Of biscuits, business speak and bad moods

I'm being a bit of a grumpy twat at the moment. Randomly snapping at or blanking people I love. It's all related to the problems with my left foot, of course. The MRI Scan shows "considerable damage which may or may not prove permanent", but we're still no closer to diagnosing what the condition is. I've been referred to a second consultant before they resort to surgery. This thing's been going on for 6 months now and it's seriously pissing me off, making me as irrational as the imbecile who commissioned a further 7 episodes of the execrable Chris Moyles' Quiz Night. It's hard to explain the constant pain I'm enduring, but I'll have a go.

Imagine you've won a competition to be driven around Silverstone race circuit by Lewis Hamilton in a specially converted Formula One car which positions you as a passenger right behind the renowned automobilist. The day arrives and you squeeze into tight all-in-one pink racing leathers. A trickle of sweat runs down your face under the multi-coloured helmet. The heat rises off the bitumen making the pit wall shimmer as you pose with Lewis and his Pussycat Doll girlfriend for the thronging media before climbing into the cockpit.

But Lewis has had a Monza flashback. You're half in and half out of the sleek silver vehicle as he panics and pulls away at speed from the grid - wheels squealing their protest. Your cat-like reflexes mean you're able to grab onto the car by the raised camera mount above the engine, but you can't lift both legs clear. Your left foot drags along the track. The reinforced boot disintegrates immediately. An explosion of pain turns your vision an incandescent white and you scream as your flesh and bone paints the monotonous grey of the track in a vivid, anguished bloody trail. Your foot now a ragged stump.

That's what it feels like.

Day after wretched day.

Anyway, if I've pissed you off recently, that's why. I love you and I'm sorry, but try not to take it personally. If it's any consolation whatsoever, check out this excerpt from a recent conversation. I'm the second speaker;

"Ooooh! They look nice. Can I have one, please?"

"No."

"Go on. You've got two there."

"And?"

"Half of one then."

"I'm sorry. I thought I said 'no'."

"Ok... How about just a little bit of one?"

"..."

"Just a tiny bit."

"!??!"

"Please...?"

"?!?@£%!*"

"Pretty please...?"

"... Sigh... Fine... But just an itsy, bitsy, tiiiiny bit."

I want you to know in all seriousness, gentle reader, had that exchange not taken place at a large, round table seating 8 other people all of whom were gawping incredulously at my intransigence like a Labrador watching ITV2 and trying to work out what Katie Price is ac-tu-ally for, I would not have caved in. On reflection I can set my present medical affliction to one side, because everyone knows:

You. Don't. Mess. With. A. Man's. Biscuits.

Especially when they're Freebie Luxury Conference Oat Crunch Biscuits.

Cajoled into an act of generosity I grudgingly broke off as small a piece as I could between my embittered thumb and forefinger. The recipient compounded my resentment by exclaiming "Mmmmm... God! These are faaaaan-taaaastic! Did you get them from the conference?"

Three weeks ago the organisation for whom I work hosted an event at a North West Football Stadium. I realise I'm flying in the face of received wisdom here, but I love these things! Because:

1. You get to meet new people who up until this point have only been names copied in on e-mails.

2. I can laugh inwardly and often at the occasions when 'Business/Management Speak' cascades like a tsunami of vagueness from the beautifully appointed stage and makes the audience want to stab their own eyes out with a small woodland animal.

and

3. You get Freebie Luxury Conference Biscuits. My favourites being the aforementioned Oat Crunch.

The dress code for such events is officially 'smart casual' which is quite plainly an oxymoron - you know, like 'military intelligence'. The talk in the office this year suggested that jeans were officially out, but that we could probably get away with wearing Chinos. Having misplaced my 'Let's go back to the eighties' Time Machine I opted instead for an all green combo with peanut butter Timberlands which was, frankly, redolent of Fidel Castro in his firebrand prime, before his beard went all grey and wispy.

