My Kinder New Year…

This is probably the easiest post I’ll ever write.

Thank you to anyone who took time out to snoop/read/support my blog. In particular, the people who decided to subscribe, comment and/or return to the site. I appreciates it:

• Eleanor White-Magrane – my first ever subscriber and commenter!

• astrogalaxy (link) – commenter, blogger & giver of “Star Wars” advice.

• plainolebob (link) – subscriber, commenter & fellow blogger.

• plentymorefishoutofwater (link) – commenter & relationship blogger.

• ally (link) – subscriber, commenter and blogger (one of her, “what’s going on with this house” posts, nearly made me pee my pants).

• ms. sylaneous (link) – subscriber, commenter & blogger (her Christmas post was a joy). 

• beauty and health editor (link) – commenter, blogger and purveyor of smoothie recipes!

• Daniel DRAGOMIRESCU – subscriber.

• Copyboy – (link) subscriber.

• therumsummer (link) – subscriber, blogger & former Facebook addict.

• LITTLE BIRD (link) – subscriber & fellow blogger.

• MCCAFFERY (link) – my newest subscriber (welcome!) & blogger (I found her, 'the "almost end of year" entry...' to be honest, beautiful and haunting.

• Anonymous – the people who, for whatever reason, remain anonymous and yet still reach out to me!

• Ms Burb and the clientele of the bloggers Coffee Shop - for making me feel welcome when I was the new kid on the block (or should I say, "in the shop"?)

I rarely see anything through to the end. I doubt this blog will be any different. But, I’m here today (with you, or at least, thinking of you) and maybe that’s all that matters…

Thank you for the support; let’s hope 2010 turns out well for all of us, and if it doesn’t, in its place we find kindness…

- Cheyelle Omar

The Visible Souls…

"I love cats because I enjoy my home; and little by little, they become its visible soul" - Jean Cocteau

 Yes, it’s a romantic and domesticated view of the feline. But I’ve always liked that quote. In no small way because, it tells of the cat’s autonomy and its instinct to survive. Notwithstanding, could the same then apply to the homeless souls who loiter the highways, alleyways and street corners of the towns and cities our homes are built on?

They say there will be more snow tonight…

The Sunday Service - SCALEXTRICS

An Insider’s Guide to Cool Britannia…

It was my Christmas present to myself. I think it’s British (click here for more info). It started off in Harrogate (UK) back in 1957, and now there’s even a big fancy-shmancy shop in Auburn (Washington) and it’s this week’s Sunday Service recommendation.


I would love to stop and chat, but to tell the truth, I’m having too much bloody FUN playing with it…

Good Times!

- SCALEXTRICS



COPYRIGHT ©2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

The Chat Room Soldier…

The other day, I was in an online chat room…we were all chatting (surprisingly enough). The Internet being the Internet, we were all from different parts of the world. Although, it has to be said, I often end up in East Coast American chat rooms; the five-hour time difference syncs perfectly with my insomnia. In the middle of the banter, this American chap (I believe he was from San Diego) pipes up with, “I’m out y’all, my leave is up tomorrow, I gotta get some sleep in.” Turns out, he was an American soldier on leave and due for redeployment to Afghanistan the next day. It also became apparent, that like me, he didn’t have a family. Which goes some way to explaining why, he’d spent his last night before returning to a war zone, with us, in an online chat room. A couple of people asked questions; about the food, the conditions, and the fear; did he have any? Which he answered in a fairly prosaic way, and by prosaic I mean, not Hollywoodish or glamorized – just in simple, down-to-earth terms. Before he left the chat room he said, “If there’s one thing that you guys can do to support us, it’s write us a letter. I can’t tell y’all how much we all scramble for the mail when it comes in.” He posted a link on how to do it and went about his business. The ambience in the room momentarily changed and the host (an American guy who was visible by webcam, and who I quite fancy if I’m honest) then proceeded to give us this speech about liberty and freedom and the 'American way.' The other guests in the chat room interjected with cyber high-fives and general approval. However, I remained quite silent – it was about a week ago.

