Strike II

So this time last June I was writing about my first ever bonafide strike - wahay!! Well here I am again, only this time it’s not just the NUT – THIS TIME most public sector unions have called for action. In the same fashion as preceding arguments, the bee in everyone’s bonnet is the understanding on behalf of our government that they can pay for the mistakes made, with the savings of the working class.

It is impossible to believe that in 2011, with the transparency that the internet and world media offers, that those in power can continue to promote such a dichotomy between the rich and the poor. The public services will be scape-goated in an effort to brush under the carpet, the debt that we’re suffering. Why not shave a couple million off of the packets for ‘top’ consultants, halt all moat cleaning activities and stop feeding your ducks caviar? Maybe under these circumstances we can believe that you are ‘doing everything you can’ to get us out of this mess.

Fear not though, ladies and gentlemen. Change comes slowly. Sometimes you have to go backwards to push forwards. Is that why the status of society has returned to resemble that of the Victorian Ages? But guys, this is not an excuse to start throwing your shit out of the window onto the street. The point here is that for a while now, us lot have been at the bottom – of expectations, opportunity and a second-thought when we deserve one. However, we do have so much more fun in life. Think of Shameless, and the poetry of the beat era, Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels – I reckon we have a better time down here.

Essentially, it’s important we fight for reform; but let us also remember that we may face disappointment on the path to success. So in between now and utopia, let’s come together and have fun. I vote a big public sector spoon in the park, in onesies eating pop-tarts. Lighten up everyone, we’re just making a stand, that’s all!

The Miseducation of Sara Lucarelli

Alarm.
Mum shouts up - something about toast. 
I jump into the bathroom, run back and put on the music. Run back and shower. Get dressed.
The walk to school is hurried. Cold finders hold the cigarette out, down towards the pavement to stop the smoke getting into my hood. It might be raining; it feels like the air is always standardly wet.
Bus rolls past. They pass the pass. Dash it out the window: re-present. Seat allocation is fierce but it's almost always better to stand. If a fire starts, best be by the exit.
Where's Peggy?
Cracked out.
Her art coursework's due today.
Somewhere it flies around the estate in tatters, soggy and spoilt.


Travel through corridors; you shout, they shout back. You laugh and point and pursue course aimlessly with no sense of urgency, round in circles for all it matters: and then the bell. 
Police arrive with dogs, that sniff and chase the girls and make them cry. The boys stand back. Nah nah nah. Reh teh teh. 
"There is an understanding as a school, that there is zero tolerance on holding offensive weapons of any variety on the premises." 
Do what you want out there. 


Lipgloss smeared on mirrors, sat on floors, phones on, credit done.
Hitch the skirt up, lower that top, you need more eyeliner, perfume: ziiiiiiiiip doorcloses and laughter roars.
It's fucking freezing outside 
but we wander and encounter. Words are whispered as sirens sound around and around, circling - fading.
Panoramic views with streetlamp light casting shadows on the high-rise. Drunks under the tree; 
and we wheel past, reeling in teenage joy.
A telephone box lies partly in fragments all over the floor. The shards spill over onto the road - we crunch over them in heels we can't walk in.


The lights are off inside, and the air is thick with sex and conflict. 
His afro was tied in two bunches, one on either side of his head, as he pulled the gun out. 
Fire exit doors smash open, close, music resumes and the beat goes on.
In constant movement, all night. Dancing in and out of three small rooms, filled with smoke and melodies, stares; the stench of odourless alcohol, sweat
blood and tears.
Everyone watches as she gets dragged by her weave, across the floor and out into the street.


In class, talk is rife. It carries rumours and statements like a crowd-surf, through the rooms 
It writhes around like a snake in the grass.
"She's pregnant. It was Cassie's man".
Atmosphere, charged with intention, confused perceptions of
acceptance and loyalty; ever-changing
with the tide of term. 

I present to you....

SKITTLES

Now, for all you hippidy-hop fans out there, this is for you.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=36tnx71FtAA

Typically or not, my man Skitz is not easily placed within the confines of genre. He transcends the endless list of categories, merges them, picks bits out, spits over some of it and laughs over the rest. The man is a master of menagerie - and I don't mean animals. In fact, I'm sure if he could incorporate them into his act, he would. So watch out for the panda skanking out, sipping cherry Lambrini, playing the flute in his next video. I gots the exclusive bitches!

One of the only music reviews you'll ever catch me writing - I love the dude.

