Sunday, 29 July 2007 film noir beginnings and how I became Atutu

The rain fell hard and the drops felt like lead. It was one of those kinda nights that all you needed was a quarter glass of whiskey and the love of a good woman. The first part was easy enough to obtain so I waded across to the liquor store on 27th and Poplar. I had just wrapped a case involving a well-known actress and her fiance. I'm getting sick to the stomach with them type of cases. Man suspects broad, I tail broad and take a few pictures, things get ugly I grab my swag and bail. 99% of the time the broad IS fucking around which makes my job an easy one.

I approach the liquor store and, even in the monsoon, my car is advanced by two street dames as I pull up. One of them has a face like a bag of smashed crabs so I tell her to hightail it and start negotiations with the cuter one. She looks like a mermaid standing there in that rain. She has red hair down to the back of her shoulders and the lightning reveals a blowjob friendly mouth. We fix a price and I tell her to wait in the car as I get the booze. Could I get her some she says. The nerve of it I think. The rain had eased up some as I make my way into the liquor store. The place is filled with all kinds of filth and lowlife so I quickly grab the liquor and head back to the car. I ain't big on the ol' small talk so the ride back to my apartment is a long and solemn one. As soon as we gets there she asks for a towel to dry her hair. Now I'm not about to share towels with no hooker so I oblige her with the dirty one I use for the bathroom floor.

We get to it and she looks a whole lot better than she fucks. She has a pussy like a hippo's yawn and fucking her is like feeding tic-tacs to a whale. The sex is over before it even starts and I settle for a blowjob off of that sweet mouth of hers. The broad is all teeth and I grip the edge of the chair several times before the ordeal is over. She mistakes my grimaces for pleasure and blows even harder. I'm about to call it a wasted fifty bucks when the door flies open and two goons jump in. I reach for my heat on the mantelpiece but I get clubbed at the back of the head before I reach it. A black pool appears at my feet. I dive in and there ain't no bottom.

When I come to, I'm still in my apartment, half naked and strapped to the chair. The hoods have done a number on me and I'm left with two broken fingers and one good eye. I've taken hits before and I can usually handle the pain, it's all part of the job description. Right now though I feel about as sprightly as an amputated leg. My good eye scouts the room, struggling to focus and settles on a glittering mass of gold and white sitting in the corner near the window. She calls out my name and I manage a response. Shit, the bastards have loosened a tooth as well.

I've visited this scene before. The mark wants some kinda revenge, wants to teach me a lesson for having screwed them out of their inheritance or whatever. Never mind the fact that they did that themselves by fucking around. I spit blood and tell her to go to hell. The goons, who have been standing behind me this whole time, blackjack me again and the loose tooth becomes a missing one. I plead with her to put me wise. If I gotta go at least let me enter the darkness with enlightenment. She starts talking and the more she talks the more I know I’m gonna be shortly wrapped up in a wooden overcoat with a one way ticket to Hades. It all comes back to me. She was part of the 1% that wasn’t fucking around. Business was rough so I set up her up and took the cash. The photos, the phone calls, I doctored them for the sake of a lousy extra couple of hundred bucks. Her husband kicked her ass to the kerb and left her with a bag of peanuts and a toothbrush.

I’m about to be a dodo. I ask them to make it quick but the dame ain’t even gonna give me that privilege. They gag me and get to work on me. When the breaths stop coming. My last sensation is of a long chiv across my neck. In New York they call it a Harlem Sunset.

LONDON. Winter 1980

It’s a boy!!!!! We thank God O!

Congratulations Mrs Poyoyo.

Ehn? Ehn? Jesus what is this scar on his throat? Doctor!! Doctor!! Why are his fingers bent like this? And his penis nko? Are these bite marks? E gba mi o! Doctor!!

Madam could I just ask that you remain calm. It is perfectly normal. Many children are born with birthmarks that appear scar-like. His fingers will eventually straighten and the scars on his erm ….penis are just part of the foreskin.

Ah! Okay doctor. Sorry o! It is just that my husband took me to watch that Omen film recently and I am now fearing any scar or anything on my child’s body. My God is a good God o and the Devil is a liar.

Nothing to worry about love. You wouldn’t believe what that film has done for the anxieties of new parents. Have you decided on a name yet?

Yes……..We are calling him Atutu because of the bitter cold he was born in.

