredulity, anger, helplessness and shame – all at once. #LondonRiots, #LiverpoolRiots, and #Toxteth were all trending on Twitter. Furthermore, one of the “trouble hotspots” in Liverpool was Upper Parliament Street – just two streets away from my building.

I felt relief I had my pets with me [here in France], but what else could the lawless mob take?

© Copyright AP

What if my building was to be set ablaze like those that were burning in London? I feared for my neighbours. My pictures! I only have one photograph of my grandmother, one of my biological mother, and one of myself during childhood. I thought of Abdul – the man who owns my local corner shop (click here to see the most beautiful corner shop in the whole world). It’s only a Mini Mart, but it’s always open and somehow Abdul’s (not his real name) shop manages – despite the odds – to turn a little bit of downtown into a community. And surprisingly, perhaps materialistically, I thought of my shoes; the ones I never got to wear and the memories tied up in those I did.

I fell asleep at around 5am (French time). The flames on the screen continued to burn.