The mini bus journey to the stadium was uneventful, which is pretty much what you want from a mini bus journey. I spent most of it asleep. Mouth agape. And snoring. Loudly. I was reliably informed by my colleagues that the driver had opted for a route which appeared to meander via Croydon and as a consequence by the time we arrived at 9:45am for the 9:30am complimentary coffees the initial batch of biscuits had already been consumed. This resulted in the first part of the morning spent with my stomach audibly rumbling like a Tank Division rolling through a primary school in Gaza.

To focus my mind during conferences I look for an opportunity for everyone to acknowledge my presence and keep a tally of the instances of wishy washy 'Management Speak' so rightly lampooned by those who perceive clear communication as having some value. Last year the results were as follows:

1st place 'In terms of' - 51

2nd place 'Around' (as in: "We'll be discussing themes around...") - 45

3rd place 'Going forward' - 18

And the highlight arrived when we were informed that "In terms of going forward we are going to have some food, which is around having lunch." I wish I was joking.

We also had a guest speaker from IBM who, whilst strikingly employing a lexicon which eschewed the usual Corporate language, still managed to use 'Going forward' twice. However, he redeemed himself by using the most obscure word of the day, namely 'Bifurcation', which impressed the hell out of me.

2010 saw the positions change like a game of musical chairs, but unfortunately without any of the chairs being removed:

1st place 'Going forward' - 24

2nd place 'Around' - 20

3rd place 'In terms of' - 18

Phrases of the day were "Mine the analytics" and "Interrogate the propensity models." And when it came time for my team to make itself known to the auditorium I stood theatrically, spread my arms wide in a David Lee Roth pose and gave an assured, slow nod as I surveyed the room and drank in the unrestrained adulation.

Festivities concluded and we hung around the lobby for the mini bus driver's return, which was delayed by motorway traffic, allowing me to further avail myself of the biscuity treats referred to earlier: lovingly saving a packet for my early morning Hot Chocolate libation the next day.

I could barely sleep that night, so excited was I by the prospect. And thus I seek to explain away my earlier prickly discourse. Hopefully, you can now empathise with my frustration at having this exquisite pleasure snatched from my ridiculously full and sensuous lips.

Around the time my left foot first began to swell and resemble a reasonably priced family hatchback Gordon Brown undertook a webchat with Mumsnet in which, bizarrely, he pointedly avoided answering a question on what his favourite biscuit was 12 times! Political commentators were flummoxed: did he actually think you could disenfranchise great swathes of the electorate by coming out in favour of one snack or another?

We can only dream as to the small, sweetened, flour based products available for consumption within the confines of Number 10. I bet it's like a Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory of delights in there and they've now acquired recipes from Iraq and Afghanistan. But being a stoic individual I'm betting Gordon likes a plain Digestive with his cup of tea.

My theory is this: on the morning of the webchat someone nicked the last plain Digestive, hadn't popped out to Spar to get a new packet and Capital G just didn't want to talk about it.

And now we learn he's a moody bully. Coincidence? I think not.

You. Don't. Mess. With. A. Man's. Biscuits.

Ever.

Can't see the Woods for the threesomes

Living black icons are few and far between these days. There's me, obviously, Barack Obama, Nelson Mandela, Denzel Washington, Dr Cornel West, Chris Rock and Tiger Woods. It's not a definitive list by any means, but they're the only ones I can think of right now. For a hot minute, at the beginning of the millennium, it looked like Richard Blackwood would join our exclusive club, but the genius of Chris Morris' Brass Eye Paedogeddon Special put paid to that and perhaps we should be thankful.

So will my cohorts and I lose the company of Mr. Woods? That's the question. He gave a press conference on Friday to apologise for ever giving the impression that he was an asexual being with a smooth, rounded plastic groinal area resembling that of an Action Man. The first thing I noticed (apart from the fact that not even Gordon Brown crying about his dead daughter got this kind of media coverage. Our Prime Minister upstaged by a tumescent, throbbing Black penis? Awesome!) was that his head looked all weird and lumpen without his personally trademarked cap and as a consequence his face didn't make sense: he resembled a really bad hand in scrabble, all consonants and no vowels, with a 'Q' and a 'Z' thrown in just for a goof.