Tuesday, 24 July 2007

On.......being broke and loving it

I'm dead broke this month. Bank manager saw it fit to halve my overdraft limit from 2000 to 1000. This was done with such subterfuge that by the time I realised it was too late and my salary had already gone in for the month, effectively wiping of 1k from my available account balance.

You see, I live beneath the line of positive equity, my brother calls it the land of the red. In fact I have not seen any black figures in a while and I have become strangely accustomed to this. I tell a lie, there was that one time my balance bopped it's head above sea level. I think that was in May 2004 when my account had been credited in error. Before I could even breathe the rarefied air of positive equity, my head was slapped back down to the murky depths of overdraft by the brusque hand of the bank manager. Bastard.

This month I have had to re-adjust my budget and prioritise the things I can and cannot afford:

This month I will be able to buy butter but no bread to eat it it with;
This month I'll take a girl on ONE date but there will be no money to treat her with

There will be money for soap but no toilet roll to clean my yansh with;
There wil be money for internet but not broadband and, thus, I will suffer a 56k bandwidth

Bele go shrink, pocket go tight;
I go try find money settle gas, settle phone, settle light

Visa, MasterCard and Amex will all smile with glee
as they assault me with an average APR of 18.3

I have decided that despite this enforced period of cheddar scarcity, the bank manager is actually doing me a favour. He has monitored the trend of my account over the past few years and come to the conclusion that I could do with a bit of a leg up. Think about it, this time next month, I will actually be back in the land of the black. I will be free from the shackles of the gbese that had become an all too familiar bedfellow.

I have also come to find that there is a certain paradise to be found in poverty. It strips you of the artifice in your life and you focus on the fundamentals. For example I have been recently ogling the Nikon D80; a 10 Megapixel behemoth of a digital camera and would probably have closed eye and bought it this month. What is wrong with my current 7.2MP camera I ask you? Nothing. What tangible difference will there be in the quality of pictures that I will take with the two cameras? Well, apart from the higher resolution, faster image processing and superior night acuity - not that much.

Thankfully, because of my brokage, I will not only save my money but can also reapportion the three hours I had earmarked to devour the camera's 87 page manual. I can instead use this time to go for a walk and become one with nature. I am surrounded by woodland and on this walk I would reflect on many things; the unique flying patterns of geese, the peculiar courtship calls of the chaffinch and the various sexual techniques employed by a porcupine when mating [1]

Add to this the number of hours I will save not calling people because of a lack of phone credit and by the end of the month, I could be well on my way to an advanced level of inner tranquility and even achieve nirvana. I could even change my name to Zen which be like totally cool dude.

Yes, I am truly finding a certain bliss in this brokage of mine. Capitalism can wait and so can I; the Nikon D80 goes on sale next month. :-)

[1] Porcupines have soft underbellies and some of the males suffer a spike to the heart when they attempt to climb the female from behind. Tragic but at least the rodents die happy!

Tuesday, 17 July 2007

On........the alternative history of Nigeria (as it came to me in a dream)

So I wake up from this dream right and I’m still shaking by the sheer intensity of it. My dreams are usually set in grey Kansas but this one was in full Oz Technicolor. It had dates, faces, names, everything. All chronological too! I ran to my computer and just started putting everything down as I remembered it. Although many of the historical circumstances were far removed from fact in my dream, there was an eerie inevitability about the end results. Fate, it appears, has many modes of transport but only one final destination.

October 1960: Nigeria granted freedom charter on behalf of HM The Queen who remains head of state.

October 1963: Nigeria proclaims itself a federal republic and Nnamdi Azikiwe is named as the nation’s first president

January 1966: General Aguiyi Ironsi succeeds in overthrowing the civilian government and assumes control as Nigeria’s first Military leader citing fraud and mismanagement as reasons for the overthrowing. Several Igbos are promoted to high ranking positions in the military government.

The prime minister and premier of Northern Nigeria, Tafawa Balewa and Ahmadu Bello, respectively are assassinated.

Vast reservoirs of oil are discovered in the Niger Delta area.

July 1966: A counter-coup is launched that succeeds in establishing Major General Yakubu Gowon, a Christian Northerner, as Nigeria’s head of state. Murmurings of Igbo secession begin to gather pace at the perceived injustice that ensues.

1966-1967: In a bid to counter Igbo secessionist sentiment, Gowon divides Nigeria into 12 states. There are reports of widespread genocide of Igbos living in Northern Nigeria.

