Peter & Gordon

– The boys from the brown stuff

You know what I really like about having no family, no employer, no boyfriend and being the descendant of an illiterate Essex boy and a North African factory worker? Not to mention, being a bona fide latchkey kid who was bounced from hostel, to charity home, to council estate for a huge portion of her life.

It’s the fact that I can write whatever I like in this blog and not be afraid of "the system" – I beat it once, I can do it again.

Anyway, the other day I was sitting in my 2 bed, 3 bath, city centre penthouse with allocated parking, wraparound terrace and river views, watching a BBC news story on my 42” plasma. The story was about Observer journalist, Andrew Rawnsley's latest book, The End of the Party. The hardback (a political/politics-inspired book) contains revelations that Gordon Brown (UK Prime Minister) is a bully (link).

Whilst Gordon Brown has vehemently denied the claims, the accusations were given more credence when Christine Pratt, the founder of the National Bullying Helpline, confirmed that the helpline had indeed received “three or four” calls by “stressed” No 10 staff. She went on to say: “I have personally taken a call from staff in the Prime Minister's office, staff who believe they are working in a bullying culture and that it has caused stress.” One former adviser to the PM even described them [the PM’s alleged temper tantrums] as, “Intense bouts of anger.”

***

Gordon Brown (or Prime Sinister, as I like to call him) made this statement: I get angry sometimes, doesn't everybody. I get impatient, I'm driven to do things.

The PM’s sidekick and bezzie-mate* Lord Mandelson (or Count Fuckula, as I like to call him) made this statement: Gordon Brown doesn't bully his staff, he is just demanding.

The Prime Minister's official spokesman said: These malicious allegations are totally without foundation and have never been put to No 10.

And Mr. Rawnsley (the author of the book that made the claims) said: I haven't won awards for journalism for making things up. I have not third hand, second hand, but first hand sources. He also wrote in a recent column: The sources are 24 carat.

***

So now it’s my turn to make a statement: *takes a deep intake of breath and then exhales* Yeah, I reckon he’s one of them old skool bullies. I ain’t got no evidence mind – I’ve just been around the block a couple of times…it’s a gut thing – that and the fact he looks like he’s got bad breath.

I had this boss once, a chap called Aaroon (he was a clothing wholesaler). I was his PA – he was prone to mood swings and could be quite forceful. When he was vexed he’d say, “Fuck you!” At which point I’d turn around to him and say, “Yeah, and fuck you right back!” I stayed with him right up until he moved on – he was one of the best bosses I ever had.  However, if Aaroon had ever denied me the right to “vent” back at him, I would have considered him a bully too.

So, if Gordon Brown is indeed a tyrant, I suggest the staff at No 10 do the "Fuck You Right Back Test" on him. – I would if I worked there.

- Cheyelle Omar

Mission Statement

This post is slightly skewed. I wrote to Gordon Brown about a year ago – I asked him to consider putting me forward for a prestigious writing job at the Palace. It was a long shot, but I had the necessary experience and Liverpool Football Club’s Chief Executive (my former boss) as a referee. Gordon gave me the brush-off, via one-sentence in a perfunctory letter signed by one of his minions (which no doubt I’ll publish in a later post). I thought it was best to tell you that – no one likes being duped.


* Liverpool dialect for, 'best friend'

COPYRIGHT ©2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

Madonna, Jesus…

…and the pop agnostic

For God’s sake! Will someone cut Madonna a bit of slack. –  So what if she’s 532-centuries-old and Jesus, her new lover (pictured bottom left), is only about 23. Maybe he [Jesus] has a preference for vintage pootang (‘vagina’ in medical parlance). Maybe he likes his meat well done – I dunno, don’t care. But what I do know is, a lot of the recent Madonna-related news stories and subsequent comments, focus far too much on the age difference and her ability to “keep up” with her new beau (example).

Personally, I couldn’t care less about the age difference. Maybe a woman like Madonna has what it takes to make Jesus cross the age gap borderline, or perhaps, Madonna likes a virgin – I dunno, don’t care. I celebrate the GREAT sex they are no doubt having.

However, what I wanna know is: why ain't no one focusing on the fact that Jesus is an absolute munter (slang for, muppet/moose/minger/whooped-with-the-fugly-stick)? Yes, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but what if the beholded [sic] is so fugly he’s made you go boss-eyed? Quite frankly, I think he looks like a bootleg Fabio (pictured bottom right), and if that’s sexy – I’d better stock up on shampoo now, cos I’m gonna be staying in and washing my hair waaay into the menopause.

