Thursday 16 February 2012

Waking Up

I try to ignore the signs of life around me and I resent my lethargic conscious mind,
Because it tells me I’m here for another day.
And despite my debilitating responsibilities stampeding towards me,
My body refuses to recognise any form of urgency.
Nothing matters
Because I’m in bed and I don’t want to wake up.

A while passes and as if by the will of nature my eyes open despite my silent pleas.
They trail lazily towards the window and out onto the thousand shades of grey,
The misery of it continues to relentlessly dissolve any remaining hope I may have had to leave the armour of my bed.

But then, through the fog that has become my morning friend,
A circle of familiarity comes into focus.
Becoming clearer, I recognise two eyes the colour even whilst awake I can never make out.
And then I see the smile that I always could.
Maybe I will get up today.

Wednesday 5 October 2011

Drugs are a problem for all social classes


Recreational drugs are taken by social delinquents and the emotionally-challenged.
Well, that’s what we are led to believe despite statistics showing the growing use of alcohol is a far bigger problem for both the individual and society.

2009 saw over 150,000 prescription items given out by the NHS and Primary Care Trusts for the treatment of alcohol addiction.
Nevertheless, the media and the Government would happily consider anyone that can pronounce the word “rave” a potential opposition member in their war against recreational drugs.

Dame Judi Dench, Sir Richard Branson, Sting and countless other public figures, together with former chief constables Paul Whitehouse, Francis Wilkinson and Tom Lloyd have come together to form a resolution regarding what can be done to make current drug laws reflect the actual situation in society today.

The lack of belief in current legislation is expressed in the letter written to David Cameron urging him to look at decriminalising the possession of drugs.
They argue:
“Criminalising people who use drugs leads to greater social exclusion and stigmatisation making it much more difficult for them to gain employment and to play a productive role in society.”

Doubt is cast by this unlikely group over the minimal impact the 1971 Misuse of Drugs Act has had on the overall use of drugs. This coupled with the stigma many drug users face means there is a need for a review in order to make legislation relevant and effective. 

Unfortunately, it seems our daily papers are littered with seemingly generic horror stories illustrating sexed up images of British youth indulging in what we are lead to believe, are bottomless vats of illegal powders and pills.
You have to hand it to them; the constant scare-mongering - despite the hypocrisy regarding the present alcohol epidemic - has been well executed by the press. Countless publications have honed in on the fact Class A drugs being shunned by Donna from the estate only to be used by Oscar in Chelsea thus, succeeding in pulling at our vodka- saturated heartstrings with the knowledge that this really could happen to anyone.

The press have cottoned on to the fact that posh people can be druggies too so now, we are bombarded with endless tales of the loss of youthful promise, featuring Elizabeths and Jacobs dying of heart attacks in the arms of their middle-class parents after trying an Ecstasy pill for “the first time” - taken to celebrate 10 A*s in their GCSE’s no doubt.

It certainly doesn’t help that said stories will probably be accompanied by a ten year old primary school photo on the front page. And we recoil in horror as we thank God our children are safe and warm at Rachael’s “doing homework” as we clutch the full red wine glass that we have as a “treat”, every night.

Seldom mentioned are any underlying illnesses or additional drugs that were taken in tandem with conventional party drugs. And even then, the purity of any street drug will always be questionable.

These tales are rare but are misleadingly interpreted as representative of youth culture. The fact is, in 2008, there were fewer than 300 deaths due to Ecstasy and Cocaine use, far less than the 6,785 alcohol related deaths in the same year.

An incredibly small minority of recreational drug users die after taking illegal drugs but there’s no shying away from the tragedy for the deceased and the families involved. However, it’s high time we were realistic with ourselves: these deaths are few and far between and are generally the result of mixed substance abuse or unlucky experimentation, as brutal as that may sound. And even if this wasn’t the case, it doesn’t look like even the threat of life in prison has put anyone off a Saturday night drug binge.

The hypocrisy shown in the forced admission of drug taking by members of government just adds insult to injury.
University snapshots of David Cameron and Tony Blair have been published featuring them both red-eyed and merry after enjoying Cannabis joints, or “Marijuana” they prefer to call it because it sounds a bit less threatening.
But of course, in those days it wasn’t mixed with Heroin, crushed up bullets and it wasn’t as strong. And anyway, they come from nice families and were just experimenting so let’s not mention this again.

Times have changed. The socio-economic background of an individual is of little or no relevance when it comes to recreational drug use and we can see this in the recent transition of former “dinner party drug” cocaine. Sources from outside Brixton Underground tell me the going rate for a line of Charlie can be as little as £2.50. Cheap as chips. When you can buy an Ecstasy pill for £3, trust funds do not hold any significance. The chances that a young person has experimented with drugs at least one in their lives before adulthood is high and for us to think otherwise is being naïve at best.

