Trying to reason with racists is like being stuck in a lift with drunks singing Bohemian Rhapsody. You’re going to end up banging your head against a wall.
Well, if you can’t beat them, join them. The drunks, that is, not the racists.
Thing is, we didn’t always talk to racists. We gave that NF looking pub a wide berth, rarely came into contact with Daily Mail readers (unless we were dating their rebel-against-the-parentals offspring). But now, thanks to social media allowing every two-bit bigot to crawl out from under a meme, they’re everywhere we click. And like the gluttons for headfuck we are, foolishly thinking logic and facts will have any sort of effect, we keep engaging with them. Continue reading “The Racism Drinking Game”→
Some guys encourage their kids to recognise sports cars. I showed mine how to spot the drug casualty. It seems to have hadthedesired effect on The Girl. While her peers are stumbling through the transition from Inbetweeners to Skinsby tripping the white fantastic, to her it’s the frankly banal equation: Father thinks drugs are kinda cool = so not cool.
I’d like to point out I didn’t thrust her from the cradle to the rave without giving it careful thought, but I can’t. I fathered her when I was stupidly young and took her to her first festival because that’s where I was going that weekend. I sat her on my knee in a field, she started bouncing, and that was that. I’ve been taking her along to festivals ever since, and she’s hands down the coolest, most sociable girl you’ll ever meet. Plus she has the most excellent iPod playlist any 16-year-old can boast of. I’m having that. Continue reading “Why Festivals Make the Best Crèches”→
“Whenever I listen to her, underneath that softness, I get the feeling the emotional topography of her life is all jagged, do you know what I mean?”
This sentence, believe it or not, got me laid. I was online dating, the keyboard banter was smooth but by no means sure, when she mentioned she liked Shawn Colvin and that was my fairly instant response. From thereon, a date was inevitable. She’d just found someone who not only knew Shawn Colvin, I actually felt her.
Except up until that minute, I’d never heard of Shawn Colvin. A quick scan on the Internet had given me all I needed to show I was in the know, baby.
As if hailing from the Indian sub-continent wasn’t exotic enough.
My hate-affair with jazzing up one’s ancestry began when I came to the UK in the mid-80s. My family fronts the unexpected migrant tale of leaving behind a perfectly privileged life of tea estates and maids in Bangladesh to start anew for the sake of our education (my brother was finishing college and the universities there were as much a hotbed of extremism then as they are now). Much of my family were heavily involved in the war of independence just before I was born, so I was raised to love my country and was, as patriots are wont to do, proud to be a Boy of Bengal. Continue reading “So This Is How It Feels To Be A Proper Indian”→
It starts, preposterously enough, with The Police. (For the record: I could’ve gone with the always cool The Pixies to spin this yarn, seeing as they were involved in a similar issue a few years later, but this article is about placing truth over appearing cool, and I can’t imagine a better way to exonerate myself from any pretence of cool than to begin with Sting.)
The band had reformed in 2007. Much hype, much hoopla, much gripe on my part for failing to bagsy a ticket that wasn’t way out (or rather, tout) of my budget, certainly not enough to warrant seeing a band I used to love as a kid but then forgot about because of, well, Sting.
Heard the one about the Asian girl with the spoon in her pants?
I wish this was a joke, but it’s all too horribly true. Young girls walking the Green Mile to marriage are being advised to carry concealed cutlery to set off the alarm in the hope airport staff will save them from a forced union.
Whenever I read a story like this, I’m tempted to say to The Girl, ‘see how nice I am to you?’, semi-expecting to receive all sorts of medals. But that would be ridiculous. I wouldn’t appreciate someone telling me that even though he has the power to smash my face in and ram a brick up my arse, look, he didn’t, see how nice he is? No, deciding not to mess up another person’s life doesn’t make you nice – it makes you civilised. So you’re not a vicious, sadistic prick to your children? Well done. Have a samosa. Continue reading “My Girl Doesn’t Stash Cutlery in Her Pants”→