Lesson #1: Do not join a gym in Brixton. Well, that is unless you’re Curtly Ambrose or Maurice Green. But, perhaps not Gladstone Small. Allow me to explain.
Constantly enduring short, cold and dark winter days has its consequences: laziness, lethargy, and a general lack of motivation to engage in any form of exercise. I noticed this pretty early on. In a strategic move to counter the muscle-depletion devil (and his henchmen), I decided it would be beneficial to take up a short-term membership of a local gym in Brixton. I was staying in Brixton after the residents of “The Manor” generously opened their door for a poor, lowly traveller. Fortunately for me, the Manor residents left the door ajar a little too long and I managed to sneak in, along with the aforementioned poor traveller.
As you may be aware, Brixton is home to a significant number of immigrants from the Caribbean and parts of Africa. So, in a sense, I was also at home. But in many other senses, I was far from it. My first session at the Brixton Recreation Centre was a success and incident-free. As I wiped the sweat from my face and proudly checked out my glistening guns in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, I left the weights room and headed for the change rooms fairly content. I was feeling great; refreshed, rejuvenated, re-energised… until I stepped into the showers.
The communal showers.
In Brixton.
The suburb populated primarily by black individuals.
Black individuals who are certainly doing more than overtime to contribute to their share of the stereotype.
I didn’t want to look down. I tried to avoid it, but I simply couldn’t not notice their goods. Even facing the corner of the shower room wasn’t sufficient to prevent several black adders entering my peripheral. And this was the middle of winter. Definitely no signs of snake-hibernation in this room. I made a mental note to ensure that my gym membership expired well before summer started. Meanwhile, there was I, a downtrodden half-caste, sheepishly facing the corner, attempting to rectify, slash conceal my comparatively concave situation, while quietly reassuring myself: “it’s what you do with it that counts. It’s what you do with it that counts”.
Well, apparently not. If you ever fancy a black girl, don’t bother; you don’t stand a chance.
So, that was my introduction to Brixton. But it wasn’t all half-caste humiliation. The remainder of my time in London was, by and large, hilarity.
Frosty spent a good portion of Billie’s “How to host a murder” party in the foetal position in numerous locations throughout the Manor. Most notably, he was discovered on the stairwell landing at around 2am incomprehensibly grunting for attention in between chunders. Less than half an hour later, he could be heard in the bathroom groaning under the constant stream of running water which still wasn’t loud enough to conceal the sound of his projectile vomit combined with the sound of every imaginable toiletry item violently tumbling onto the hard tiled floor from every shelf, rack and basin in the room. Judging by Alice’s strained laughter interspersed by the whole gamut of profanities known to the English language, she was obviously struggling to maintain Frosty’s uprightness. Meanwhile, Tori, sleeves rolled up, had emerged from the attic and commenced scrubbing Frosty’s stomach concoction of macaroni, shwarma, tomato, salami and, of course, the obligatory corn kernels, from the coarse white carpet. Naturally, I made a valuable contribution by standing around and photographically documenting the events before me.
‘twas a quality night overall. Young Squiddy Symons was revealed to be the murderer in the game, consistent with his stalker reputation in real life.
The remainder of December was spent conforming to the life of an unemployed student in a foreign hemisphere. Renners, Biggs and I partook in many what we call “admin days”. That term is actually a glorified way of saying, “we woke up shortly before the sun was due to go down, ate leftovers, drank Fosters and generally did fuck all”. Occasionally, we would book a flight or attend to some minor errand that had been plaguing our minds for weeks. But on the whole, it was the land of the dole-bludger for us, as my Youth Allowance continued to trickle in from home, only to be wastefully blown on the economy of our colonial fathers.
However, there were a couple excursions that we, “Team Admin”, collectively embarked upon. For example, the day that we aimlessly wandered around the centre of London in search of fake snow. We eventually stumbled across it in the form of a shamelessly tacky and exploitationist Yahoo Christmas promotion in Covent Garden. Another day that springs to mind is when Team Admin ventured to Cambridge to sample the conservative lifestyle of pretentious students, unsuccessful professionals-turned-beard-wielding-academics, and pub-dwelling, dreadlock-wielding hippies. The three of us were painstakingly trying to emit an air of wealth, sophistication and worldly intellect as we pompously strode around town. However, any such air was swiftly blown away after taking a guided punt ride down the River Cam. The knowledgeable young tour guide had pointed out a particular 13th century mansion which was originally built by the wealthiest female dignitary in the county at the time. Biggs innocently responded by asking whether she was still alive. Her question was met with a deafening silence.
Actually, perhaps Biggs’s question wasn’t so absurd. After all, judging by Gretel Killeen’s crowfeet and generally leathery, haggard skin, humans might actually be able to live for eight centuries.
Speaking of eight centuries, I’m of the opinion that if you gave (semi finger lick) Timmy “Robbie Campbell” Buntos that amount of time to acquire ice skating skills, he still would only achieve marginal improvement. Witnessing his display of utmost flair and flamboyance on the Hyde Park ice rink on Christmas Eve was one of the greatest spectacles I’ve ever been part of. To be fair, I can’t say I’ve been part of a tremendous number of spectacles in my time, but if I had been, this would certainly rank, or should I say “rink”, highly.
It was amazing. Limbs were contorting into an assortment of impossible positions, ice was spraying in all directions, passers-by were screaming, even those outside the rink exuded an air of caution. At one point, a young girl skating behind Bunt was heard muttering, “please fall, please fall, please fall”. It truly was carnage-on-ice. To be fair once again, I am utter tripe on the ice too. But for the purpose of preserving my image of perfection, I shall not divulge details of my performance.
Following this classic exhibition of Armidale-cum-Bathurst-cum-Sydney-cum-Japan-cum-Clapham talent, we settled for German bratwurst, jager shots and mulled wine – aka cheap red goon thrown into a microwave for several minutes – as the crisp Christmas air lulled us into a state of holiday happiness and sleepy satisfaction. For tomorrow morning, some impossibly ancient, dishevelled and morbidly obese fella, bordering on having a coronary, would be ungracefully gliding down my chimney to offload his bulging sack, much to everyone’s innocent delight.
That ends this episode of the Sojourn of a Black Man Blog. I guess this is where a writer of any repute would close on a cliffhanger to ensure readers returned for the subsequent edition. I suppose I should conform to the mould. So, stay tuned and find out next time: was I, or was I not, irreparably molested as a child?
Until then, stay jovial, earthlings. *winks at camera*
“…And cut.”
“Sweet, I think that went pretty well, yeah?”
“What the fuck were you thinking with that last line about being molested as a child?! We can’t screen that shit!”
“Man, we gotta keep the viewers interested somehow.”
“But, at your reputation’s expense?”
“Nah, they’re smart viewers. They’ll assume I was joking anyway.”
“What are you saying – ‘assume’ you’re joking?”
“You heard me.”
*uneasy tone of voice* “So, so, so… what… you were molested as a child?”
*leans in close to the director’s ear, lowers voice and whispers in a sinister tone* “You’ll have to find out next time”
*Adrian steps back and grins broadly, looking around the room at the crew* “Great hustle today everyone. Top show!” *tosses the director a shiny red apple over his shoulder and walks off set whistling*