Turns out he hired George W. Bush's media advisers for this press conference and whilst it was scripted far more clumsily than Guy Ritchie's Revolver and delivered in a manner which would make even Jason Statham exclaim "That was shit. Can I do that scene again?", he offered what seems a genuine apology (see the hand on heart foto above). But then if I had billions of dollar$' worth of corporate sponsorship on the line I'd be apologising like a motherfucker too. I guess the only people who'll know if he meant any of it for sure are Tiger and his wife.

Golf was invented so that the rich could go for walks without bumping into peasants and the target demographic for any golfing TV broadcast remains middle-aged, middle-class men, popping Viagra like smarties who are trying to decide whether to upgrade to a Chrysler 300 or a Mercedes Benz at Easter. Their wives pretend, hypocritically, to be shocked at Tiger's antics, whilst kicking themselves that they could have actually met him a couple of years ago if they'd gone to that corporate hospitality thingy he hosted during the local golf tournament. Most men will pretend to be appalled at what Tiger's done whilst hissing "Go on, my Son!" under their breath - everyone with a pulse recognises that if you can't start a conversation with "'S'up, sweet thing? I'm Tiger... Fancy a bit?", then what's the point of being a billionaire? - whilst 'Golf Widows' the world over now fantasise more about sex with the Tiger than with their husbands. Fact!

It was amusing to watch the corporations run away from him like Cheryl Cole fleeing a Relate Counselling session; Accenture dropped him; AT&T barred his calls; and Gillette advised that they would be scouring the planet looking for literally anyone else to shave for them - I personally turned them down last Wednesday, so expect your call any minute.

Ever searching for the world between the cracks in the pavement I figured I'd slide by Tiger's website and see if there was an official story.

web.tigerwoods.com ROCKS at the moment. It's choc-full of innuendo and reads like a first draft of 'Carry On Golfing'. In the section entitled 'Tiger's Tips' (fnar, fnar), where the man himself offers advice allowing us to emulate a Golf Master and improve our 'game', we find:

'Holding firm greens' (!)

and

'Face up in the rough' (as opposed to 'Face down in the rough', presumably)

His monthly blog includes:

'Playing three in a row' (lucky bastard!)

and

'Developing endurance and stamina' (riiiight...)

All of which, I would suggest, got him into trouble in the first damned place.

Anyway, he's going back to rehab for a while and it made me wonder: what exactly do they do in there?

My first port of call was the Sexual Recovery Institute who claim to treat;

• Sexual Addiction
• Compulsive Masturbation
• Online Hookups
• Porn addiction
• Chronic Infidelity
• Prostitutes & Massage
• Exhibitionism
• Voyeurism
• Strip Clubs

Not that I suffer from 'Strip Clubs' or 'Prostitutes & Massage' personally, but they sound pretty serious, don't they?

The Mayo Clinic identifies the symptoms of sex addiction as follows;

• Having sex with anonymous partners or prostitutes
• Using commercial sexually explicit phone and Internet services
• Engaging in excessive masturbation
• Frequently using pornographic materials
• Engaging in masochistic or sadistic sex
• Having a fixation on an unattainable sex partner

But, strangely, when you visit their site you get pop-ups advertising what can only be described as special interest Adult DVD titles such as;

'Tiitten Party: Big Bouncing Euro Tits' and 'Rock That Midget 2' (to be honest, a quick scan of the second one reveals that it has very little to do with music). Evidently some kind of cruel test to make you think "Please, God, it's happening again! I'm being assaulted by porn!!!" and immediately sign up for a course of treatment.

As the prescient Chris Rock observed "Men are only as faithful as their options," so someone like Tiger, logically, will be more predisposed to extrajudicial coitus. Ditto Ashley Cole, Vernon Kay, John Terry etc etc... Thus, his only crime seems to have been getting caught. If he had balls as big as Our Tone's then, once fingered, he would have denied it and then bounced up and down like a toddler at a Tweenies concert shrieking that if he had to do it all again, he would ('my friend, Fernando').

Besides, Tiger's real crime, which will never ever get mentioned, but for which he should definitely say 'sorry', is documented in the film 'The Golf War'. In the late nineties the government of The Phillipines, its military and a cabal of greedy land developers, attempted to displace thousands of villagers and farmers from their homeland to build a golf course. Opponents to this gleaming 'economic development' were killed, whilst Mr Woods was hired by the government to play in an exhibition match and promote the game of golf. The government called it "The Day of the Tiger" and at his junior golf clinic Tiger uttered these portentous words;

"I want all of you to learn and grow from this experience. Invariably you're gonna learn life, gonna learn about life because golf is a microcosm of life."

Romy Capulong, legal representative for the farmers, assumed a diametrically opposed position: "Tiger Woods should be barred from entering this country, I think. If I can do something about it - I'll certainly do that - to bar him from entering this country and propagating golf."

Kinda puts banging a few porn stars into perspective, n'est ce pas?

Denzel Washington revelled in his Oscar winning role as the amoral Police Officer on a powertripping bender in 'Training Day', but felt the character was so depraved and corrupt that the only just retribution was death in a hail of bullets. As the perpetual, so-called 'War On Terror' unravelled this seemed completely out of step with reality, so much so that if you watch the movie now you feel let down by a lazy, disingenuous cop-out (sorry) of an ending which sits uneasily with the easy nihilism of the film.

Evil always prospers.

Politicians never apologise.

However, wouldn't it be great if just once. Once! A world leader, any world leader, proffered a Tiger style 'mea culpa' and then went into Conflict Rehab to cure his War Addiction?

Happy F!%king Valentine's Day

Somehow, today's celebrations have been thoroughly trivialised in a shower of Clinton's cards, tacky Ann Summers novelty outfits, trite poetry, mid-priced R 'n' B compilation CDs and garishly themed areas in ASDA. But love matters, dammit! As does its physical expression: sex.

Ah, sex....

It's a beautiful thang. Defined as 'an act of coition between three or more consenting adults', it's the one chance for us to express who we are. Unequivocally. The most significant moment of human existence is the orgasm. Sex Magick as espoused by Aleister Crowley and Paschal Beverly Randolph posits that the sexual orgasm can be used to invoke spirits, alter reality, exercise our innate psychic powers and/or heighten one's consciousness. In that one incandescent moment true awareness flickers and flutters open. In that infinitesimal fissure of perception we can behold the truth.

And girls say we're shallow. Pah!

In my widely acclaimed book 'After you: Sexual Etiquette in the 21st Century' (which seeks to explore sexual politics in a post modern society where 'missionary' is now only viable as a sexual position if accompanied by a balaclava and a tub of chunky peanut butter) I suggest an ORGASM RATIO (tm) of 4:1, ie you ensure your partner climaxes at least four times before it's your turn to:-

1. make funny faces

2. issue blasphemous exhortations

3. convulse like a fox caught in an electrical fence installed to protect livestock

4. roll your eyes to the back of your skull like Gene Simmons preparing for a Bass solo

5. gibber like Alistair Campbell dodging a question on Iraq from Andrew Marr

and finally

6. gasp like an asthmatic okapi.

By observing this one simple rule and adjusting your ORGASM RATIO (tm) your sexual needs are more likely to be fulfilled and you're less likely to encounter a crushing, judgemental repulsion from the one you love when you give voice to your long kept secret desires. However, you may have to raise that initial number considerably if a) your partner's sexual tastes are strictly Victorian or b) you're into one of the following:

Acrophilia
Acrophilia (Acro: highest point; philia: attachment to) refers to a person who is sexually aroused by heights or high altitudes. Skydiving or bungee-jumping, for example, offer an adrenaline rush which easily metamorphoses into a sexual ecstasy and, let's be honest here, both of these activities include a light form of bondage and suspension so its pretty understandable. Janet Jackson and Richard Branson are self-confessed members of the 'Mile-High Club', so I'd suggest it doesn't have the same allure as when I joined. Watch yourself though, having sex in a public facility or toilet is actually punishable under section 71 of the Sexual Offences Act 2004 and on EasyJet there's now a service charge if you want to use the loo which is only avoidable if you use a Visa Electron card to book your flight.

Agalmaophilia
Pygmalion was a mythical Greek sculptor who fell in love with one of his female statues Galatea. At his request, the goddess Aphrodite brought her to life. Today the term refers to people with a statue or mannequin fetish. Displaysense, an acclaimed shop dummy manufacturer, now attaches warning stickers to its shop dummies after a man mistook one for a sex doll and got his penis stuck.

The chap bought the female bust from the Displaysense website for £38, but trapped his manhood inside a 24mm hole designed for a display stand. Luckily, he managed to waddle into his kitchen with the plastic dummy still attached, grab a pair of scissors, release himself and ring their call centre to enunciate a stern complaint.

Bee Stings
(Melissophilia; Entomocism - use of insects; Entomophilia - arousal from insects) Apparently bee stings can be used to extend the period of orgasm, enhance the sensitivity of the penis and increase its girth.

I found this dialogue online:

Would it be advisable to have a bee or wasp sting the penis to get a harder erection? And which part of the penis would it be better for applying the sting to?

My boyfriend would do this all the time and it would turn me on so much. You squeeze the abdomen of the bee to trigger it into combat mode, so it will sting and get the stinger out. You put the stinger in the urethra and keep on pinching the bee until it releases the venom and stings the penis. The reasons this works is because the venom from the bee makes your penis swell, and well, that just seems to make it harder and larger =)

So now you know.

Coitus a Unda
This refers to sex in water rather than watersports. People are quite fond of having a crafty one in the shower or bath and fellatio, during which the partner holds water in his or her mouth, is pretty awesome.

Cosmopolitan magazine highlighted the following water/bath related sex positions:

Hot-Tub Hug
Take advantage of this you-on-top pose to titillate his nipples. Draw gentle circles around them with your fingers as you grind.

Sea Horse
Since you’re in charge of the randy reins, lean your torso forward or backward to alter the depth and angle of penetration as you ride him.

Bubbly Back Float
Floating weightlessly gives you pelvic flexibility. You can experiment with aqua acrobatics that you couldn't manage on solid ground.

Niagara Falls
Have him grab the soap and lather up his hands before sliding them around your body. His wet touches will add an extra-sexy sensation.

Randy Raft
Your guy can move your legs up and down to vary the angle of penetration, creating alternating sensations for you.

Canoe Canoodle
Your bodies will be melded from head to toe, and the rocking motion of the boat will intensify each of his internal strokes.

Dogging
(Amomaxia: sex in a parked car.) Where couples in cars perform for a gathered audience. Katie Price and Alex Reid recently reviewed the Citroen Picasso for enthusiasts’ online journal, Doggers' Monthly.

"We're, like, totally mental and completely impulsive, yeah? So, right, we just, like, went to Vegas? Because that's what we wanted to do, yeah? Anyway, Ohmygod! Ohmygod! Ohmygod! We just so, like, loooooved the conveniently ‘eeezy-wipe’ interior? And the wider driver and passenger seats makes spit-roasting, like, so much easier? Plus the optional full-length sun-roof and increased windowed surface area lets more people enjoy what you're up to, and it’s great if you’re expecting the paparazzi."

"Oh, and the Citroen Berlingo is well buff! Deffo our 'best budget buy'. It was, like, ace, to find a high performance, affordable family car with the headroom to enjoy a good old-fashioned ‘reverse cowgirl’ position, innit?"

Homilophilia
(Autagonistophilia - arousal by being on stage or on camera. Homilo: sermons.) Homilophilia refers to feeling sexual arousal whilst listening to or giving public speeches. Public speakers are often dynamic and this, combined with excitement, anticipation and adrenaline can produce sexual arousal for both speaker and audience. Now, whenever I assume the role of event compere or host I imagine myself in a deep, warm bubble bath: rivulets of water cascading over my naked torso, effervescence playing gently over my nipples, a chilled glass of Veuve Clicquot Champagne on the side... Given my meticulous mental preparation, anything less than sexual arousal in these circumstances is unacceptable.

Nasophilia
Nasophilia (naso: nose; philia: attachment to) refers to arousal from the sight, touch or act of licking or sucking a partner's nose. The reasons for people digging this practice are varied. Inuits rub noses as a greeting, and certain Native American tribes traditionally rub noses, just as other cultures kiss on the lips, to express affection.

Palatin Technologies Inc developed a product in the mid-noughties, Bremelanotide, which was to be marketed as PT-141 Nasal Spray. Palatin conducted a study in 18 premenopausal and 26 postmenopausal women with a diagnosis of Female Sexual Dysfunction (FSD). Patients reported a significant increase in sexual desire and in genital arousal after receiving Bremelanotide, compared to a placebo, and a definite correlation was drawn between sexual desire and genital arousal in patients receiving Bremelanotide.

However, further tests must have gone "breasts awry" as the last communication on this wonder product reads as follows on the Palatin website:

"Following discussions with the Food and Drug Administration (FDA), Palatin discontinued work on Bremelanotide as an intranasal first-line therapy for sexual dysfunction."

Oculolinctus
Oculolinctus (oculo: eye; linctus: lick) refers to the act of licking a partner's eyeball for sexual arousal. I couldn't find any specific, noteworthy examples of this fetish, but what follows is very disturbing:

Eyeball sex scared help?
I was getting a beej from my gf and came in her eyes. She immediately washed them out with water but I was wondering if it was possible for the sperm to travel down the optic nerve into her body and get her pregnant?

Queening
This is the practice of a dominant female using a man's head as her throne. The woman sits in one of several positions, either on the side of the man's head or so that his nose is near her anus with his eyes covered by her genitals. The object of queening is bondage rather than cunnilingus. The man may wear supplemental ankle or wrist restraints.

Scrotal Infusion
(Ballooning; Scrotal inflation) Scrotal infusion is the process by which a saline solution is injected into the scrotal sac. The visual effect of the scrotal infusion resembles a water balloon. Men don't report any pain from this procedure and claim that one advantage is the solution filtering into the penis causing it to swell to the size of one of those Foster's Lager Supercans.

The website www.pumphouse.me.uk offers a comprehensive guide which states "don't be a pansy" and helpfully suggests "don't plan to move around too much for the next 30 minutes - hour. Have your beers/soft drinks or whatever already out of the fridge. You will want to stay idle and focused while you do this." Quality advice.

Their Bullet Point recap of the process reads thus:

1. warm the saline to just above body temerpature.
2. Make sure that the ballsack is cleaned with wipes provided and is loose hanging.
3. hang the saline above you to ensure gravity works.
4. open the blue tag and insert the spike on the gravity feed line.
5. make sure the clamp is closed (it’s on the line and has a wheel that opens closes the line.)
6. insert cannula into ball sack and withdraw the needle part leaving the plastic sheath inside.
7. unscrew the plastic cover from the other end of the gravity line (it can be on a bit tight so use some muscles)
8. open the clamp wheel to blead the air our of the gravity line and re-close the clamp wheel.
9. attach the gravity line to the cannula, it will half turn screw on.
10. open the clamp wheel to allow a steady infusion of saline.
11. you will be able to see the flow by looking at the vial at the other end of the gravity line just below the blue tag entry. Give the vial a little squeeze to allow a reservoir of saline into the
chamber.

If you are not getting a good flow rate then you can start
by jiggling your ball sack carefully to see if that increases the flow rate.

The spelling mistakes in step 8 gave me no cause for concern whatsoever, so from Monday morning you'll see me walking with a wider gait than usual...

Sex isn't just for Valentine's day, boys and girls, and if we're doing it right we can cause a magickal storm which rips a hole in the fabric of our material reality generating true revolution. Get yourself a harness, acquire a strap-on, speak exclusively in a West African tongue-clicking dialect, go without underwear for a day. Experiment. Pick one of the above kinks at random and have a go before the end of the year. Notes and feedback to the usual place.