May 1967: General Odumegwu Ojukwu emerges as the leader of the Eastern block and declares the region an independent republic with no ties to Nigeria. The new republic is dubbed Biafra and a new constitution, flag, currency and government is introduced. Ojukwu amalgamates the oil rich regions of the Niger Delta and Cross River as part of the new Biafra.

June 1967: Gowon responds by placing heavy economic embargos on the new republic. Ojukwu responds by opening trade with several countries including Portugal, Sweden and Israel.

July 1967: On the back of several failed peace accords, civil war breaks out. The Soviet Union and United Kingdom immediately lend their support to Nigeria. In a secret tryst with J Edgar Hoover in Lisbon, Ojukwu receives a pledge of advanced military training and strategy from America. In addition Israel promise to provide the Biafrans with aircraft.

May 1970: After three years of war there is a stalemate. However support grows for the plight of Biafra after wide spread images of starving women and children are released to the outside world. Already reeling from the lack of access to the oil reservoirs, several countries cease to trade with Nigeria until the atrocities end. Gowon bows to public pressure and concedes defeat to Biafra.

September 1972: Gen Mohammed Murtala overthrows Gowon in a bloodless coup, blaming his poor handling of the Biafran crisis. His first act is to launch a full scale invasion into Biafra in an attempt regain control of the oil resources. Major Olusegun Obasanjo, who is retained from the previous regime, orchestrates the attack. Following the death of J Edgar Hoover, Biafra loses it’s strongest ally and it’s major cities are ransacked. Ojukwu flees and the Bight of Biafra is renamed the Bight of Bonny. Obasanjo is feted as a national hero.

1973: Nigeria joins OPEC.

February 1976: Obasanjo and Mohammed are targeted in an abortive coup led by Col Dimka. Mohammed is assassinated but Obasanjo survives and regains command of Dodan barracks. He pledges to honour Mohammed’s plan to hand over to a civilian government by 1980. The announcement is made over the radio so unfortunately no one can confirm if his fingers were crossed when he made the promise.

March 1977: General Olusegun Obasanjo puts on fifteen pounds in just 12 months at Dodan barracks. He blames the lack of active warfare and a decent gym in the area.

1979: Six political parties are granted candidature. Alhaji Shehu Shagari’s National Party of Nigeria narrowly wins the presidential race ahead of Fela Anikulapo-Kuti’s Movement of the People party. Fela vows to re-contest in four years time.

August 1983: Shagari wins a second term in a landslide victory. Fela tries contesting again but is imprisoned on a trumped up charge of smuggling currency.

December 1983: Major General (aren’t they all?) Muhammadu Buhari stages a coup d’etat (another one?) and replaces the Shagari regime with the Supreme Military council (SMC). Newly minted senators and ministers are cast aside, many of whom never enter the political sphere again. Till this day, their tears are still falling for the measly three months that they were afforded. Bloody military partypoopers.

1984: Buhari and his rather intimidating number two, Tunde Idiagbon, launch a series of no nonsense policies to eradicate corruption and disorder in Nigerian life. The principle scheme is dubbed War Against Indiscipline (WAI). There is zero policy for drug trafficking and an arrest on sight policy for anybody publicly urinating, littering or defecating public property. The number of dread locked madmen roaming the streets drops markedly.

August 1985: Buhari’s best chum and number three in command, General. Ibrahim Badamosi gets tired of his buddy’s dithering and figures he can do a better job. He cites the misuse of power, violations of human rights by key officers of the SMC, and the government's failure to deal with the country's deepening economic crisis as justifications for his takeover. Remember this one people because we will come back to it.

1986-1987: Babangida approves severe pay cuts in the public sector. Nigeria enters into a period of austerity which it arguably never recovers.

1988: There is widespread rioting and public uproar as the dollar hits the five Naira mark. “Our money done become shit money” was a placard that stood out prominently at the time.

1989: After huge external intervention, General Babangida promises to return the country to civilian rule “soonest possible” The address is made on live TV and it is confirmed that he was not crossing any of his visible appendages.

1990: Gen. Babangida’s promise of civilian rule fails to materialise. Replica Argentinian jerseys with the name Diego Armando Babangida and the number 10 emblazoned at the back fly off the shelves.

1991: The dollar hits the 20 Naira mark but Nigerians are either too dumb to notice or too numb to care.

