I've recently got into the habit of addressing a lot casual male acquaintances as 'Chief'. It's a nice reassuring status shift for people, only analysed now, but I like it. It spells flippant respect. On the flipside, I probably appear to be some sort of roadie barra' boy.
I can mix with most people on a superficical level; mimicry is handy when dealing with 'fluff' interaction. I like different viewpoints and balance to the extent that I have many unlikely friends. I like varying approaches; intense personalities, grounded types, grafters, romantics, spiritualists, plodders, surrealists, all of it. I like people. Just not the subjective world of the dickhead. And flakes. Don't talk to me about flakes.
I only hate one person. That's a girl called Claire. She was nasty, vindictive, destructive and had massive coke whore tendencies. She spouted off about me for no reason other than jealousy. I quite envied her massive tits, but I wouldn't want to psychologically destroy someone for the craic; I'd never experienced a psychopath before. When directing my anger, I occasionally fixate on her, and bang, she gets my cranial beams of fury. Let's hope for her sake, the bad vibes I'm transmitting are all a load of bullshit, eh?
So let me tell you about 'My Racist Manchester Mum and Dad':
Powerful imagery sells pleated woollen skirts, Autumn 1991.
My real Dad's dead. I'm in the dead Dad club (see prior reading)...5 years following much loss and despair, I met Steve. He was a listener when I was high on red bull and handbag house. Whilst I was broadcasting in my early twenties at Galaxy 102 , Steve was a - almost professional - prize winning caller largely due to the fact he has the gift of the gab. And his voice! There's nothing like it; it's rounded, camp and he's liberal with the laughter; and what a laugh! Hearty, genuine, full of fun and playfulness. He made great radio and was a genuinely wonderful man when I met him and his wife Denise a year later.
We mostly eat curry together, moan a bit, do presents, and laugh a lot. They look out for me, and I'll look out for them and allow their nuturing as the 'daughter they never had'. They're my Manchester Mum and Dad, they love each other, and I love them. We've known each other for 10 years.
BUT, is it right to remove someone from your life because you can't abide their ignorance? Why do I give them concession for sending me the odd racist joke on text? Because racist jokes are rubbish and are not worth the energy of a big massive kick off, they don't deserve my attention. Lazy, lazy joke. To prove it, here is a sample I received yesterday:
I was walking down the street the other day, and I saw this n***er carrying a telly, and I looked at him and I thought, is that mine?
And then I realised, mine was at home sweeping the stairs.
Ok, so it works in the basest form simply because you get a lame twist, it's a slavery gag, and call me a maverick, but I'm not really into 18th Century jokes. I heard a Barrymore swimming pool joke at a comedy gig the other night. It brought the house down just as much as it did 10 years ago. I died inside.
So to sum up why I still love my racist Mum and Dad; I admire their family values, their loyalty, their openess, their wit, but I can't attempt to changed their skewed opinions that were probably far worse in prior generations. It's a shame fear and ignorance manifest themselves in such an arbitary way, but they know I won't engage in a conversation that uses 'rag head' rather liberally. Remind me to write something about a Racist Skeleton some day.
I once dated a nice lad who was very funny and clownish, and we had a brief, but intense affair. At the time he was playing with ironic racism. He would refer to me in private and sneakily as his 'n***er'. I couldn't really see the point of this beyond he knew it wound me up and he wanted to punish me further. We didn't last long, "do you take this n***er to be your lawful wedded n***er?".
So in my local shop, I made a regular fruit pricing query.
"Alright Chief, how much are your pineapples at the moment?"
"Are you trying to be funny?!"
(Process. Process. Process. Oh he thinks that because I've identified him as a Red Indian, he thinks I'm being racist. Am I being racist, am I? Am I a racist?).
"...The price is written on them"
Oh.
One day we're all going to be the same colour. So when the gingers have died, and our skin is suddenly able to cope with the scorching heat, shall we look back on this time fondly, thinking "what a bunch of dickheads".