Good luck Madonna, but just for the record, fugly comes in all different age groups.

-Cheyelle Omar

COPYRIGHT ©2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

The Monday Service : The BRITs 2010

- An Insider's Guide to Fool Britannia

The Rock & Roll Hall of Shame

It was last Tuesday. I turned on the television and there it was, just about to start: The BRITs - the UK’s answer to the Grammys but with less black folks.

Generally, when it comes to award ceremonies, I opt to watch them on YouTube and have a preference for the American ones. Let’s face it; the Yanks sure do know how to put on a 'kick-ass' awards show.

However, watching the BRITs (30^th Anniversary show) last Tuesday, reminded me that we Brits do do great awkwardness, rudeness, anarchy and cringe-ability. Frankly, I found the whole ceremony so awful I couldn’t stop watching, and if I’m totally honest, I loved it.

So here are a few non-official awards, given by me to the participants of this year’s ceremony:

• Cheryl Cole wins the Worst Lip-Syncing Ever award - she even made a black woman do it too!! *hangs head in shame*

• Gaga (she ain't no lady, I know a lady when I see one) wins the Singing-A-Sestina Or Summat* award, cos at one point during her performance there just weren't no tune to it. Plus, she wins an award for providing the only schmaltz of the night. She cried on receiving her trophies; an act, which seemed totally out of context in a British awards ceremony.

• Jay-Z wins the Irony-Ritebakatcha award, for claiming that the Spice Girls were his 'inspiration' during his acceptance speech. And thus, teaching all us Brits in one deft manoeuvre, how annoying and confusing we can be when we’re constantly using irony in lieu of humour.

• Lily Allen wins Piss-Artist Of The Night. – Although, I did enjoy her lip-synced performance of The Fear.

• Melanie Brown and Ginger Spice win the Frienemies award – the hatred was palpable. Plus, they never thanked the other Spice Girls when they collected their award FOR THE SPICE GIRLS – Duh! (Girl Power – my arse).

• Peter Kay (British comedian and compère of the ceremony) wins Best One-Liner for calling Liam Gallagher (of Oasis fame) a "knob-head" after he [Liam] swaggered on stage, collected the award, then promptly swore (a lot) while throwing his award and microphone into the unsuspecting crowd – DOUBLE OUCH!

• And finally, Dizzee Rascal wins for Best Sucker-Punched One-Finger Salute. He got me when I least expected it – right down camera 1 – boo-yaa!

If you wanna know about the winners and losers, categories and performances – sorry, I couldn’t tell ya. I was having too much fun watching the spectacle. The BRIT Awards were so utterly cringe-able [sic] I was surprised Osama Bin Laden’s son, Omar Bin Laden didn’t duet with Gaga for her “Lee” McQueen tribute performance! But, if they can deliver more British stylie rock & roll anarchy, profanity and non-schmaltz next year, I’ll definitely be tuning in (link to BRITs).

Yes, the show will receive a low rating in this review (below). But, it’s only because they were so bad they were good, and because, if I did give them a higher rating Liam Gallagher would probably come round my house and throw his laptop at me or summat.

- Cheyelle Omar

 

 - The BRITs

* Summat - British regional dialect for, ‘something’

COPYRIGHT ©2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

Salinger : Separating the Rye from the Chap

- The Incidental Dream

There was this old American geezer (UK slang for, ‘man’) called Jerome D. Salinger. He wrote this book called The Catcher In The Rye – the book Mel Gibson keeps banging on about in the movie Conspiracy Theory. Anyways, about a week ago he died – he was 91.

I read Catcher a coupla years back. Following the author’s recent death, I read up on him via Wikipedia (the lazy-mans encyclopedia). I read his Wikipedia page while systematically assuming 30% of the information I was absorbing was inaccurate (a trick anyone who gleans information about the world via Wikipedia should perform). But even so, I still came to the same conclusion…

He was a miserable old git (British parlance for, an unpleasant or contemptible person). Fancy not returning friends calls, letters and emails. Fancy not going out; turning your back on the world; rejecting friends and fans to become a recluse. Fancy not letting elite “Hollywood” directors like Billy Wilder, Harvey Weinstein and Steven Spielberg adapt your best selling novel for millions of dollars, and not sharing that American Dream with us for the price of a movie ticket. What a twat, what a miserable old git!

