As only Africans could

"Shut up there, what do you know about football? All you people know, is to fight." The little corner of the canteen at work erupts in to fits of chuckles. The Ghanaian cleaner is putting his Somali colleague in his place. He was basically saying that when it comes to football, or anything for that matter, Somalis should keep schtum.

One doesn't get this level of frankness anywhere else (apart from anything involving Hugo Chavez). In relations between African countries, people say what they feel. No restrictions brought on by political correctness, or worse still, politeness. The joy though, I hope, is that these sorts of statements pass by without rancour. The Somalian takes it on the chin, and grins. Ghanaians aren't perfect either, and his turn to swing for the Ghanaian's jaw will come, as surely as night follows day.

The incident reminded me of school, and the aura of devilish mischief I must have exuded. We teased each other mercilessly, and I think sometimes I may have been slightly more merciless than others. The most popular joke in school had to do with Somalia. Our good friend, G, had been caught up in the civil war which started in the late 80s. If I remember his story correctly, he'd trekked with family from Mogadishu to Ethiopia. He'd learned to sleep with a Kalashnikov under his bed, in case he had to protect his family in the lawlaess badlands Somalia had become.

And were we sympathetic to G's plight? Were we heck. The fact that he'd been involved in such drama gave us more ammunition with which to fayah him (to use a Nigerian colloquialism). There'd been pictures of Somali suffering on the news, so we had an idea of what was going on. The joke? What is the fastest animal in the world? A chicken running through Somalia.

Johnny was a bad boy (like Don King)

I've been an absolutely naughty boy. The blog gods will not rest until I show penitence for the disdain with which I've treated the sacred act of blogging. Until I atone for my blog sins, I shall have to invent a shield to ward of the curse-filled bolts of lightning being fired in my direction. "I apologise, and I shall not do it again," he says with a droopy face cloaked in Catholic guilt.

African Shirts has returned to blogville. There should be some kind of oath of dedication to blogging, which all would-be bloggers would sign. The punishment for breaking the oath would be simple - a Yubitsume (pictured).

Since the last time I blogged regularly, life has been plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. Work has been the same, but it's also changed. As most of you have no doubt heard, the BBC is facing some "restructuring". Will I lose my job? I doubt it. But I went to an event at Channel 4 around the time of the annoucements, and there was a feeling among people attending that Auntie's employees needed to suck it up. Leave the Beeb and look for work in the independent sector. Don't rely on traditional media for jobs. Digital cable and the internet have almost exponentially increased the avenues for people interested in media see, hear, speak, and read evil till the devil's dried out and emaciated.

As for my "personal life", whatever on this fine planet that means... Well. Let's just say, all is fair in love and war and sex. Or is it?

My last post before this was a threat to write about my trip to Jerusalem via Istanbul. the threat never quite materialised, snuffed out like a house spider under a feather duster. But spiders are like Heinz products, they come in 57 different varieties (or more), from the weak to the resilient. And this house spider refused to be snuffed out, and shall in due course, crawl out from under the feather duster, and scurry to freedom.

Charlie does it again

Charlie Brooker is possibly the funniest writer in British newspaperdom. The first two paragraphs of his column this week are just glorious. I defy anyone to read it and not laugh out loud. If you succeed in not laughing out loud, my bank manager will give you five pounds. And, as someone who's pin has in the past magically vanished from his head, I understand Charlie, I really do. For more Charlie Brooker gems, read his account of trying to quit smoking.

As they say in Nigeria...

This one is too much!

Life and Music

I watch this video, and it makes me almost want to cry. If life is like a music score, the point is not to get to the end of the piece as quickly as possible, but to sing and/or dance as the music plays. Quite simple really. It's done touchingly...

Who is Paneel?

The Spar on New Cross road is one of my regular haunts. Whether it's picking up a newspaper after work, buying emergency plum tomatoes for one of my oh-so-lovely stews, and now, a seemingly interminable sale of 1l bottles of Copella apple juice for £1.49. Scholars of the 1l bottle of Copella will understand what I mean, it's value for money which makes you want to slap your bottom Asda-style. The shopkeepers in the area know my face. In fact, sometimes when I buy plantain (which some of you may or may not know is a personal obsession), I get offered an extra one - which is basically 5 for the price of 4, or 5 for £1. When you go through as many plantains as I do, one extra plantain can be difference between rice and plantain, and rice with a hint of plantain.

Sometime last year or the year before, I went into the Spar (which incidentally doesn't sell plantain), only for the shopkeeper to greet me like a long lost brother. They must love my custom, I thought. How about a free bottle of Copella, I almost said. "Do you still work at Victoria?", he asked. I've worked all over London in my time, it was plausible that he'd seen me work in Victoria. "No, I haven't worked in Victoria in a while", I replied, "I work all over the place."

For some reason, I felt I should know him, which is why the questions didn't seem so weird. It may have been one of my sight issues. Once upon a time, I jumped on the bus 63, when I should have been getting the 53. The bus turned off Old Kent Road, which made me ask the driver what bus I was on. 63. Not 53. My not knowing this man may have been as a result of my sometimes dodgy eyesight. So I played along.

And then he asked me about Paneel. Paneel? Oh, Paneel! No I haven't seen him for a while. The truth is, I didn't have a clue who Paneel was. At this point, it should have twigged that I didn't know this guy, because I always worked alone, and would never work with someone else. Let alone Paneel. But this was a shopkeeper who worked for Spar, he was here today, but he'd be gone tomorrow. Till today, I ask myself what possessed me to pretend that I knew Paneel. Of course he was there that day, but he hasn't been gone since. He pops up ocassionaly every few weeks, when Paneel is out of my mind. I walk in for a pint of milk, and bam! I end up having a conversation about Paneel, with someone who may as well be described as Paneel's keeper. I'm sure Paneel is doing well. Have you seen him lately? Is he still working at Victoria.

All I ever want is some milk, and a 1l bottle of Copella. But I end up talking about someone I don't know, never seen, had previously never heard of. So, who exactly is Paneel?

Super Mario - blind

It may not seem like the most difficult thing in the world, but it's still fascinating. This fella can play the first two levels of Super Mario Bros with his eyes closed. There are also internet rumours that he can do the same thing up to level four.

Letter to a young(er) romantic...

Dear Boy,

You will always think and hope and pray that she will come back.
But she never will.
It is as true now, as it was then.
In the past I'd hear Christians say that God doesn't break his own rules of physics,
miracles are merely a bending of God's rules.
If she comes back, it's like that - a bending of the rules.
She will never really return.
It was as true then, as it is now.

Sleep well,
Manboy (for we're still learning)