The reality is that there are people who make a lot of money from us buying both illegal and legal drugs on the black market. This coupled with the large quantities of party-goers that simply want to get high, will result in the abuse of substances.

With this is mind, the solution really is education and a much more open platform for young people to openly discuss their opinions on drugs. Organisations such as Frank do this without the usual patronising tone young people hear when they are told about narcotics. It wouldn’t hurt for adults to lead by example and cut back on the alcohol too perhaps.

By no means does this article condone the use of drugs, but passing bills left, right and centre on bans of the production and distribution of new drugs is totally a waste of time. We all know it takes just a few manufacturing changes here and there to create an almost identical drug with practically the same effects. It’s a losing battle.

In England, it seems the only way we can deal with a problem is to feature it on the front page of newspaper publication, moan about it without mentioning relevant facts and create some scapegoats to explain why society isn’t what it used to be. E.g. Gordon Brown, rap music and Polish Immigrants.

Quite frankly, I think we are all so aware of public information campaigns regarding the consumption of drugs to know if you can’t buy it at your local Tesco, you probably shouldn’t consume it. But seeing as we do anyway, we should educate our families on the effects and not leave it to 20p tabloids to give us the “facts”.

In order to address a problem with an aim of actually combating it, we need to stop poking at the subject with a long stick and pin it down because chances are if your children are between the ages of 16-21 and it’s a Friday night, they probably aren’t at Rachael’s doing homework. They are probably sniffing their first line of coke with the £10 you’ve given them for a takeaway pizza. 

Monday 1 August 2011

Ninja fundraisers

When it comes to charity, I've always thought of myself as a fairly giving person. I'm generally poor so I don't dole out the twenty pound notes to Romanians and their hundreds of kids on the tube. I do try to give the odd two pounds here and there though, which when given to a homeless person dressed better than myself and eating Tesco finest sandwiches, is no easy feat.

So why, may I ask, when waiting for a friend outside an Underground station recently, was I pounced upon by a British Red Cross street fund-raiser with force that would measure a good 7 on the Richter scale??

I can't remember the assailant's name, (no doubt due to Post-traumatic stress...) I'll call him Jack for ease of purpose.

So there I was, body leaned against a lamp post watching the world go by when a figure wielding a clip board approaches me out of nowhere. When I say nowhere, I'm not exaggerating. I'm generally quite vigilant when it comes to busy spots, and that blood red jacket and cap should have been easy to spot a mile away. But oh no, apparently part of the training for a fund-raiser is to carry out ninja- style, silent assassin moves when bombarding people with facts of death and misery.

The conversation went something like this:

Jack: Do you realise that 500,000 billion people are dying every day whilst your going about your every day business?

Me: Oh gosh, I didn’t see you there...

Jack: Do you have a second to talk about the suffering and stuff? It's an issue that's not getting any better, but you can help.

Me: I really wish I could help but I don't have a proper job and I give money to UNICEF already. I'll take a leaflet though if you have one? (This usually does the trick but there was no saving me now though)

Jack: (Says with raised voice) I know it's difficult at the moment, I'm not stupid. I know this is a recession but there are people out there worse off than you. The British Cross is the first on the scene at all emergencies and we rely on public funding. Are you telling me that you can't spare three pounds a month?

At this point, I'm in shock frankly. This Jack character is at a loss talking to me anyway. I admit, three pounds isn't much but when you've spent the day before counting coppers, it's a loaf of bread and some cheese for sandwiches. It doesn't take a genius to realise talking to potential donors like this isn’t going to earn him anything more than a concussion.

Me: I've told you already I can't afford it and there's no need to raise your voice.

Jack: Can I have your email address or a contact number then? We can contact you when we have any emergencies in the future? Maybe you'll have three pounds in a few months time.

Me: No, sorry.

I know! All that trauma and rudeness and I'm the one that ended up apologising!! Maybe that Jack was better than I give him credit for.

Friday 25 February 2011

A case of Jelly legs




I’ve never, ever felt anything like what I experienced on the 17th of February.  Terror in its purest form threatened my sanity that night. I may as well have been staring down the barrel of a gun, past the snapshots of  what seemed then like irrelevant moments I call my life.

My numb palms were sweating, I could hear my increasing heartbeat in my ears threatening me with stress induced stroke, but everything else felt so quiet. I stood up, my legs a similar consistency to my vodka jelly, and I approached the microphone. And I sang.
                    
Maybe I sound like I’m exaggerating as for normal people, singing in public isn’t an issue. But for me, ever since I can remember, I instinctively do an embarrassed split second 360 to spot an unsolicited audience the moment  I forget myself and let loose on a musical favourite in public but now, I feel a musical note shaped weight has been lifted from my shoulders.