I think one of the reasons I stayed quiet, was, being half Arab; raised by the Arab half, before I ended up in the care of the children’s charity, Dr. Barnardo's. I have a strong sense of my Arabness – my mother was born in Algeria (North Africa) and we lived in Benghazi (Libya) and Algeria for a while, when I was very little.

It is so unfortunate, but the images that run through my mind when I think of soldiers, and I’m just being totally honest here, are of the soldiers who abused the prisoners at Abu Ghraib. – It is. I cannot forget the pictures of the prisoners; hooded, bloody and naked – their skin colour, not so different from mine. I’m also acutely cognisant and still raw from Tony Blair’s non-existent, "weapons of mass destruction." I suppose, on reflection, I stayed quiet because, I felt uncomfortable lauding an organisation that quite possibly, contained large numbers of dishonourable soldiers (like Lynddie England or former corporal Donald Payne). – And their superiors, who, in my opinion, must have been complicit in the war crimes. So I stayed stumm while the host of the room gave his heartfelt speech. Chat rooms being what chat rooms are; devoid of facial expression, I think my silence passed unnoticed – albeit my silence spoke volumes about myself, to myself.

One week later, here I am, telling you on Christmas Day.

Thing is, my silence played on my mind (silence has a funny way of doing that), as did the chat room soldier’s last request.

So this Christmas, as a gift to myself, I’m going to write a letter. I’m going to write a letter to an American soldier (as requested). To let him or her know, I’m thinking of them. Trying to imagine, what I cannot even begin to imagine. And to let them know, I support the honourable troops and admire their courage – irrespective of the politics.

I’m doing it because I know how it feels to fight. I’m doing it because I know how it feels to be alone. I’m doing it because I know how it feels to be afraid and I know how it feels to get blamed for something that you NEVER did. And significantly, I’m doing it because my grandmother, Kadijah Omar* taught me, in the short time I knew her, that the smallest doses kindness, from those you’d least expect it from, can often make the biggest difference…

But mainly, I’m doing it because the chat room soldier asked me to.

- Cheyelle Omar
www.anysoldier.com

* this post is dedicated to my nana…I remember you more each day.

COPYRIGHT ©2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

A Bachelorette's Guide…

…To Spending Christmas Day Alone

People always talk about Christmas being a time for family. But, what if you ain't got no family, like me? - I learnt a long time ago, being the 'sympathy guest' attending some other family's Christmas Day festivities, is as dry as a piece of toast with no butter. So, I generally opt to spend the "big day" on my own, chillaxing, just doing my thang how I do's it. And it ain't done me no harm!

I know, I'm not the only one out there. So here’s my top 20ish ways for a confirmed bachelor or bachelorette to survive Christmas Day alone:

• Never, ever, expect the day to be any better than a rainy Monday in mid-October.

• Buy a load of stuff from Argos – or any other retailer that offers a money back guarantee. Really enjoy opening it all up on the “big day.” Then, return all the stuff you don’t like/need in the New Year; a period I now call, “The January Fails.”

• Make everything you eat on the "big day" appear 'turkey-like,' from the killer snacks to the dogs’ food (as pictured). My thanks to Kat in Canada for that one.

• Don’t waste any money buying Christmas decorations. Instead (with the money you saved) buy yourself something you neither need nor will regularly use, but always wanted – this year I’m all about the Scalextrics!

• Nap – as and when you want.

• I can’t emphasise this one enough: BOX SETS, BOX SETS and more BOX SETS. TV at Christmas tends to only represent a “family’s eye view” of the big day, rather than that of the millions of us who regularly enjoy spending it alone. – This year, I’m tempted by, The A-Team or Knight Rider box sets…but YOU get whatever YOU want.

• Sing (carols). Be naked. Do both at the same time.

• Get as high as a kite, without breaking the law (obviously). It’s Christmas for God’s sake; d’you really think Jesus would object? Why else would them Wise Men have brought frankincense and myrrh to the Nativity, if it weren’t for the fact they couldn’t source a dooby* and a chang-chang en route? Duh. After all, it was the ultimate baby shower.

• Watch The Queen’s Speech…no matter where you live in the world…whatever your political inclination…stop, and watch The Queen’s Speech. She’s been around the block more times than most of us and kept the same hairstyle (for over 60 years!) while doing it  – face it, she’s earnt the right to be listened to, even if you don't agree with her.