Then I had a thought.

What if he knew something we didn’t. Something that Hunter S. Thompson, Earnest M. Hemmingway and Richard G. Brautigan didn’t…or if they did, they knew too late. What if he realized people, friends and fans were a potential series of killers. Killers just as deadly, to him at least, as serial killers such as David Berkowitz, Ted Bundy and Richard Speck are to us. Not so much that the friends, people and fans were out to intentionally kill him per se, but that his interaction with them had the potential to activate the lone gunman within himself.  It’s possible that from his perspective, they [the friends, people, fans] could unknowingly affect something within Jerome D. Salinger that would lead him to precipitate his own self-destruction (suicide). Perhaps – and this is mere speculation too – realizing this, he [Salinger] chose to LIVE selfishly rather than to die selfishly. Having served in (and survived) World War II, I like to believe he had a better understanding of the concepts of “Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness” than most.

Wherever you may be J. D. Salinger, I take my hat (a red hunting hat) off to you – for suggesting an alternative to the bright lights and gaudy colours of success’s carousel. A selfish life perfectly shared by virtue of the masterpiece that is The Catcher In The Rye, and the true masterstroke of its author – to have survived its success.

They say, "The only person who might ever have played Holden Caulfield [the protagonist and narrator of the novel] would have been J. D. Salinger." Then maybe he did play him…play him on the most important stage of all.

I choose life and failing that, I choose Salinger/Caulfield’s life. After all these years, come to find out, they both have a happy ending.

- Cheyelle Omar

COPYRIGHT ©2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

The Blog

- An Algerian Funplace

Can’t be arsed with blogging today. I’d rather watch back-to-back episodes of The Office: An American Workplace. – While eating scones, rice & pea with plantain, and a 42p Toblerone (not necessarily in that order). Be happy for me – life is short.

In the meantime, here is a pretty picture (by Giovanni Baglione) for the lost, the lonely, or anybody else who happens perchance, to read what I write in this portal.

Yama, Yama, Yama,

Cheyelle.

COPYRIGHT ©2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

The Eye of the Tiger…

…And the cheat of the fight

My city [Liverpool] has one of the oldest established Chinese communities in Europe. In fact, the city is twinned with Shanghai. So needless to say, the Chinese lunar New Year celebrations – for The Year of the Tiger – last weekend were of great interest to me. However, I was surprised and somewhat disappointed to see images of performing tigers in news footage of the global celebrations (click here to see what I mean).

Am I the only one who finds the practice of teaching wild animals to perform “tricks,” anachronistic? It makes me a bit sad (on the inside – where it really counts). It just don’t seem like a fair fight somehow.

Happy Year of the Tiger (unless you’re a real tiger of course).

- Cheyelle

COPYRIGHT ©2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

Team Katie vs. Team Pete

- The Reality Cheque

Okay, so she’s a glamour girl called, Katie Price and he’s a pop singer called, Peter Andre. They met on a reality show a couple of years back; fell in love, got married, bred-up the place, and filmed it all for their reality show which I’ve already forgotten the name of.

About seven months ago they separated; got divorced, each got a new reality show (surprise-surprise) and both milked the publicity for all it was worth – ka-ching!

Cue: backbiting, spurious claims of press intrusion, and the birth of, Team Katie and Team Pete.

Recently, she married a cross-dressing, reality show winning, cage fighter called, Alex Reid. And he [Peter Andre] released a pop song in homage to the disabled, black, blind child that Katie had with a footballer back-in-the-day (don’t even go there).

The latest squabble is over a picture (left) of the former couple's daughter, Princess Tsunami [sic] – which was posted on the glamour girl’s sister’s Facebook. The image hit the headlines and polarized public opinion, as it has been deemed too sexual for a 2-year-old child by some, and as harmless “dress-up” by others (click here for full story).

Team Katie made this statement: "If I am such a bad mum then I would have been reported to social services…"

And

Team Pete made this statement: “To be honest I'm disgusted with it [the image]”

It’s funny, cos the people who believe that the image is harmless, often cite the fact that, “People in America do it” – a reference to the child beauty pageants popular in the States. I personally, think that’s a dumb justification; they still hang women from cranes in Iran, that doesn’t mean I’m gonna go out and do it or, indeed, that the majority of people in Iran approve of it.
 