Everyone’s got something they feel self-conscious doing in public: dancing, eating, speaking .
For me it’s singing and I’ve decided this is the year to confront  my fear head on like a man/woman.
Life’s too short to be scared of speaking to a variety of rhythms ,which is all singing is really.
I’m reaching the ripe old age of 23 and I think it’s time for me to ditch my singing phobia baggage. I’ve already got love handles and what not, I don’t need anything else dragging me down!
I will not allow it to bother me. ( Maybe it does because I secretly love it…ah hem!!)

I have so many friends that are singers, they all have completely different styles and they’re all so talented. I’m not saying that cos they’re my friends and I have to, they really are. When Amy took to me to her cousins Louis’ studio for some light-hearted jamming, I never thought I’d get the singing bug. I can barely hold a note and I must have sounded like a dying armadillo while they both looked  on encouragingly, but I loved unlocking what I had kept so hidden.

Hopefully, I’ll be able to carry it on, improve and “find my voice” as they say. (Sorry about the cheese!)
We all need to scare ourselves shitless sometimes and I’m so glad I did.

Monday 14 February 2011

Hormonal Harmony


Hormonal harmony has been restored! The girl that could successfully plan her way out of dire plots commissioned by Hitler himself is finally off the pill!

To look at this beautiful stunner of a friend, (I’ve known her since school so I’ve seen her blossom into a bit of all right) you would never believe an everyday contraceptive pill (naming no names) CILEST would have turned her into - as she would freely admit I’m sure - even more of a weirdo than she usually is.

“To do lists, lists for party invites, “what to wear” lists and “who to invite on holiday” lists: Amanda has a plan for things I can’t even pronounce. But why do we just accept our contraception can work with us and our hectic lifestyles when sometimes, it just doesn't?

I, for one know that as soon as I noticed my love handles padding me against people on public transport and my face looking as if I had a mouthful of gobstoppers, it was time to give the pill-free life a go.

I’ve been on many contraceptives in the past 5 years to various effects: the contraceptive implant, two types of pill and, as much as the Sexual Health Clinics try to convince us otherwise, the rubbery moment killers.
All worked for me relatively well and I don’t want to sound vain or anything, but I looked like a heffer lump. 

My thighs rubbed together in a way I’d only ever seen on Lanacane adverts and my thoughts on my growing stature were cemented when my friends mum commented on me looking particularly “healthy”. I knew things had to change before I was shopping in High and Mighty.
But I wasn’t eating more than normal! I’d never really exercised apart from popping out the Vicky Binns “Dance it off” DVD every other full moon. As far as I was concerned, it must have been my change in contraceptive pill.

“Water retention” was my excuse for my, erm, extra layers and studies have shown that this relatively minor side-effect compared to the risks of breast cancer, cervical cancer and risk of stroke can be increased with long-term use of the pill.

Needless to say, the pill has changed so many women’s lives and is still probably the most safe, effective, non-permanent prevention of pregnancy. I’ll probably go back to it with my tail between my legs at some point, even with the possibility of a dose of the “crazies” side-affect Amanda experienced, or the possibility of gaining some under-the-skin leg warmers.

I truly believe we should listen to our bodies and do what is right for us as women. Not boyfriend’s telling us “sex feels better without condoms” or doctors pushing contraceptives onto us like Brixton dealers but just us, beautiful, free, sexually indulgent women.

Sunday 13 February 2011

Nigerians: Loud and Proud

Being of Nigerian heritage, I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s not actually my fault my voice is apparently ten times louder than the average 22 year old. I’ve inherited the vocal chords I’m sure Frank Bruno would be proud of and it’s all thanks to my dad Michael “the shouter” Akindele.

I love African people, they are my homeboys, but in all honesty, even I feel like I’ve been caught stealing the crown jewels or something when addressed by well-meaning Nigerians. The voice levels go up a notch when in the company of each other, and the enunciations of words are exaggerated with every facial feature it's possible to use in the space of a word. The diaphragm plays an important role in this type of exercise as you can imagine.

So I’m on the 250 bus, and the only seat available is between two African 50 something ladies, innocently talking about how their grandchildren are learning the alphabet, or baby panda’s or something quite sweet (yes, I have a modest understanding of the Yoruba language!) but the 100 decibel conversation sends the windows of the generously sized vehicle quivering in the frames and everyone on the lower deck running for cover unfortunately.           
And this phenomenon does not stop in public, o no! Many a nights when turning the corner into my Thornton Heath road trying to sneak back into my home after a alcohol induced night “just at Amy’s”, I have been greeted by the sound of my sister and dear father’s conversation, his signature mighty voice booming from the  constraints of our DOUBLE GLAZED windows 70 metres away as if he were competing with Pavarotti in an MC battle. My dad would win obviously…

But filled to the eyeballs with Gene’s special Strongbow and vodka Sombrero’s, my careful steps to the front door and laboured ring of the doorbell would be answered to a bellow of “Hello Gene, did you have fun?” that sends my on-coming hangover reverberating through my body thus ending the earlier pleasures of this carefully mixed drink.

I’m not guaranteed a quiet night, but It’s good to be home.