• Share the day with your sadnesses [sic]. It’s okay, we all have ‘em, never suppress ‘em just cos it's Christmas. That’s how the demons get in.

• Eat what you want. – I’m ordering a ‘Soho’ pizza from Pizza Express the day beforehand (cos that’s how I do’s it). 

• Do something for someone you never met – trust me, it works. It’s a subject addressed in tomorrow’s post. 

• Go to church† – it’s free. I’ve noticed lots of sweet little old ladies go. When I lived on Maiden Lane Estate (London) I used to go to St Michael’s (Camden Town) on the Camden Rd (the one next to Sainsbury’s) every Christmas. The people there often had a better understanding of the true “spirit” of Christmas – plus, you get free bread and wine – so technically speaking, you’re even getting to spend the “big day” having a drink with the birthday boy’s father.  An ‘O-mar-God’ tip: wrap up warm; some of them British churches are colder than Sarah Palin’s arse. 

• Do NOT wash. Do that on the other 364 days if you have to – but don’t do it if you’re spending Christmas Day alone – IT DON’T MAKE NO SENSE. Yes, cleanliness is next to godliness, but dirtiness is next to X-X-Xmasness…

• Feel smug about the fact you didn’t suck consumer cock (minus the Scalextrics and the box set). 

• Look out the window and feel warm on the inside (where it really counts) cos you got a roof over your head. 

• Be still, for at least one micro-moment in-between the DVD’s, the bread, the wine, the stripping, the Queens, the singing and the returnable gifts – and say to yourself… “I'm poor, black, I might even be ugly, but dear God, I'm here. I'm here.” ** The adjectives are interchangeable for the rich, white, pretty folks.

• Read my short story The Naivety in the October (09) section of my blog – it really is the antivenom.

And if all else fails… 

• Convert to Judaism.

Shabbat Shalom!

- Cheyelle

* Ooby Dooby

† I don’t have a particular faith, but I admire spiritual people and I like religious buildings – if the door’s open, I tend to go in!

** Extract from the film, The Color Purple.

COPYRIGHT ©2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

Nick Griffin and the BNP go soft…

Okay, they’re a called the BNP (British National Party). They’re as far right as you can get in this country, without breaking the law or possessing more white sheets than your average Hilton hotel. Nick Griffin, the party leader, is like Sarah Palin’s older, uglier, boss-eyed brother and David Duke’s younger, fatter, holocaust denying cousin.

Now, I’m not one of these people who feels compelled to throw rocks at him, even though a lot of what he says is complete shit. I personally believe he’s entitled to have his say and we all have a responsibility to respect that. – I do. And on the odd occasion, he does actually perform a vital role of raising issues that mainstream parties should be addressing and aren’t.

However, I stumbled across his party website today (link to page) and these are the headlines I found:

As Politically Correct Leftist Hysteria over Golly Toys Mounts, Excalibur Launches New Golly Range

and…

PC Gestapo Seek to Outlaw Harmless British Cultural Fun

Two separate ‘golly’ stories on one web page and more golly pictures (yep there’s more) than you can shake a stick at! It appears the man (or his party at least) has an absolute and incurable gollywog fetish. Irrespective of the rights and wrongs of gollywogs – surely they need to step away from the gollywog already. How can they possibly expect to be taken seriously, when they focus so much party web space on protecting a soft toy? Or am I missing something…(a gollywog perhaps?)

-Cheyelle


COPYRIGHT ©2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

The Diagnosis of Brittany Murphy

– Murphy’s law of pain relief…

Call me cynical, but whenever one of these young Hollywood starlets drop, my first instinct is…DRUGS. I’ve lived out there myself (albeit for only three months) and one of the fondest memories I have of that town, was the easy access to Vicodin. Vicodin was first given to me by my LA dentist (based in Century City), following a routine teeth bleaching procedure. He said it was for, “Pain relief.” I wasn’t in pain – but I did have some sensitivity – so, assuming the pills were an American version of paracetamol, I popped ‘em. Before long, I got quite accustomed to poppin' a couple before going about my daily business; which quickly deteriorated into poppin' a couple before I started my day…and my afternoon…and my evening…and my night; which, before I knew it, led to poppin' ‘em whenever I could get my hands on ‘em. Which wasn’t hard in that town (it’s not named after a Christmas decoration for nothin’). In fact, it was quite often my limo drivers (I can’t drive so I regularly used a car service) that hooked me up.