Anyways, here’s my two Dinahs worth (Arab currency)…

There’s nothing wrong with "dress-up" although, I can’t imagine how she got them fake lashes on the child – the glue stings my eyes like a bitch. “Dress-up” only becomes a problem when:

A)  You choose to put your children in the public domain (as they both did via their reality shows).

B)  You allow images of the “dressed-up” two-year-old child to be posted on-line, when you know full well, that because of clause 'A' a large number of people/weirdos will get to see them.

Whatever happened to, "Team Common Sense"? Duh!

- Cheyelle Omar

COPYRIGHT ©2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

RYP Isabella Blow

- The Queen of broken glass

I’m not into haute couture fashion, so I shan’t pretend to be mourning fashion designer, Alexander McQueen’s death anymore than that of any other stranger who found peace of mind in suicide.

What I will say is, there’s a woman who’s been on my mind for a number of years, and I don’t know why. I became aware of her, a year or so after her death (she also committed suicide) on one of my midnight web surfing benders. There’s something about her that haunts me. It’s not a bad haunting either; it’s an eccentric, dandyish haunting. 

Bizarrely, she [Isabella Blow] is someone who I often think of, somebody who unexpectedly enters my thoughts. Perhaps it’s her name, Isabella Blow (spooky name right?) or, perhaps it’s the effort she put into her suicide attempts. Or maybe, it’s just the way she wore her sadness – a tad below the rim of her hat – that gets to me. I’m not sure I would have liked her had I met her but, I can’t help feeling the world…or rather, my world, would have been a little more opulent with her in it (click here for Ms. Blow).

Maybe it’s just that feeling we all get, when somebody we never met takes his or her life. The feeling of, “if only” I knew them I could have stopped them, I would have been there for them, I would have held their hand – told the right joke. Saved them.

Anyway, no doubt the tributes will come flooding in for Alexander McQueen. Apparently, he was a genius and I have no reason to dispute it. Nevertheless, I shall be quietly remembering somebody else – the woman who is credited with discovering him, Isabella Blow.  A woman whose life (and death) has left an indelible logo on my eclectic mind, ever since I discovered her.

- Cheyelle Omar

RYP* Isabella Blow

  

*Remembering You Privately

 COPYRIGHT ©2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

The Sole of a Woman – Box A

- A Shoe Invite-ory

There’s No Place Like Home

I’m a cheap date…the cheapest! The best date I ever had, was a £5 ferry ride (across the River Mersey) with a handsome young drummer. He suggested it, but I paid for the tickets. It was my first and thus far, last time on the ferry. 

It was one of those beautiful lemonade-lucid, late spring afternoons. The city looked, to me at least, as if it were in high definition and resonated, as if in surround sound. We were halfway across the river, ‘the drummer’ was on the phone (truth be told, he wasn’t that into me). There was a strong wind blowing in off the Irish Sea, it made my hair whip against the sides of my face and stick in the corners of my mouth. I leant over the boat’s handrail to feel the muddy spray of the estuary on my closed eyes…then, looked straight up at Liverpool's gleaming skyline. – The Three Graces, Radio City Tower, the apartment blocks and indignant cathedrals appeared in such high resolution, it was as if God himself had come down overnight and polished everything especially for me. I stood on my tip-toes, hands firmly clasped onto the ferry’s handrail and shouted to the city as I leaned forward: ‘I think I love you’– the sound of the words travelling no further than the thought.

The next time I was due to see ‘the drummer,’ he stood me up. But, as I walked home (via the 24hr booze-shop to pick up some chocolate and a couple of packets of Scampi Fries) the city’s buildings seemed to watch over me, almost as if they were saying – I love you too, my dear.

I can’t drive – the closest I’ve ever got to buying a car, was the Aston Martin that came with the Scalextrics I bought myself last Christmas. I prefer vintage/thrift shop clothes. I don’t care much for jewellery; it brings me out in hives. And expensive food always tastes like a scam to me. – I’m the kind of person, who’ll order potato dauphinoise in a fancy restaurant while thinking: it better be free-range dolphin in the potato for the price they’re fucking charging.

However, when it comes to shoes…well, that’s a horse of a different colour.