More to the point, I feel his music celebrates art at street level, without the pomp and ceremony. He talks about what's true to him and what's real out here. When you think about what most people sing a long to, and lyrics that are idolised despite being a real crock of shit, it's a serious wonder why it's come to 2011 without someone saying:

"Yo, STOP - listen to this. Reeeeeeeeeeeal talk."

A true poet, I know him to work for hours on his lyrics. Tongue twisting, hard-hitting, hip-hopgrimereggaedubstepping madness emanates from within him. See him live and he keeps the same promise. A man of his audience, Skittles buzzes off the atmosphere of a set. With humour injected irony and the kind of story-telling that only surfaces through experience; his music is a journey. And, trust me, he takes you along with him.

I've seen him turn a dud Sway gig, into an intimate jam session thrown together with his individually talented music posse. Boy, put anyone up there with him and they'd put something down to rival most of the superficial drivel that's out there selling millions. Everyone got their back off the wall and gathered round to listen. Too many artists see themselves as above the crowd, but Skittles brings us in on his talent.

He's the people's prophet.

I guess a large part of my affection for Skittles as an artist, came from my first experience of his music, on the album '2 Pints of Brandy & a Packet of Skittles'. I won't lie, even amongst the tough-talk of songs like 'We'd Drink', political observations on 'Blair', I was a sucker for the sultry sounds of 'Bababallad'. Nevermind growing up in the hood, I'm still a girl...

Now you'll hear him blasting up your stereo with tracks like Dot2Dot and mixes from some smashers - soundclash demon Chimpo, Dub Phizics & Zed Bias; and it's long overdue. Manchester loves you, man. Go and fully do your thing.

Anyway, I'll shut up now and let him do the talking.

Dot2Dot EP is out now; it's been unleashed, it's chasing you right now and running round your living room, jumping on your sofas. So, succumb to the dark side and take in the light.

Enjoy.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=28jDgVcStWs 

Shout out to BRICKS on keys, Joe drums, Ben bass, Wez sax and Ali guitar. Plus FOX on vocal delicacies. You literally must get down to a live-band performance from these guys.

Hip-hop just comes alive.

Parklife

He calls me in the middle of the night.

"Come round. We’re having a party"

I realise there is no party. This is him and I. It's difficult for me in these situations, trying to keep a safe distance so that the natural chemistry between us rebounds off the people in the way and deflects to save the day. Not tonight; tonight it's all too close.

It's like he's keeping me trapped and he's hurting me. He's kicking me and pulling me and pinching me and wrapping me up in the blanket so I can't breathe. I get out of the clutches of madness and sit on the  chair having a cigarette.

He vomits. I get him some juice. He calls me a dick-head.

He comes stumbling back into his room where I’m sat, waiting for normality to return. He falls into my arms; cuddle-time. Wanting him to feel better, I try, but he's too forceful and he's drunk. I place my hands gently on his back; it feels like the closest I've ever been to him. Part of my soul smiles, but the reality frowns hard - hard enough for the lines to come shutting down like barriers. I'm sober as a judge and would rather avoid the awkward sexual nature between us tonight - only to wake up tomorrow and the whole thing be forgotten.

“You fill up a lot of my thoughts, you see - ordinarily. I've wanted to be here before; I’ve wanted you to want me”

I can't communicate this to him, as he's too busy trying to lift my dress up whilst I laugh it off and try to make moves to leave. I manage to run downstairs, hand in my pocket, searching for keys - only to realise they're on the floor of his room.

The door opening wakes him up, and he says;

'That's it now, you're trapped'.

He doesn't realise what this means for me, or memories that it drags up - being forced to stay, forced to lay, forced to pray for him to let me out. He bundles me back into his duvet - and he's strong. Without wanting to sound dramatic I tell him I can't breathe, but he won't understand. I kiss his cheek and tell him to calm down.

"Why are you hurting me?"

He says he wants to hurt me all the time - in a good way.

I'm silent because I don't understand and I'm not sure what to say. He starts to fall asleep again and I wait there, my legs held down by his, my head squashed under covers and pillows. His breathing steadies. I stare out at the sky beginning to get lighter, welcoming day time.

I want to go home. When I'm sure he's in deep sleep, I shuffle out of the vice clamps, sneak my keys from his hand and creep back downstairs. I keep the door open whilst I put my shoes on; I can see the exit and I feel fresh air again. I miss him now, but I don't want him like this.