I love you x

What's Gangsta?

I wrote a piece for The Tribune entitled 'Racist Cunts'. Don't worry, it was amended before Miranda Somebodyorother from Sidcup, Kent could choke on her yoghurt and raisin snack bar. The thrust of the piece was the parallel between the 'gun crime crisis' and the 'crisis' surrounding asylum and immigration in Britain, especially because the asylum issue is still thematically linked to a legacy of hostility towards immigration, anxieties regarding law and order and social stability. Debates on themes such as belonging and nationality, ethnicity and xenophobia specifically target immigrants and refugees reinforcing the idea that the new societal danger should be associated with a newly arrived section of the population.

Specifically the spurious connection, rubber-stamped by a compliant media, between immigration and crime have combined to construct young black British males as a threat to an ordered UK society. The ideological equating of 'gun culture' as an aspect of 'black culture' and the conjoining of immigration to rising crime rates in political discourse have set the conditions for a 'moral panic' to emerge. The reaction to the 'gun culture crisis' is excessively generalised, effectively criminalizing all young black males and conveniently compartmentalising the ownership of this societal problem to a single community.

All of which allows the Metropolitan Police to run the ad above and Rod Liddle - a man in desperate need of a hairdresser, a personal trainer and a jolly good reaming from a rusty chainsaw - to state that "the overwhelming majority of street crime, knife crime, gun crime, robbery and crimes of sexual violence in London is carried out by young men from the African-Caribbean community."

In Liverpool, over the past three years or so, there have been dozens of incidents of what could be described as ‘white on white’ crime. All of the gang members are white, working class youths. Teenagers are routinely shot and injured as the drug and gang wars have escalated and spilled onto the streets often claiming the lives of innocent bystanders. The race of the teenagers involved is never mentioned in the Liverpool shootings and these tragedies are always reported in the context of a dysfunctional society, whereas similar incidents involving black perpetrators in London always make reference to a fundamental deficiency in their culture. And rap music.

I've never understood why hip hop is so routinely lambasted. It's essentially a 'Bond' movie with beats and choruses in which the lead, gets the girl and the money. What's not to like? Rap was just 'pop music' to me until I discovered Public Enemy. I'm not sure now if they helped form my world view or whether they merely reinforced it. Whatever, they are the most important band on the face of the planet: forthright and insightful political opinion set to music which was, and remains, genuinely innovative. E-mails I've received from Chuck D saying he digs my band or that we could do something together are... Are... Well, let's face it, they're fucking awesome!

P.E. were so staggeringly inventive that they arguably gave birth to 'gangsta rap'. As the Bomb Squad they produced Ice Cube's debut album and helped develop him from a novelty act as one fifth of the N.W.A. freak show into a serious, politicised and challenging artist, legitimising him with his definitive 'Amerikkka's Most Wanted' opus. Major labels opened the floodgates for the imitators who followed eschewing Cube's critical social commentary, or 'Street Knowledge', in favour of mainstream acceptance through party anthems (Snoop Dogg, anyone?). If you ever want an irrefutable chronicle of Black American life pick up an Ice Cube disc.

I once went to one of his rare UK concerts in Bradford. The security was ridiculous: alsatians straining at the leash, tooled up private security officers, metal detectors, body searches, it all seemed a tad extreme for a gig, but the promoters were merely reacting to the hysteria whipped up by the tabloids. Inside the venue, in stark contrast, the atmosphere was one of easy bonhomie and excited anticipation: we were going to see a legend 'bring it'. And 'bring it' he did with his crip-walking hypeman Dub C. The highlight arrived about three quarters of the way through the concert when Mr Cube paused proceedings to introduce his baby son, carried by a babysitter, dummy still in his mouth.

"This is Lil Ice," announced the Cubed one, "And he's gonna be rocking all y'all's ass in a few years time." As one, the audience paused, melted and emitted a gentle 'Ahhhhh' and then gave a cheer which was the sonic equivalent of one hundred Jean Claude Jacquetti 5000 Hairdryers set to Level 5. It was a fantastic night.

The review of the gig in the inkies the following week described a sequence of events so different I had to check my ticket stub to make sure I was at the same show. First of all, the acclaimed music journalist alleged that there was a preponderance of guns inside the venue. Secondly, he claimed to have witnessed several stand-offs and that he was genuinely scared for his life. Finally, he claimed that the biggest cheer of the night was reserved for the song 'A Bitch Iz A Bitch'. All utter, u.t.t.e.r. bollocks, of course, and that particular song was never performed, but, hey, why let facts get in the way of reinforcing a stereotype?

Another reason to love Rap is the slang: it's always fun to throw a random 'izzle' into dinner party conversation and, whilst it may not be a word that I'd ever use myself (safe in the knowledge that my Mother would give me a damned good cuff around the ear), I've been reassured by the many references to 'hoes' this week in mainstream media as they examine John Terry's extra marital indiscretions. 'Bros before hoes' came the cry from The Guardian and other news outlets as they splashed their indignation across the front pages completely ignoring the story of the week: Cherie Blair clearing a fella who broke another man's jaw in a particularly violent example of what is being referred to as 'queue rage'. The reasons for the suspended sentence? 1. The chap who committed the assault was a religious man. 2. Er... 3. That's pretty much it really...

Mrs Blair, like her husband a devout Roman Catholic, meted out a two-year suspended sentence to the man rather than a six-month jail term. She told him:

"I am going to suspend this sentence for the period of two years based on the fact you are a religious person and have not been in trouble before. You caused a mild fracture to the jaw of a member of the public standing in a queue at Lloyds Bank. You are a religious man and you know this is not acceptable behaviour."

A 'mild' fracture? Well, that's all right then. Secular groups have been up in arms, but they miss the point entirely. This was merely Cherie's very public Valentine's gift to Tony. He's been under fire after his shameless performance at the Chilcot Inquiry and may even be called back to explain the glaring inconsistencies in his account of events. He needed reassurance that, right or wrong, a man guided by his God would be vindicated in the end and so in steps Cherie with perhaps the strangest judgement of all time (an official objection has been made to the Judicial Complaints Office which handles complaints against members of the judiciary). After all, it's only the mild destruction of an entire country AND he's got another one ongoing and a third pending. Somewhere in the wide, dark night, after an obscenely lucrative speaking engagement, Tony is banging Cherie doggy style whilst she spits filthy encouragement: "Ooooh! You're a religious man, Tony! You know this is unacceptable, don't you, you naughty boy?"

If I may quote Justice Louis Dembitz Brandeis:

"Our government is the potent, the omnipresent teacher. For good or for ill, it teaches the whole people by its example. Crime is contagious. If the government becomes a lawbreaker, it breeds contempt for law; it invites every man to become a law unto himself; it invites anarchy."

Government creates the frame for society, not millionaire footballers, or rappers, or the newly arrived into a country. Anyone remember 'Tough on crime. Tough on the causes of crime'? Whilst the former may well have been observed, I would suggest the latter, represented by unemployment, social deprivation and educational underachievement has gone entirely unaddressed.

Shyne was a rapper signed to Bad Boy Entertainment who was earmarked to follow in Biggie's shoes. He was hanging out with J-Lo and P Diddy that fateful night when it all kicked off. He's in prison now for carrying a concealed weapon, but at the time of his arrest had a 'club banga' entitled 'That's Gangsta', in which he defined the term as follows:

"A hundred carats in the watch (THAT'S GANGSTA)

Gettin head in the parkin lot (THAT'S GANGSTA)
Menage red labels (THAT'S GANGSTA)
Honies with diamonds up in their navel (THAT'S GANGSTA)"

Poor, deluded fella. Being the Middle East Peace Envoy on behalf of the US, UN, EU and Russia when you've brought little but death and annihilation to the area, and at the same time pocketing £1,000,000 a year from a UAE investment fund currently negotiating a portion of the profits from the exploitation of Iraqi oil reserves? That's gangsta.

Biatch!