1992: Election time (finally!) and Moshood Kashimawo Olawale Abiola is the overwhelming winner of the June 12 presidential election. Shina Peters represents the 777 party but fails to register a single vote. Babangida throws his toys out of the pram and claims the whole thing was rigged, rigged I tell ya. The supreme court say “Yes masser” and throw Abiola in jail; a fitting reward for the best electoral campaign Nigeria had ever seen.

1993: Babangida ignores the domestic riots and calls from the Western world to release Abiola. He uses Nigeria’s strength as an oil producing nation to stave off the empty threats of economic sanctions.

January 1994: For the first time in history, Nigerians put aside ethnic and religous differences in an effort to reinstate MKO Abiola as the rightful president. The unions collude to bring oil production to a standstill. Abiola is released from prison and Babangida crosses his heart and hopes to die that he will handover “soon”

June 1994: Amidst econimic uncertainty, the Super Eagles become the first African team to lift the World Cup after defeating Brazil in 3-2 in the final. Rasheedi Yekini scores a hat-trick in the last match thus equalling Gerd Muller’s record of 10 goals scored at a single World Cup. Clemens Westerhof is immediately granted full Nigerian citizenship and offered the job of sports minister. He refuses.

August 1995: MKO Abiola is sworn in as president of Nigeria. The outgoing defence minister, Sani Abacha, is sent into exile. He escapes to America where he is mistakenly shot dead by a hunting party who mistook him for an oversized, human shaped bat.

1996: Ken Saro-Wiwa becomes the third African to win the Nobel prize for Literature.

July 1998: President MKO Abiola dies after heart failure. His vice president, Baba Gana Kingibe, is sworn in as president.

February 1998: Fela Anikulapo-Kuti is awarded a posthumous lifetime achievement award at the Grammys.

1999: To much public incredulity, the now retired Olusegun Obasanjo contests in the presidential election flying the flag of the newly created People’s Democratic Party. He loses out narrowly to Olu Falae who represents the Alliance for Democratic party.

2000: Olusegun Obasanjo re-enlists with the Army with the ultimate aim of staging a coup and seizing power. However, he is forced to wait two further months to hatch his evil plan as his old uniform no longer fits, and a custom made one is on order from Switzerland. He feeds his pigs as he waits for the FedEx to arrive.

2001: Field Marshall Olusegun Obasanjo (NCC, RSM, PHD,ABC, 123, BBC, etc,) gains control of Aso Rock. He promptly resigns his army commission and leads the country under the guise of a “civilian”. Nigerians fail to notice the difference as they are all too busy sending txt msgs wiv their nu fones. After all, they say, a president that gifts cellular telephony to the masses can’t be all that bad.

2003: President Obasanjo or Sege as he insists on being called (just call me Sege) is quite enjoying this democratic lark as it actually affords him more flexibility than he had as a dictator. He sweeps the election and gains a second term.

May 2007: Despite Obasanjo's efforts for a third term election, he reluctantly hands over to the newly elected president, Umaru Yar'Adua. The new president gains instant kudos by successfully rising from the dead, Lazarus style. The world waits for him to form his new cabinet.

July 2007: The world waits a bit longer... any second now

January 2008: The world gets sick of waiting and after much meandering Yar'Adua becomes the first President ever to occupy all 40 ministerial positions at once. He specially advises himself, bodyguards himself, baths himself and can even write his own speeches himself.

Nigeria is fortunate to have him.

Saturday, 14 July 2007

On......the art of making a successful Nollywood blockbuster

I was going to write something on Nollywood(hate that name) but remembered that a friend of mine had forwarded this to me a while ago and summed up everything I could have said far more eloquently.

My wife and I are keen watchers of Nigerian films and are always tickled by the inescapable similarities that seem to spring up in virtually every other movie. So here is your very own blueprint to making a Naija film. Follow these golden rules and you too can tap in to an estimated £120 million industry.

1.It is unthinkable that your protagonist goes through this film without some kind of family intervention. Even if he is currently without a family, he has either lost them at an early age or will magically acquire a new one during the course of the film. If I'm watching a movie with Russell Crowe in it, I am not concerned about his relationship with his mother nor do I particularly care if he is regularly sending money to his brother in the village. Too much information!

2.When a character is deported/returns from America, he will immediately adopt an incomprehensible dialect This dialect is unique to Nigerian films and contains a disproportionate number of Rs , every other sentence ends in 'men' and affords a liberal use of expletives. This clearly means you have been to America. The character will also be decked up in a variety of tank tops or equally skimpy outfits. There is obviously not enough cloth in Yankee to make complete outfits.

3.Every polygamous family is doomed. Stepmothers in particular are to be avoided of you want to survive in a Naija film. The minute you hear stepm.... fade, just fade. She will kill your ass.

4. Jazz, Jazz and more jazz. If in doubt, the obligatory 'Baba Alawo' scene will answer many plot holes and keep our movie ticking along. Jazz is also an invaluable tool in explaining any irrational behaviour. Oh that madman? Na jazz. Oh he started beating his wife? Na jazz. Impregnated his sister's cousin's youngest daughter? Jazz, Jazz Jazz. For mental disorders in Hollywood, read Jazz in Nollywood.

5.No matter how rich or succesful a character is, their office must not exceed 12 X 9 ft in dimension. The decor is something straigth out of Carpenter's monthly with square edges everywhere. During the course of the movie, that same office will also double up as the bank manager's office, baba alawo's shrine any indeed any other interior location you can think of.

6. Stella Damascus Aboderin must cry in any movie she is cast in. If you do not include this in her contract, then you are wasting the woman's talents and you might as well cast someone else.

7. Similarly Ramsey Noah must have facial hair in all his films. No Ramsey I don't care if it makes you look fine, the part requires you to be a Tibetan Monk godammit!

8. Every flashback must be in either black and white or sepia, preferably with a dream like effect. Without this we are obviously too dumb to differentiate past events with current ones.

9. No one ever loses or gains any weight in Naija films. 20 years later abi?...abeg just pour small powder for my head. My diet is exactly the same and I have not succumbed to middle age spread. I now have six kids but not the waistline to show for it.

10. Do NOT under any circumstance try and incorporate special effects of any kind. They will fail miserably. If you want to make a movie about a man who flies or shoots thunderbolts from the tips of his fingers, think again or move to Hollywood. Don't forget to close the door behind you.

11. And finally whatever you do, NEVER NEVER cast Nigerian children in your film. Child actors are notoriously bad but Nigerian child actors deliver lines in a manner that makes you just want to slap them and curse their parents.

Thursday, 12 July 2007

On…….the very subtle differences between an oyinbo party and a Naija party

Oyinbo party: The host is central to the success of the party. A good host is at once flitting from guest to guest, introducing them to one another, telling anecdotes and is quite rightly, the centre of attention.
Naija party: The host, if you even now her name, is just another face at the party. If a quick poll was taken, roughly 40% of guests would have no idea who was actually throwing the party. All that they know is that they heard a party was happening in Wembley sha and they decided to 'show face'

Oyinbo party: Invitations are sent out a month in advance with at least two WORKING numbers that you can RSVP to. If you do not RSVP then it is presumed that you are not coming. Even close friends will not attend unless in possession of an invitation.
Naija party: Heenvitation is by word of mouth only or if you are lucky via Facebook. A lack of heenvitation is not a deterrent to attend the party. Ivs are for wusses.

Oyinbo party: The start and end time are clearly stated at the onset. You will find most guests arriving no more than half an hour after the start time and well in advance of the end time. The more charitable guests will even stay behind and offer to help with tidying up.
Naija party: The start time is night. The end time is morning. If you like tell people to come at 5pm that is your business. It is not uncommon for people to still be trooping in at 2 or 3 AM. Ending the party is usually the only time the host avails herself to the guests. Yes that distraught, haggard looking person begging and pleading for you to leave is actually the host.

Oyinbo party: Guests are generally mingling and genuinely trying to learn a bit more about each other. "How did you meet ?" is a particularly good ice breaker.
Naija party: Guests could care less about meeting other people. You will have landed with a posse of no less than 4 or 5 and your immediate concern is looking fly. If needs be you are quite happy to spend the whole night/morning posing, moving your shoulders up and down and drinking. The boys will huddle together in some corner smoking, drinking and laughing way too loudly. They will inevitably be discussing Arsenal, Chelsea or Manchester United. The occasional lone ranger will wander from the pack and actually speak to a girl. It is a temporary measure to obtain her number before he returns to awon boys.

Oyinbo party: The neighbours are preadvised that a gathering will be taking place and things might get a tad noisy. Post-gathering, the host will send round a bottle of wine to thank them for being such good sports.
Naija party: The neighbours are the last to hear of any party. This results in a cold war in which you become the most hated person in your apartment block/street. Unless of course your party is in East London in which case your neighbours are also Nigerians and are drowning out the noise from your party with their own music.

Oyinbo party: Guests are asked to bring a bottle of wine with them
Naija party: Guests leave with a bottle of wine

Oyinbo party: There will be a selection of hor's douvres and finger food.
Naija party: There will be cooked food that people will still be devouring well after midnight.

Feel free to add a few more……..

Tuesday, 10 July 2007

On.......the (sometimes) banal act of sex

I was moved to write this after reading the new novella, On Chesil Beach, by the unwaveringly brilliant Ian McEwan. The book is set in the 60s and centres around a young, recently married couple who are about to consummate their marriage on their wedding night. How quaint I thought. The fact that there once existed, not quite fifty years ago, an ideal to save oneself until marriage. Nowadays when a girl doesn't give it up after two dates you dismiss her as frigid and go home for a wank. Similarly is there still such a thing as a virgin bride? When was the last time you were at a wedding when someone didn't snort incredulously when the bride walked down the aisle in a white wedding gown? At one wedding I attended recently, one member of the bride's party had to be forcibly ejected after breaking into a fit of convulsive laughter at the sight of the bride in white.

My mind inevitably harks back to when I lost my own virginity and the perilous circumstances that surrounded my decision to go with an older woman (she was 17, I was 15). You see the thing is, as a 15/16 year old boy you are walking, talking phallus with a slightly higher IQ and a time bomb attached to it's head. You are quite liable to explode at any second. At that age you are convinced, well I was anyway, that the whole world is having sex. Everyone, that is, except you. Your mates, even the efikos, are all paragons of sexual conquest. You listen in quiet awe as they describe the most intimate parts of a girl's anatomy, nodding sagely with familiarity whilst silently cursing yourself for your own inadequacies and lack of experience. Thinking back now, it was all just a pack of lies. You know this because you perpetuated the very same lies. You practiced them, you rehearsed them to yourself, you recited them with such conviction that, shyeet, you damn near started believing in your own damn sexual prowess. And it was easy too! That clumsy fumble up Ada’s skirt in the back of your father’s car became a forty minute shagging session in which you made Ada come four times. The twenty second kiss that you stole behind the Form four block with Nike became a blow job in the toilet. And so on.

I marvel now at the creative output of the teenage boy. I playfully wonder how many Booker winners would have emerged in the last decade had that collective tempest of creative imagination been better harnessed. We are barely talking ten years but times have moved on somewhat even from then. You best believe that today’s 15-year-old boy is not only shagging more girls than you ever will, but also he is even down playing the event to avoid the scorn of his mates over the quality of some of his conquests. No such luck for us back in the day. Even if the girl you were describing was a complete munter, she got just as much airtime as the finest girl. Yup that’s right even wor-wor girls need love to. Matter of fact you had a far better chance with the wor-wor ones. Y’all know who you are.

Seriously though, far from being some bitter old dude who didn’t have enough sex in his teens, is there not something to be said for the couple in On Chesil Beach? Is there any value to be had in waiting a bit longer for your first sexual experience? I for one was distinctly under whelmed by the huge anticlimax of my first sexual experience and indeed many since. You soon come to terms with the fact that as pleasurable a pastime as it is, it is perhaps no more or less fulfilling than eating large amounts of chocolate. There happens to be considerably less cleaning up afterwards as well. The emotions, the sensations that sex evoke are very much ephemeral. They are so fleeting and often unsatisfactory, particularly if you are woman.

I have a brother who at last count had slept with roughly 200 different women. This is extreme but I still fail to see the enrichment in his life and indeed would argue that each experience has been a mild case of vampirism as it has sucked away a little bit of his ability to feel. To each his own but I would advise, with humility, that people should place far less emphasis on this most hollow (no pun intended) of leisures. Ladies do it for the right reasons and more importantly with the right men. I promise you if he is worth it he will hang around waiting. Men I have no advice for you. Half of you would not have finished reading this and would have stopped at the word wank because you were reminded you hadn’t danced you daily five finger shuffle. The other half are probably going off for a fuck. And I don’t blame you, that’s where I’m headed too.