For anyone who’s never had Vicodin before…I call it, “The Fine Drug.” Cos in my experience, there is absolutely no buzz from it. However, here’s the kicker…no-matter what happens once you’ve dropped a couple, you’re fine with it. – You're having a bad day and suddenly you're having a 'fine' day, your beloved dog dies…”It’s fine, I’ll just buy another one,”  a big old steamroller runs over your left leg…“It’s fine, but would someone just pass me my purse from the other side of the street, cos I just need to take another Vicodin while I’m waiting for the ambulance to arrive and cauterize the artery in my leg that’s bleeding all over the place.” – Get the picture? In my opinion, it’s the “fineness” of prescription drugs that makes them so insidious and moreover, deadly.

I hope Brittany did die of natural causes – there’s always a chance. But if drugs are the culprit, I for one, am not gonna think any less of her. Perhaps what happens, during the lifespan of these shooting-starlets, is that for one reason or another – which none of us can ever profess to know – they feel an incredible and overwhelming sense of pain. A pain that they feel (rightly or wrongly) is eased by the 'pain killers' that they become addicted to. If this scenario is the case, one can only hope, that from death’s small kindnesses, they have indeed, been administered the ultimate, “pain relief.”

Goodbye Brittany Murphy – forever, “Rolling with the homies…”


–Cheyelle


COPYRIGHT ©2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

The Sunday Service - The R.V.P.

–An Insider's Guide To Cool Britannia…

The Royal Variety Performance

It’s a gala evening held annually in the UK (around Christmas time). A member of the Royal Family always attends (either The Queen or The Prince of Wales). The tradition started nearly a hundred years ago with King George V and Queen Mary (click here for R.V.P. website).

I’m gonna keep it real with you. I stopped watching the Royal Variety Performance ages ago. I seem to recall the “variety” often involved racist comics, second-rate jugglers or gum chewing ventriloquists. The show, for me, became as anachronistic as the Grenadier Guards wearing real bearskin caps. I totally forgot about the show's existence; it was as much a highlight of my personal calendar as a trip the gynaecologist.

Then last week, I switched on the TV and there it was – the Royal Variety Performance 2009 – and guess what…I enjoyed it! It still had that whiff of anachronism that a lot of British traditions (God love dear old Blighty) do. However, the show has evolved, it possessed a far more international and contemporary flavour (with the likes of Mika and Miley Cyrus amongst the line-up). Overall, the show felt a lot less parochial and more like a world-class event.

I must say, I found the whole extravaganza rather pleasurable…and towards the end of the show, I even felt a slight twinge of national pride ricocheting between my thighs. – Especially, when the entire cast got to meet The Queen. Lady Gaga’s curtsy was adorable, as was Bette Midler's quip, about it being the first time she’d performed in front of a, “REAL Queen.”

Some of my personal highlights were: Peter Kay (I thought he was an excellent host), Bette Midler, Whoopi Goldberg, Chaka Chaka Chaka-Khan, Anastasia, Jake Shimabukuro, Michael Bubbly-Bublé, Alexandra Burke, Andre Reiu (who was brilliant) and Lady Gaga (whose allure I’ve never really understood, but whose performance at the gala went a long way to enlightening me).

So for this week’s Sunday Service, I’m recommending the Royal Variety Performance 2009. Honestly, check it out – I wouldn’t lie to you. Plus, by catching it on YouTube, you can cut out all the bits that don’t interest you anyway. Thing is, we’re not gonna have our Queen for much longer, after all, she is notching up the miles on the royal clock. I have a feeling a lot of these traditions will die with her, if not in practice, then certainly in spirit. So enjoy her and the royal show while you can – cos variety, is after all, the spice of life.

- Cheyelle Omar

- Royal Variety Performance 2009








COPYRIGHT ©2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

Death by Remote Control…

The unlucky Lotto winner

My condolences go out to the family of the woman killed by remote control (click here for the full story). Judge Giles Forrester, sentenced her husband, Paul Harvey – who had tried desperately to resuscitate her by giving her the kiss of life – to 3 years imprisonment, after he pleaded guilty to manslaughter in March. Turns out, he threw the remote control unit “in her direction” during a row and it hit her. The Old Bailey heard that Ms Laguna had a very rare condition which neither she or her husband knew about. Apparently, when the remote control made contact, it caused a weak artery in her neck to burst and she died of a severe brain haemorrhage. Richard Whittam QC, prosecuting council said: "It would only have required a trivial incident to cause her death."

Yes, a terribly sad story and yet, I can’t help but wonder…does this mean she is now the first recipient of Rupert Murdoch's ultimate BSkyB package? And more importantly, has her husband now invalidated the warranty on his plasma?

I accept the gags are in poor taste, but PLEASE, what a ridiculous way to die. And as for the poor motie-thowing dude, who by all accounts, “loved this woman very much” and is now currently banged-up. For doing something most of us (yes women, I’m talking to you as well) have regrettably done, at some point in our lives too.

Sorry, but 3 years, when paedophiles and rapists often walk away with less than 18 months! It just don’t make no sense to me. In my opinion, this is a simple case of falling in a barrel of tits and coming up sucking your thumb. I thought the defence attorney, Jonathan Goldberg QC, made a good point when he asserted,  "By a fluke chance, maybe the same as, in a different context, winning the lottery, it landed on the exact spot where she had a weakness.”

My instinct is, Mr Harvey will serve far longer than the 3 year custodial sentence within the confines of the prison cell in his own mind.

RIP Gloria Laguna – I’ll never complain about losing my motie down the back of the sofa again.

- Cheyelle Omar

COPYRIGHT ©2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

Poems from the Ropewalks…

The Dog’s Body

Bitch. Fucking Bitch, Mister spits through his teeth.

His snarling startling me from sleep. –– I stay.

My tail low, beats the leg of the table I’m beneath.

The barking abates – she waits, looks away, plays

dead. Silence…but I hear hearts and smell fear in sweat,

Mister ain’t done yet! She yelps yanked by scruff of neck.

No mess, no wet, and still he pins her nose to carpet.

My head cocks a couple of degrees to the left, ears erect,

as I come muzzle-to-face with my wounded kennel mate.

‘Haps she didn’t fetch, heel, or return when he whistled.

She breaks. Submits –– lets the alpha male dominate. Cowers,

placates him; shows she knows “good girls” do as they are told.

Mister eats. I lick my salty balls then sleep, cos in the end…

I’ll be alright Jack –– life is sweet, for a man's best friend.

- Cheyelle Omar

For more Poems from the Ropewalks, click the 'Poems from the Ropewalks' label (below).

COPYRIGHT ©2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

The Substance Abuse Police

-The Million Dollar Note

I’ve loved this singer since I was knee-high to a spring lamb. Her's was the first album I ever bought (it was on cassette), and I gotta let you know, some of the tracks on her new album – I Look To You – especially: I Didn’t Know My Own Strength, have made me feel like I can survive the ghastly–can’t wait for it to be over–MOTHER SUCKER of a year that was 2009. Plus, she’s put the whole album on-line for people to listen to for free (none of that “SAMPLE” shit some other artists are dropping). 


Yeah, sometimes she does come-off like she’s got a bad case of ABWS (Angry Black Woman Syndrome). And yeah, she’s defo smoked a fair few woolahs in her time. But which self-respecting rock star hasn’t? I just think it’s funny, is’all, the way everyone turns into the Substance Abuse Police when critiquing Whitney  – when Mick Jagger, Steven Tyler, Bob Dylan and Ozzy Osbourne all, more often than not, fly under the radar.

So let me set out my stall…

I don’t care if she’s jacked-up on crack, doing more lines than a Westminster traffic-warden, bombing speed like gumdrops or she decides to put a free woolah in every CD of her next "greatest hits" compilation. – I don’t! I don’t care if she cops an attitude with Dermot O’Leary or decides to join the Blue Panthers (a more radicalized version of the Black Panthers) tomorrow. – I don’t! In fact, I kinda like her anger – it’s a good anger (like the swagger of football fans). Thing is, I’m buying her music – not going to Sefton Park for a fucking teddy bears’ picnic wiv her.

If I had some spare money right now, one of the first things I’d buy would be: second row, centre stage seats for a homie and I to see her live at the MEN Arena (even though it galls all hell outta me that she ain’t doing the Liverpool Echo Arena…fix-up Whitney – that’s a no-no, boo boo!) in 2010. – I would! I’ve never seen her live before, and as far as I’m concerned that woman is a vessel of God. 

So you go on girl with yo badass self, and next time you’re in the UK, come holla at ya girl & the Merseyside Massive (aka the North-Westsiders). Cos you, Whitney – Buubbie Brown – Houston, are undoubtedly and categorically one of my personal and life-long ambitions; and there ain’t a thing you can do about it to change my mind (no-matter how hard you try).

Stick that in your crack pipe and smoke it! Cos my ambition, Whitney, was not built to break…

- Cheyelle

COPYRIGHT ©2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

Football Fuckeries – The Sheik's Wife

The Musings of a Failed Football Fan…

For whom the doorbell Chimes

Let's do this…

So there’s been some controversy because Portsmouth FC (a Premier League football club) has, on a couple of occasions, not paid its players on time. The club has also defaulted on payments to other creditors and is currently subject to a Premier League transfer embargo – but I’m not getting into all that in this post. I ain’t Gabby-fucking-Yorath and this ain’t Soccer-fucking-Sunday.

Here’s my take on it – who cares? Who cares if a couple of Premiership footballers got paid late? I don’t. Moreover, if I’m 100% straight-up with you – it kinda gives me a warm fuzzy feeling on the inside (where it really counts) every time I think about a Premiership player not getting paid on time. Actually, I think the FA should bring in a new rule and make random missing wage payments mandatory for all Premiership players. I realize I may appear somewhat venomous, if not downright twisted, but here's why:

South Wales during my formative years was a place where men were unemployed, on-strike or a scab. I have witnessed, experienced and survived EXTREME penury in my lifetime and it does not escape me that we are currently in the midst of a deep and prolonged recession. A recession where folks have lost their jobs, their homes, their stuff and most are struggling not to lose their dignity too.

So, I personally, am not gonna waste one single nano-second worrying about some jumped-up, half-rate, ressie goalie from Portsmouth FC, who gets paid several thousand pounds a week – and that’s being conservative. Just because he’s missed a coupla payments on his 5 Bed, 4 Bath, Mock Tudor executive home in a bucolic gated community, within ten minutes of the city centre, with double garage and costal views.

Further more, the players down there wanna mind-out that their ‘Sheik du jour’ don’t reach round my sides and start taking me out for cheesy-chips (a local delicacy) and buying me camels and shit. Cos if I was the wife of one of them Premiership football club owning Sheiks, this is how it’d go down…

Abdullah - fuck ‘em. Leave ‘em a couple more months. Leave 'em till their wives have to consider cancelling their precocious progenys' piano lessons; till their credit card companies are phoning them up night and day to get a payment; till their nearest and dearest have to consider taking second and third jobs just to have enough money to keep the car running; till they have to stop drinking champagne and switch to Happy Shopper orange squash; till they're on a first name basis with the staff at the local Cash Converters; till they don’t know if the knock at the door is the postman or the bailiff. And until, they reach that broke-arse moment, of having to make a list of all the stuff they’re willing to sell, just to keep their heads above water. And you know what Abdullah, even then don’t pay ‘em. Wait…wait till they have to face the real possibility of having to go on strike, and finding out which of their colleagues will turn out to be SCABS. And then, and only then, Abdullah – my dear, sweet, kind and inconceivably rich husband who just bought me a second home in Mostaganem (Algeria) and a 2 carat, flawless, pure white princess cut diamond (WOO-HOO – I’M RICH IN THIS POST AND I’M LOVIN IT!) ring for my perfectly manicured fingers – pay ‘em. Cos then, and only then, will you really know the “players” from the “stayers.”

So here’s a half-priced Aldi’s cherry, for all the hard-up Portsmouth squad who may be contemplating the idea of downsizing to free up some funds. A very wise Arab woman – who just happened to possess a keen eye for British real estate – once said, “Never worry about how many bathrooms you got in your house, cos you can only shit in one toilet at a time anyway.”

- A failed football fan

Mission Statement

I often read my own blog – I do. I think some of the posts are quite good (they make me laugh, think, sad, angry, proud). And what struck me on re-reading the Football Fuckeries columns, is that if I didn’t know me, I’d think: “Jesus, a footballer must have really given this girl the run-around to make her so bitter.” You would, wouldn’t ya? So, just for the record, I have NEVER dated, fucked, kissed, or even blown a footballer – NEVER. I can also confirm, the bitterness, vitriol and ugly untempered heartlessness displayed within the Football Fuckeries columns, is 100% au naturel and as organic as it gets. Totally and wholly inspired by the ugly players proliferating our beautiful game.

COPYRIGHT ©2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

Sooo 2000 & Single Digits…

This next post was inspired by the bleh-ness of the last series of The X Factor. Admittedly, I only watched clips of it on YouTube, but I’m afraid to say even though the show attracted “star” names, it was on the whole, pretty bleh and definitely, Sooo 2000 & Single Digits!

I’d love to know what YOU think is, Sooo 2000 & Single Digits. So just hit me up in my comments box if you got any gudens.

Here’s my top ten-ish things I reckon are, ‘Sooo 2000 & Single Digits’ in no particular order:

• Watching television on TV’s

• Sarah Palin

• Facebook (read my “Suicide Face Book” post)

• Mike Ashley (the fat bloke that owns Newcastle United Football Club)

• Jordan/Katie Price (the jig is up tootsie)

• Skanker broadband Internet service providers (why say 8 Megs if it’s only 3…YA SKANKERS YA!)

• Battery hens & Boris Johnson (the former is cruel; the latter intolerable, and they both cluck a lot)

• Stage school “stars” (with the possible exception of Adele; read my post entitled: ‘The Winehouse Phenomenon’)

• Bottled water (it’s a scam, deep down inside we all know it…)

• The Dangerous Dogs Act (it doesn’t work. PERIOD). Someone needs to let the Home Office know before more children DIE needlessly. RIP John-Paul Massey; don’t worry boo, we’ll all be with you one day.

• Gorden Brown (Oh, I’m sorry PM, did I spell your name wrong? *tuts*)

• Fugly Betty (I’m sooo over it)

-Cheyelle Omar

COPYRIGHT ©2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

The Sunday Service - Mungo Mary & Clas-gu

- An Insider's Guide To Cool Britannia

Young Britannia - Mungo Mary & the Clas-gu*

There are places you go to because that’s where you’re from, there are places that you go to cos that’s where you wanna be, and there are places you wind up at – when you ain’t got no place else to go. But every so often, there are places you know you will go to, for no other reason, other than that someone from that place was once kind to you.

The City of Glasgow

What follows is the email correspondence between myself, and the teenage daughter of a Scottish couple I met whilst on board the QM2 (en route to New York last year). Because I haven’t asked author’s permission to publish her private correspondence, I have decided for the purposes of this post, to name her Mary.

Mary’s family and I met whilst on the six day transatlantic crossing, and then we hung out at my loft, which I was renting at the time on Greene Street (SoHo). We ate, we drank, we gabbed, but most of all…we LAUGHED!

hey


i no i emailed like last week,but we were looking at our photagraphs today and we thought of some of the most funny and outrageous moments we had. I know you are not in a great way right now, but I just wanted to let u no that i think u are such a giggle and wherever u are in the world, there must be people with u that should feel lucky to be in ur presence.
Ur last email seemed quite sad and i was wandering if there was anything we could do?
U are more than welcome to come up to Scotland and stay with us if u want. That would not be a problem,it would be a pleasure.
Hope u make it through ur difficult time and still hold on to ur magical way of endearing others!


Mary
xxxx

***

The funny thing is, I had no idea I seemed “quite sad” in the last email. Put simply, it’s just not my style to share my bleak times with people I know. So you can image my surprise, when what I thought had been an upbeat email, elicited such sweet sensitivity and compassion from one so young. It was an empathy that truly shocked and touched me; in no small way because, coincidentally, the email arrived on the weekend of my birthday. Below is the correspondence, which I had previously sent her.