When I’ve got money I travel, when I don’t have money I buy shoes; to ensure I travel again. To me, shoes have nothing to do with fashion or utility; they are the promise of an adventure; the route to an undiscovered love; the accompaniment to a song; an old dance below a new skyline.

It was two summers ago, on New York’s West 4^th Street. The tiny studio I was living in (located above a Tai restaurant and opposite a 24hr diner) didn’t have any outdoor space for my dog. So, every morning (usually at about 11ish) I’d – without washing, brushing my teeth or even peeing – rollover, put on my red Marc Jacob shoes, then navigate 4 flights of stairs (the building was a walk-up) to the street below; usually dressed in nothing more than the vest and cut-off shorts I’d slept in. I’d walk one block east-bound to Washington Square Park (with my little dog in tow) then, I’d return to the petit studio, kick off the red shoes and go back to sleep.

You’d think that buying a pair of shoes that cost more money than my childhood guardians could earn in a month, would offend my lower-class sensibilities. – It doesn’t, wearing great shoes makes me feel like I’m floating…floating over the rainbow – or at the very least, floating past the window rainbows of West Village gay bars.

Sometimes (especially when it’s raining), I slip-on my red $300 Marc Jacob shoes and a £10 thrift shop dress, and play Nina Simone songs. I swirl, sway and smooch around my penthouse from mirror-to-mirror as Nina sings, Just In Time. The ruby shoes momentarily transporting me between New York’s Greenwich Village in summer, and the deck of a Liverpool ferry on a lemonade-lucid, late spring day. – Minutes of sheer unabashed pleasure; alone with my meandering imagination, an emerald breeze, a little dog, rain, and bows.

Always, Just In Time…

	Nina Simone - Just in Time .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

COPYRIGHT ©2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR

The Sunday Service - Tellywood

- An Insider’s Guide To Cool Britannia…

Tellywood

Whenever I arrive in a new country, the first thing I do once settled in my new home or hotel room, is turn on the telly. It is the one thing I do without fail. I often think – rightly or wrongly – that television gives me an instant sense of a country’s culture. It may sound odd but, British television is one of the main things I miss when I’m outside of the UK. Yep, ‘The Woods’ – Bollywood & Hollywood may have film; Paris food; Milan fashion and China tea. But, if you ask me, Britain does give great television.

Now, I could spend all day espousing the virtues of British television, not to mention the shows that I have loved, but I wont. Instead, for this week's Sunday Service I’m gonna focus on a genre and channel I have enjoyed consistently.

It’s Channel 4 documentaries (click here for website). I’m pretty much addicted to the channel’s Internet television service, 4oD* (4 on Demand). It’s perfect for a web surfing insomniac like myself. Below are some of my personal favourites from the channel’s fascinating abundance of factual programmes. Be warned, these documentaries are NOT a day at the park. So, if you’re looking for laughs, comedy or light hearted hand-relief then this post is not for you. But, if you want to witness some great Channel 4 funded documentaries, then look no further than Channel 4’s Internet television service, 4oD.

The Boy Whose Skin Fell Off

The inspiring tale of one man’s triumph over adversity

Katie: My Beautiful Face

The human face of obsession

 The Millionaire and the Murder Mansion
The tragic results of one man's financial meltdown

Kenya Murder Mystery

A murder in the shadow of post-colonial Africa

Madeleine Was Here

The McCann's Story

Aileen: Life and Death of a Serial Killer

Documentary maker Nick Broomfield at his very best.

Crooked Tarts and Coronets

The intriguing tale of two female con artists.

Ghosts

The harrowing tale of ill-fated Chinese illegal workers.

Hindenburg

Original film footage, witness statements and re-enactments of what lead up to, and the probable cause of one of the world’s most famous aeronautical disasters.

Interview with a Poltergeist

A quirky British haunting.

Killer in a Small Town

The story of the Suffolk Strangler

I do have one pet peeve about 4oD. The website lists non-available documentaries alongside its available ones. It makes the site frustrating to navigate, especially if you’re someone like me who will watch documentaries back-to-back over a prolonged period. There is no doubt that the annoying website has effected 4oD's overall rating in this review.

- Channel 4 Documentaries

*If based outside the UK you will need to use a company that provides a UK VPN service to access 4oD’s content.

COPYRIGHT ©2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR