LBC incidously

So there was this series of riots and there were the active and the scared and amateur filming and eclectic involvement of ages, nationalities , creeds and gender  and all played their roll with unprecedented gusto

 It was an establishment embarrassment 

and the media for the best part had a knee jerk race to the conclusion line and pulled the joker : an easy-sell spin from the hot smoke of yester-year  : race riots by that accessible bogey man; the disenfranchised blacks

Even in Salford shopping centre where a brown face was hard to find it's open season as usual

Que the pseudo sociologist because the fantastical statutes of  scientists have been the granite of belief systems

 David Starky   pronounced that the sociopathy was black culture and its contemporary slang was classically Jamaican , revitalising his career in a spiritual rebirth of Enoch Powell straight on to the front page of a neo nazi online magazine

So what then had we lived through childhoods that danced to mowtown every time there was daylight and some nights when us conservatively disciplined children were allowed .  That giggled at camp white impersonators on top of the pops whos excessive efforts made them ironically far too clumsy to flow. 

When we loved our afros with teeming pride that warmed us inside. Cheered on all white football teams and held motorcycles in awe of cool. When we imitated teddy boys for fun and fell for the commercial notion that was Elvis and all these decorated our walls in 3ft posters while we played cricket in the garden or hide and seek in the house or monopoly with the whole family, famously; passionately, heavenly blissful to the dangers hovering in the patient future

A while after the riots James O Brien discussed the use of the N word on LBC.

 London's biggest conversation they call it. Oh I used to love that James O Brian. He's so eloquent ; so verbally poised; so clever. A writer's icon; and even though the niggling criticism was that LBC was a station of bourgeois nonsense I couldn't resist the scaramoosh cut and thrust of this mans verbal flair.

The ego of faith blinded me from the obvious when every other sense screamed at me that O Brien was wading in the free-for-all race pool .

On uncreative days Jenny Hartley-Brewer.. and Christopher Foufas.... stoked embers that could've become pyres

With the technique of  repetition they would eurocentise data 

They would redefine reality , the essence of power by chopping the reanimating noses off of sphinxes  

and stir my fire that wanted to level their castle with the fibres of honesty that silence hums of gossiping tongues 

When I wake I will cleanse my mouth before even water touches my throat since all roads are paved with logic

Then I cleanse and cream every centimetre of my strong skin 

while absorbing sound because I come from larger families in a team community

Still I religiously dismissed Mr O Brian's dismissal of three callers , aggrieved at their subjugation under the N word

But Rubik was too big for his cube

It took the words to burst out of the horses mouth but he actually spat  'it's black culture' 

The impact was such a headache that I shamefully honoured his shit by reflecting . I remembered how my mums law was that street slang stopped at the front door. That her fan wall poster was of an elegantly suited, ultra charismatic , highly principled super being called Cassius Clay whose iconism  has never been found wanting . His bold aesthetic profile took pride of place.  

On the living room walls were the three porcelain geese/doves ? in flight and some of those ghastly affirmation pics of clouds with a Christian philosopy emblazoned to imply it was ephemeral 

Among my moms albums was Sparrow , a gay ( meaning joyful) calypso singer, lord Kitchener and" she would sing anything from Petula Clark to Johnny Nash  and it awed me that there was a dimension that one would diametrically occupy singing a song, radiating the invincible angel.

Thanks to her the news was prominent  on tv. There was also crossroads and documentary . And a dashing Hollywood Italian American caught her eye so she named my brother Mario 

Dads was cricket, boxing and current debate. He had played saxophone but never spoke about it. Might have been something to do with having served in the army and that dislodged sense of self worth

Before men became men we spent eternities watching our womenfolk in ceremonial preening transforming from my pillows ( shoulders, thighs, bellies, empathies ) to cakes with icing for the  big world to eat . Their hearts beating to pop, reggae or something   Dylan-esque

Cooking was as gender exclusive as who   took out the trash and we'd eat egg and chips today then bakes and saltfish tomorrow. Assorted biscuits were plentiful 

If you got out of line you'd take a few straps that were effective to smack most back into line and mom was the boss. Everyone else, and cousins were always on call to sarogate by nature as aunts constantly wiped food off of our faces with heavy hands

There was neither time nor pronunciation of self depreciation

We had too much love to accommodate guns. They were the hidden jewel in episodes of Starsky and Hutch where a young destitute basketball  playing kid was ruining his promising career in intermittent episodes.  Always in America 

Now another big brother's  forging yet another template  of nations' sibling rivalry; transmitting through the airwaves of electromagnetic spectrums

He was digital when we were physical , sneaking into your ears when we sing the blues. 

So it was Nick Ferarri's turn. Another day , another pundit, same principle, same scapegoat, varied angle.   Sociopathy and ebonics  ; and if I hadn't cottoned on after all these years to the illuminesque pattern of nurtured racism I'd have been blind deaf and dumb. Losing his composure with an incompatible caller he bellowed ' its Black Culture ' and the penny dropped as though it were golden brown and sucked by gravity to forge a slot into my  forehead . 

Truth is exclusive. Unlike national radio licenced and supported by corporate advertising

There's a national black newspaper but if the voice weekly is really covertly owned by a white Jewish woman then the chances of them publishing my shit is less than that of the tabloid trash they emulate

As if everyone doesn't sub consciously know that marginalised dictates that obeying the law and going to work to ensure you a reasonable life was on the  whole, not for us 

and agent provocateurs are strategically placed and equipped to ensure that brainwashing leaves a stain that forms peninsulas beyond the boundaries of culture