Hey Mary,


Do me a favour, don't read too much poetry…it's bad for your health, seriously!
So, good to hear from you Mary. Once again, so sorry for the late reply; what tends to happen, is that I open my mail in hotmail and then don't log in for a while...so time slips by.
Last year in school eh...my god, you've got so much FUN ahead of you. Have you decided on which uni you wanna go to? - If you are going to university, that is. If you do go, you could always choose Liverpool Uni 'n' be near to your Aunty Cheyelle...hehe...we could tell everyone I'm your, "sista by different mister" to explain the colour anomalies!
On a serious note, how's your Mum? I know your Grand-dad wasn't very well and she left her job...I've been thinking about her a bit lately...is she OK? I suppose the acid test is - is she winding your Dad up? If she is, then she's gonna be just fine.
Okay, I best be going...I've had the most dreadful year...and you know what they say, 'misery loves company' and misery is definitely waiting for me on the completion of the email...but don't worry 'bout me though...I can handle it...I'm ghetto.
Oh...just one more thing. I was sorting out my photo's on my hard-drive the other day and I found this picture of you and your mum. I gotta attach it to this email cos it's sooo funny. The face you are pulling, is the face you pulled every time your parents (but mainly your Mum) did anything that you found even mildly perplexing...and was the sole reason, I kept getting the giggles every time I looked at you! - This shot is particularly funny, cos your Mum is trying to work out the alcoholic content of a bottle of sparkling APPLE JUICE - LMFAO!


LoVe n DAT...


Cheyelle
ps. How lucky is your Brother! You wanna mind out he don't fall in love with one of them Harlem ghetto girls...cos I always say, 'yeah maybe black don't crack, you know what, beige don't age!' - Boo yaa..

***

So for this week's Sunday Service, I’m recommending the City of Glasgow (click here for more info on Glasgow). Not for its great rock bands or festivals of which there are many, or for its heritage and architecture for which it is famed, or even because of the reputation of its people – who are said to possess both a “hard edge and wit” and be amongst the most friendliest in the world, or even because they, “keep it real” up there – the travel writer H.V. Morton once dubbing it, “the city of reality.” No, I'm recommending Glasgow for no other reason than Mary. – Mary, the unspoilt youth of today, who unknowingly and quite literally, gave me a better tomorrow

For the record, here's my “real” and heartfelt reply, to Mary’s sweet and unconditional email:

Dearest Mary,


My entire life I have been protected and loved by relative strangers, and I have always maintained that it said more about them than it did about me. If you think me even slightly charming or funny or good to be around, it is because of the lifetime I have had being exposed to incredible people like you and your family. What you see in me, is the good in you reflected back – it's true.
What you wrote in that last email, has lifted me, in more ways than you can possibly imagine. Cos God knows, the bad stuff's easier to believe.
I've been around the block a couple of times and my instinct is, I think I'm gonna be just fine on this occasion. So don't you worry, cos if I do get in a real pickle, I'll be sure to head northward with my ghetto-supa-star self. Thank-you.
I really hope we'll all get to hook-up again soon! - For more jokes and drinks with NASA scientists (hehe).
Take care Mary, cos I got a really good feeling about 2010…xx.

***

Definitive proof, if ever we needed it, that the kids of today are on the whole, really fucking amazing. And moreover, that a city's reputation is built on the inspiring young people that it unleashes into the world.

- Cheyelle
                                                       

- The City of Glasgow




* Clas-gu - meaning the ‘dear family.'


COPYRIGHT ©2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

Don't hate the player, hate the game…

- Unless "the game" involves your heart

HANDICAPPED HUSBANDS

No Tiger, you don't need to give up golf indefinitely - you just need to DEFINITELY give up being "a player". For a man that's spent his entire life trying to get a hole-in-one, you'd think he'd have a better understanding of fidelity. Obviously, he can't see the Woods for the bushes.

                                                                               IMAGE: REUTERS

I tell ya, I'd rather a man hit me than lie to me…I got a fighting chance with the former.

COPYRIGHT ©2009 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR