Billy London's Blog, page 8

Power To The People

What's any of it got to do with you?

London, the scene of so many demonstrations and protests from the dawn of time, has begun a series for Black Lives Matter. London protesters have been called all sorts. Stupid. Time wasters. Ridiculous. Oh and asked about knife crime in the city and why weren't they protesting that. They missed those protests and those charitable events because they didn't care about knife crime then or now. They take place regularly because we live in a country where the right to protest is protected and exercised. 
It hasn't occurred to those people to be on the right side of justice - ie silence is acceptance even approval of human rights violations. It hasn't occurred to them that black Londoners look at pictures of the late Alton Sterling or Eric Garner and see their own fathers, grandfathers, uncles, brothers, sons. It hasn't occurred to them that the same injustices happen in the UK but "they don't see colour" so how would they know?

It's such a luxury. To not see colour. To not have people clutch their bags tighter when you walk past, even though their bags were in the discount bin in Primark. To not have people say to your face "you sound white". To not be stopped in a car that's "too expensive for you". It's a luxury to know if your family member is arrested, they'll be alive in the morning. The U.K. has done its share of racist policing. Ask Stephen Lawrence's family. Read the MacPherson report. Ask any person of colour who lived in London during the 60s and 70s. Ask any black man now. Ask any black boy now. People who put a uniform on for Britain who were told they were as wanted as dogs. Those things do not disappear. It hasn't disappeared. They do not divide when you talk about them, they are a release. Why should we have to protect the ignorance of others for fear of "causing division". We are already divided. There is a disparity between how you are treated as a person of colour and how you are treated if you are white. And in an age where people talk incessantly about what they have for dinner, shouldn't we talk about what is going on in the world? Shouldn't we cry out when we see injustice? Shouldn't we tell our leaders to intervene like we do with other countries with a quickness that should have our heads spinning? Look how quickly Facebook wants us to mourn with Western Countries that suffer terrorist attacks? Change your profile! Show your support! When police officers kill with impunity that is a simple breach of human rights of the citizen killed. What is keeping us silent?
London sees. We know. We understand. And stand aside from those who would prefer us to be quiet. Those same people will bellow for a gorilla. Become a lion and proudly tweet #jesuitCecile but the death of a black man; the mysterious death of a black woman; the unconscionable murder of a black child? We should mind our own business. "Martin Luther King Jr said..."
Nah. Nope. No. Not today Satan. Martin Luther King was assassinated. He was arrested more times than I have years. He marched. He blocked. He was civilly disobedient. Don't try to shame us with Martin Luther King Jr. Don't with Ghandi either. Or Rosa Parks. Or Nelson Mandela (he violently protested - read about him, don't trot him out like an old horse. He wasn't just a sweet old man with a sweet voice. HE FOUGHT!) So again, no. 
We stand in solidarity with Black Lives Matter because those lives matter just as much as any other life and that needs to be reflected in the way black lives are treated. Those are our cousins our brothers our sisters. Family. Those magical black friends you have. Have you spoken to them about why they should be quiet? Didn't think so. Would you dare? So why do it from your phone or laptop or keyboard? 
When South Africa faced reparations for the apartheid, there were people like David Cameron, who called for Nelson Mandela's hanging. We know because the one thing this country does without fail, is record. We know what side of history our Prime Minister was on when one of the worst racial abuses in the world took place. When they write the history books, and they list the tweets and Facebook posts of people who all wanted protesters to shut up and let things be, they will be judged. Being a decent human being takes very little effort. Pointing out a wrong is everyone's business. Standing up for the rights of citizens in a first world country is your duty. If your grandfather or great grandfather put on a uniform, it's because they saw wrong and wanted to do what they could to make it right. 
Speaking out against state assisted murder is the right thing to do. Don't silence us because we are an ocean away. Let our voices join until the governments are shaken into action. Let not one more person lose their life from your silence. 
Speak. Stand. March. Protest. It is your right. 

Talk To Me

We're having some sterling conversations on Twitter, which it regularly tops my social media list.#ownyourown is a fantastic hashtag for marginalised writers to tweet why they write. It was started by @gildedspine

http://www.yainterrobang.com/ownyourown/

In the midst of the tag, I saw @aromancechica 's tweet:

When I first decided to pursue publication, I didn't think I'd ONLY write Latina heroines. Then I thought: Why not? #OwnYourOwn



And it rings so true. A while ago, I thought maybe I'd tell a different woman, rather than a British born or British raised West African all the time. But nah. I like those birds. They are me. They are my aunties, my mum, my grandmothers, my godmothers, my friends, my cousins, my friends. They deserve to see versions of themselves in my stories. Letting their boyfriend tease them about the sexiness of a night headscarf, buy their hair products for them or give them a half head of cornrows (Giuseppe's about that life). They deserve to be the doctors, nurses, chefs, lawyers, businesswomen, that they are - to be educated, exactly as they are, to have family just like the ones I'm surrounded by. They deserve to be centre stage in romances, finding (losing - looking at you Stella) and keeping love.

In view of that, I need the prompt to get back on Mature Carole, my glamorous grandma and her glorious gentleman, which is where @rebekahwsm came in and gave me a jolly good jolt:

i would also like to see more creators embrace older characters too so EVERYONE can see that life doesnt end at 30. #OwnYourOwn

True dat. Sneak peek right down there...

She reached over and grabbed his hand. “Thank you. Jackie would have been devastated if the kids hadn’t been there. Did you see the pictures? They looked adorable. Jackie looked beautiful.” Carole put the tray on the floor and scrambled for her bag. She had several photos on her phone as well as all the professional ones in her email. Her screensaver happened to be Carole with her three children at Jackie’s wedding. “Here, that’s Jackie outside of the Mayfair Library.” Wearing stark bright white, a traditional wedding dress that mimicked the one Carole wore on her own wedding day. She just didn’t want the marital jinx from Carole’s marriage.“I’d never recognise her.”“She said it was for one day, and she wanted to be a Disney princess.” Carole had to get her to talk about what had gone wrong with her apple-pie-sweet daughter-in-law, Karisa. Jackie was spending far too much time with Carole and Greg, which didn’t at all bode well for their brand new marriage.“What was that like?” Aneurin asked, scrolling through the photos. “When she told you she liked girls.”“She came to me and she was crying her eyes out. I thought she was going to tell me she was on drugs. Then she bursts out mum, I’m a lesbian. So I said, what makes you think I didn’t know that?”“You knew?”“That’s my child. Of course, I did! But then, again Jackie was very sick when she was a baby. I didn’t care as long as she was healthy. There are worse things in the world for your child to be. Dead being one.” Carole had known from when Jackie was very small. A fact that irritated her ex-husband, as he hadn’t caught on, and was more than insulted by Jackie’s what he called ‘life choices’. Idiot. She exhaled heavily, bending down to pick up her wine glass. “Old news.”Aneurin looked away down to her phone. “This is a good picture of you.”She leaned in to see what he had chosen. For some reason, Greg wanted some pictures of her, and grabbed her phone while Carole was mid giggle with some family members across the top table. It probably helped that she was practically falling out of her dress. “So I’ve been told.”He reached around her to rest his arm on the back of the chaise longue and Carole leapt into the air, throwing half her wine over herself and into her lap. Silly cow! “I’m so sorry.”Aneurin got to his feet and disappeared into his en-suite, returning with a hand towel. “Sorry, your pretty dress with spoil.”“It’s fine,” she said, her voice shaky. “It’s my fault, not yours.”Brisk strokes of the towelling penetrated through the fine silk and the camisole she wore beneath. He dabbed into the vee of her dress, and her breathing turned shallow. There was thorough, and then there was this. Whatever this was. She placed her hand on top of his, halting further movement.“It’s fine,” she whispered.His blue eyes bored into hers. “Have I got this wrong?” He asked into the thick silence between them. “There’s something... I haven’t even looked at another woman in years.”“Me either. Man, I mean,” she stuttered a correction. “I... Yeah...”Sod it. She leaned forward and kissed him. The muffled sound of surprise that broke from him almost pulled her back. She hadn’t done anything of the sort in such a long time, she almost forgot how to do it. Aneurin reminded her pretty quickly. Without lifting his mouth from hers, he threw the hand towel to the side and sat next to her. His hands encircled her biceps and he pulled her forward, hard, right into him. The sensation of his beard rubbing into her skin took her breath away, she tried to take what little oxygen she had from him. To feel, to feel like this... So good. Her hands trailed into his hair, the nape covered in fine, soft strands that fell over her fingertips like water. His kisses were drugging, delicious, a hint of forbidden which only made her crave more. Rough palms gathered her dress, and skated over her thighs. Where was he...? Oh. Oh my.He hooked a finger beneath the lace edge of her knickers and tugged them. She lifted her bottom to allow the material to be drawn along her legs and yanked from her heels. Briefly, she opened her eyes to see them thrown over his shoulder, somewhere on the other side of the room.“Leave it,” he ordered, before she got up to find them. And because he told her to, she obeyed, even when he caught one thigh in a huge palm, urging her to straddle him. The denim of his jeans grazed her inner thigh sent a shiver right to her sex. The unmistakable sound of ripping made her gasp. Aneurin lifted her with a single arm wrapped around her waist, flinging the skirts of her dress up and placing her bare bottom on his lap. Her wanton position made her realise that it wasn’t the dress that had been the problem, it was her lack of flexibility, combined with the sheer width of the man.“Bien?” He asked, his mouth brushing back and forth across hers.“Tres bien,” she whispered. And while those massive hands of his palmed her bottom, he spoke to her in her language. Her beautiful French. People thought she’d forgotten. Ridiculous, she was Ivorian to her depths. The words ran through her blood. The same words Aneurin used to seduce her, to whisper over her silk covered breasts. Her fingers curled over his broad shoulders, rocking into him, searching for more than what he’d already given her. A cry emerged from her throat at the graze of a single finger between her thighs, right over the soft lips of her sex. Another stroke saw her swell against his touch, and part with the barest resistance.Danger Will Robinson, she thought. Danger had never felt so good. Do anything to me.“Mum!”Jackie’s shrill voice was as welcome as a television crew. Carole nearly fell off Aneurin’s lap, her whole body throbbing at a single pulse.“We’re going. Now, Mother!” Jackie heaved.Carole twenty years ago, would have told her child to shut up, go away and close the door behind her. Carole post-divorce and a hysterectomy for which she was taking medication, knew it was an interruption of sense. What on earth was she doing? She barely stopped herself from doing something not only stupid but enormously out of character.Scattered, Carole went to find her knickers and collided into Aneurin. “Leave it,” he suggested, knowing exactly what she was on the hunt for.“Okay,” she said breathlessly. “Okay, bye. Enjoy the cake. I mean... Sorry. Bye.”She rushed out of the room, past her daughter and down the stairs. Shame heated her face while she stood outside. Oh god, she’d left her bag and phone. Jackie finally emerged from the house with both.“Here. Do you know what he said to me? The fucking cheek!”“What?”“He called me little girl and said that’s the first and last time I get in between the two of you.”Carole started, clutching her bag to her chest. What did he mean by that? “Then he said he’s not my dad to be frightened of me. I mean... How fucking rude.”Carole, twenty years from the sexual fire that used to burn in her, unfulfilled by her husband with his high blood pressure, took a step back towards the house, to that man, to that bedroom, to beg for the weight and feel of every part of that man inside her, only to be blocked by her daughter.“Mum!”“What?” Carole raged, infuriated.“Don’t you remember what he did to your son? To your family?”“For goodness sake, he was supporting his daughter. Just like I supported Greg. Like I support you!”Jackie looked utterly appalled. “You were about to shag a man who nearly ruined Greg’s life.”“So?” Carole asked, and Jackie’s mouth opened and closed like a guppy fish. “So what? What’s happened? Nothing.”Jackie stared at her as if she’d never met her. “Why do you want to get in that hornet’s nest? It’s disgust...”Carole held up a hand, and Jackie was quiet. “Who the hell do you think you are? I’m your mother. You don’t get to tell me what to do. I’m perfectly able to make my own decisions about my body and what the hell I do with it. Under no circumstances do you ever speak to me like that. Do you understand?”“Mum...”“I said, do you understand?”“Yes, Mum.”Carole breathed out and started walking to her car.“Mum, I’m sorry, I was just worried... Let me drive you.”“Go home Jackie.”“But I can...”“Jacqueline, stop fussing!” She snapped, her irritation most likely all focused on being unfulfilled, so close to release she hadn’t known she’d craved until... Until now. “I have been making decisions without your input for thirty-three years. Stop. All right?”Jackie turned to her own vehicle. “Fine. Do what you want.”
She hadn’t even said goodbye to Greg or the children. But Jackie hovered. Instead she got in her car and drove home, the hour’s journey across London long enough for disappointment to set in. Discomfort mingled with need. Did she have Aneurin’s number? Could she call him? No, the children were coming home with Greg. What was she supposed to do with all her pent up energy? And she stank of stale wine! Goddammit. She yelled in the confines of her car, pausing at a red light. To her left, she saw a car full of people staring at her. She flipped the finger at them all and sped away as soon as the lights changed.

Wild Horses

This year has been a series of trials, and I am just making the calendar by good days I have to look forward to. One of my favourites, and I mean Christmas just pips this to the post, is Royal Ascot. I know, I'm black and a royalist. I don't care. I love it. I never feel as British or as beautiful on my way to those historical grounds, in all my polished finery.

When I was younger, I used to watch ladies on their way home. Hats in hand, or more likely barefooted on the Clapham Junction platform looking a little worse for wear, but content with their choices. Eventually, I discovered where they were all off to, looking so dapper. Outside of weddings, you never saw men in tops and tails or ladies with a veratible peacock of feathers on their heads, colours complimenting their dress, coat and bag. I love dressing up! Who doesn't? I'm desperately looking for excuses to wear hats at the moment. My poor friend has a christening this month and I've already warned her I'm wearing one of my collection.

This is my fifth year at Ascot and I am ready. My dress if from Phase Eight, my hat is from Marks and Spencer and my shoes are a little outside the British Isles - Miu Miu, but as green as my country. "IN ENGLAND'S GREEN AND PLEASANT LAND!" I'm getting ahead of myself.

So, the day starts with the most preening I ever do. False eyelashes, CC cream, foundation, blusher, highlighter, eyeliner, lip liner, lipstick and topping gloss, perfume layered, nails gelled, feet buffed - because I will wear heels and they will make me cry and if I'm going to be near Daily Mail, eagle eyed, frankly evil photographers, I ain't bringing the side down with rough feet.

I pick up my friends, and we start the day early - champagne and a toast to our gambling fortunes. We all squeeze onto the train to the racetrack, and it blooms before us!


It's glorious. All the women keep checking each other out, and forthrightly will tell anyone they admire that they are looking gooooood! It's the time to go all out - there will be cameras. There are cameras everywhere. There are the set that comes every year in unison; the girls that arrange the whole year what they will wear - the Phillip Treacy crowd of extravagant millinery - and the vintage crowd. I happily seat myself in the High Street lot. Although if I won the lottery, guaranteed I'd be in Alexander McQueen head to toe. 
Then it's food time:

Traditionalist as ever, and there's nothing quite like sitting in a spot of sun, with a bottle of Moet and the scent of fat, crispy soft chips in the air. Last year I saw cheese on toast doing roaring trade. No kebabs though. It's not the right place for a kebab. After? Of course! Inside the hallowed grounds of Ascot. Not today, Jeffrey! 
We have a gander around, read through the Racing Post - honestly, it is genuinely like being in the middle of a Jilly Cooper novel - and pick our favourites. The one who will fund our after party drinks and meal if we win. By 1pm, we gather to greet the Queen in the procession. Her Majesty has won me a few bob by wearing the colour I've guessed she'd be wearing. Until last year when she came out of left field with bright pink. 

She's sitting opposite the Ginger Winner - Prince Harry who was beaming ear to ear when she lost me a tenner. -_-
Once all the beautiful horses, their coats brushed into intricate patterns, have allowed us a peak to see if their worth our money, the racing begins. And all propriety goes right out the window. You haven't lived until you've seen a man well into his seventies, screaming, "COME ON YOU FACKING WANKER!" as his horse storms to victory. You haven't seen anything until you see a woman probably related to the queen, kick off her heels and throw her loosing tickets onto the ground and stamp on them, enraged by her loss. Girls using their scarves to sit down on the grass, men struggling with their cravats, bookies yelling the odds, the crowd clapping for the winners.  
It is brilliant. Mix it up with cake and more booze and star spotting near the Royal Enclosure (where all the celebs go and you're not allowed to because you haven't been invited since Prince Harry won't acknowledge you yet...), seeing which Royal gets to give certain prizes. Actually winning on a horse that had odds of 42 - 1? Best day ever.

After the last race, we all congregate around the bandstand and sing the most British songs you could ever imagine. My Old Man, Jerusalem, Rule Britannia... all the while waving Union Jacks and tipping pints over your neighbour because you can't sing and not hug the nearest person next to you.


It's set to rain next week as well, but I am holding out hope - mostly because I'm not sure that my hat will survive a downpour. And yet, I am supremely confident that nothing will defeat the joy that accompanies a June racing day.

It's posh, it's messy, it's fantastic. I can't wait!

My Bonnie

Wynne's Surprise on Amazon
Wynne's Surprise on ARe

I was about to write something in Arabic, then I remembered how much er naughty time is in this book and thought the better. Instead... Bonsoir! Wynne's Surprise has arrived! You've got Scots, and Morocco and Scotland and LA and London and all round good clean fun! I know that last bit was a lie, but Hot Muse Hank said I should give it a go, and see if... Yes, he's rolling around laughing. Brute.

Anyways, give my lovers are very and rather proudly Scottish. I've done a brief glossary to help:

Boaby - male member (look at me being all demure!)
Box - head
Canny - cannot Modern Scots (18th Century/ Robert Burns gen is 'canna')
Get tae fuck - (I lasted half a page, well done me!) get out of it!
Maw - mother
Nae - not
Nip - a sip, or knowing a Scot, half a glass...
Tatties - potatoes
Weegie - a person hailing from Glasgow - the maddest of the bunch.


And if that's not enough to get you going, have a wee nip of this:

Let This Moose Loose Aboot This Hoose!

She woke up with a jolt, tucked between the velvet softness of her sofa and the dense muscles of Bren’s chest. He stirred above her head.“Are you okay?”“I had the weirdest dream.”“About?” he asked on a yawn.“I had three tits and you were fondling all of them.”Bren burst out laughing. “Why on earth would you dream about that?”“I don’t even know.” She lifted her head and squinted at the clock. Midnight.“Some nap,” Bren yawned again, untangling his arms from her body to stand up. He looked adorably rumpled. “Shall I get us some tea?”“Aye, and maybe a snack or something.”“Yes, madam,” he sarked in a Queen’s English tone, strolling into the kitchen and leaving Wynne to sit up. The sensation of oddness hadn’t abated with the nap, and the strange dream only compounded matters. Who needed three breasts? The overwhelming emotion that came from the dream was how much she’d enjoyed Bren’s manipulations.She noticed her phone on the table by the lamp. Masochism forced her to her feet and to pick up the mobile. While Bren made tea in the background, Wynne stared at the screen. Okay, maybe she’d crossed a few lines, perhaps a page or a notebook of lines, or rather they both had, but at least they hadn’t crossed it all the way. Six missed calls from Robert, seared her with guilt. Discomfort forced her to read the text messages he’d sent:I’m sorry about today. Can you call me?Wynne, it’s Valentine’s Day. Why won’t you answer?Have you gone out?You’re being really disrespectful.“Tea,” Bren said and Wynne jumped in fright. She whipped around and saw him holding two mugs, an eyebrow curled. “I did tell you I was making it.”“Of course you did. Sorry. I’m sorry.” She repeated the apology before taking the mug into her hands. Bren glanced down at her phone.“Robbie?”She hesitated. Bren took the tea and nodded her in the direction of her bedroom. “Go and call him.”Wynne blinked, leaning away from him. “What?”“Call him and tell him you’re going on a break. You’ll be back in a week, and you can talk then. If you want to.”Word for word exactly what she wanted to say to Robert. Clearly, Bren was a better friend to her than to Robert. “Okay. I’ll be a few minutes.”She scampered to her bedroom and gently closed the door behind her, resting against the wood for some semblance of reality to lock her to the ground.
That line she’d crossed with Bren a few hours ago seemed more and more blurred. Technically, not calling your girlfriend on Valentine’s Day until after she agreed to a holiday with her male friend she had intense sexual feelings for, could be considered as a breakup. Right?

So are we ready, steady, Eddie? Let's get surprising! 

Beautiful Surprise

This soundtrack is a little bit like a tagine. Taking some meat, vegetables, spices and a little water, then let it bake for a year and a bit... Then open it up just to throw in some new stuff because James Blake has a new album and my God it's helped with edits. Flowing like water! So, yah, he deserves a double spot. Then you have my discovery of the gorgeous Ibeyi (cheers Beyoncé!) and ginger man of the hour (this changes on a regular, you know this) Jack Garratt. Bring the base, blud. Bring the damn base.

So in anticipation of getting this done sooner rather than later, here is the soundtrack of Scottish love - via London and Marrakech.

 Wynne's Surprise on Spotify Michael Kiwanuka One More Night Corinne Bailey Rae The Skies Will BreakJames Blake f.o.r.e.v.e.r. Chløë Black Cruel Intentions Raleigh Ritchie You Make It Worse Sara Hartman Stranger In A Room David Bowie Valentine’s DayVaults PoisonThe Proclaimers I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles) Hassan Hakmoun Sala Alla ‘Alik Dima Dima Jack Garratt Breathe Life Elbow One Day Like This Years & Years Eyes Shut Gallant Weight In Gold Walifa Heartburn BØRNS Electric Love Halsey Hold Me Down Coleman Sitcom Coldplay Hymn For The Weekend Foxes Devil’s Side Jack Garratt Fire  Texada All My Life Florence + The Machine Third Eye FKA Twigs In Time Bibb Bourelly Ego CHVRCHES Afterglow Foxes On My Way  Ibeyi River James Blake I Need A Forest Fire Ellie Goulding Army  

Surprise Surprise!

"Suddenly-eeee! Life has new meaning, to meeeeeeeeee!"

I love this cover, so much! Me and Bree having a Strange-moment, with the background based on the lamps that are rampant in Morocco, and if I had a private jet and more money, I'd have a house full of the things!

The blurb is below! Be excited folks! I am!! Hence the abundance of exclamation marks - I will calm down. Eventually. Maybe.

Tagine of blog, with Argan oil... 

A million years ago at a barbecue, two lonely migrants, Wynne and Bren, a couple of Scots on the wrong side of the border, got a little too handsy with one another. And yet, it happened to be the type of handsy that leads to a friendship, based in comfort of the familiar and the embers of what could have been. All is well in their ship, right until Wynne falls for one of Bren’s friends. The worst friend that Bren could have ever feared. Like into a gingerbread house and straight into an oven worst friend ever. 
In a South London flower shop, run by a soon to be boxer's wife, Bren has the perfect, light bulb moment of a plan to get Wynne to exit the Grimm fairy tale. The plan goes into action on a certain day, the only day that's made entirely for romance and crazy declarations. Crazy like an offer of a magical holiday to Morocco! Who'd say no? 

Wynne hasn’t a clue what’s coming. But Bren's going to make sure she enjoys every single minute of it.     

Hey Baby!

The Baby Gift on Amazon

The Baby Gift on AllRomanceeBooks

What else do you want with your romance, if not a pregnant woman, a gay husband, a golddigger, a fit, cancer-free CFO all at a funeral? Yes, The Baby Gift is available again for your reading pleasure!

This story is one of my bonkers favourites, written after wading through the shallow waters of Isla De Mujeres. I have to thank Shara Azod for the challenge, (hero and heroine meet, heroine is already pregnant). Sunstroke gave me the answer, the details were found at the bottom of a glass of Malbec. It's how I roll. Mexico and wine.

Happy reading!!

 Blurb due 29/04/16

Any good romance starts with a funeral…

Tais Nørgaard has been too close to death to wait around for anything in his life to happen organically. Cancer cured him of any reticence in getting what he wants, and what he wants is entirely wrapped up in Delilah Bancroft. Tais is completely enamoured by Delilah’s pregnancy, with the type of fervour reserved for fathers. He doesn't care about her gay husband, or his irritating, gold-digger of a boyfriend. He’s not even bothered by the potential scandal stemming from the impending battle over Delilah’s late father in law’s estate. He just wants Delilah. And everything that comes with her.
Except expected 29/04/16

Freya sat Tais down in the pew closest to the family and whispered gleefully, “This is the best spot. Trust me.”“Why are you so happy this man is dead?” Tais asked, his tone mild as he surveyed the gathered mourners. He recognised faces not only from the Bancrofts’ company, but clients, acquaintances, the owners of various tabloids, department stores and Michelin starred restaurants the family patronised. They were indeed losing a very good customer. Samson Bancroft had been a man with expensive tastes.“Urgh, don’t say things like that!” Freya made a face of disgust. “I’m not happy he’s dead, but I am happy we were invited to the funeral. We couldn’t get this close to the family unless we were at a board meeting. There are opportunities here you need to take advantage of.”“And here I was thinking this was a social gathering,” he said dryly.Freya ignored him. “Just think what you could achieve if you had a controlling share board member on your side. All those projects you want to push forward, all those plans we have for finance.”His plans had always been logically accepted, but the heir apparent, Edward Bancroft, would not see things the same way as his father. Samson’s shrewd business sense was legendary. Many had fallen beneath his sword of thriftiness. “It’s a funeral. Where people are grieving.”Freya gave a dismissive snort. “No, they’re not. Look, that’s wife number four and five sitting on the other side of wives three through to one.”“You’re gossiping again,” Tais warned. “I’m not interested.”“You need to be,” Freya retorted. She was irritating him intensely today, but she worked hard as his second in command. He was now hugely reliant on her knowledge, considering he’d been out of the game for the last year. “Those women don’t have any company shares. It’s in their pre-nuptial agreements. The company stays with the Bancroft name.”A woman swept past, delicate netting covering her eyes like a film noir femme fatale. She had a black scarf elegantly swathed around her shoulders, which only served to emphasise the extravagant curve of her hips, draped in black silk that swirled to her ankles. Tais watched her as she sat in the pew with wives four and five.“That’s who you need to butter up—the famous Delilah. Before Samson died, he signed all his shares to his daughter-in-law.”“My, my, my,” he quipped. The photograph on her law firm’s website hadn’t done her any justice. He had been looking at it obsessively for some time now. She possibly had conducted the smartest Bancroft marriage to date. A family lawyer, the Bancroft company had not only pushed her services to a range of exclusive, high-paying clients, but she had drawn up her own pre-nuptial agreement, and hadn’t been seen falling out of clubs or bars. More importantly, and by the same turn disappointingly for him, she had kept the wedding out of the national media. “She doesn’t look any older than twenty-five, if that,” Tais murmured, noting that Freya was still waiting for a response.“You’d think being married to Edward would add a few years. I think she’s almost forty.”Tais thought it would be insanely disrespectful to start laughing at such a revelation. “I thought you said Edward was gay?”“He is.” Freya grinned. “Well done for paying attention.”“Then why is he married to her?” Again he stared at the back of her head, glossy, tar-coloured hair twisted into an elegant knot at the base of her neck. What a waste.“Samson didn’t have any idea about Edward. The last thing Samson wanted to happen was for the Bancroft shares to end up in someone else’s hands because Edward’s far too generous with all his friends and er... acquaintances.”“Isn’t that what the cast-iron pre-nups are for?”“I can’t see that one,” she nodded to the front pews, “signing anything. I can see him refusing out of some principle that love is stronger than any contract or some such rubbish. Edward and Delilah have been friends since law school. Maybe she just wanted to get the shares. It’s worked out quite nicely for her.”“Isn’t Edward upset that his father’s dead and his shares are with his wife who isn’t a member of his desired gender?”“He’s relieved. Now he can bang as many cabana boys as he wants when he’s in Miami.”“She’s too smart for this, dipping into the Bancroft murky waters,” he asserted, flipping through the order of service. “This seems... too calculated.”“You’ve had a second long glimpse of her. Is this a spark of interest in a woman?” she asked, her voice teasing.Tais was surprised himself. He thought his libido was long gone. “You sell a fascinating story,” he said instead. “So wives one to five have nothing from the company, and all the controlling shares are in the hands of one daughter-in-law who technically isn’t a true Bancroft.”“If you want the board to approve your plans for international expansion for our department, then you need Delilah. No one can cough without her say-so now.”“Fair enough.” Tais watched as Delilah wiped a hand beneath her veil and folded her hands in her lap. But then again, he wasn’t at all interested with the shares she held. “I think at least one person is grieving here.”

Jukebox Baby

I did wonder what music my parents played while my mother was expecting me. I have a feeling a lot of it was Barry White based, because my limbs move uncontrollably when his songs play. Even thinking about it, my bum is twitching with the need to dance. Isaac Hayes is my Dad's fave, so definitely that would have featured, and a lot of High Life music.

For Delilah's pregnancy, there's no real rhyme or reason to my choices apart from getting a little bit jiggy. Or a lot jiggy. Because with all that woman goes through, the least she deserves is a damn good ride.

The Baby Gift on Spotify

Prince feat. Lenny Kravitz American WomanRadiohead ReckonerJustin Timberlake Lovestoned/I Think She KnowsJames Vincent McMorrow If I Had A BoatMadonna Justify My Love Joy Division Love Will Tear Us ApartRihanna feat Mikky Ekko StayRobin Thicke Superman

Baby Be Mine...

This was my "Strange" from Boomerang moment. I had a collection of pictures of men who resembled my Dane, Tais and a collection of women who looked like Delilah from the shoulders up. Nothing really bump-like. And I thought about it. Let's try something a little different. Taïs is a man who falls for the beauty of Delilah as a quite obviously pregnant woman. And there are so many contradictions that a woman has to deal with while she is carrying a baby, I wanted to celebrate it. So here we are. The Baby Gift, with possibly the sexiest woman I've seen on digital cradling the new life within her. Probably thinking about sitting down soon. Or going to pee. But still. Flipping sexy.

If you haven't read this story before, or wasn't particularly taken by it, let me change your mind...

Blurb due imminently

Any good romance starts with a funeral…

Tais Nørgaard has been too close to death to wait around for anything in his life to happen organically. Cancer cured him of any reticence in getting what he wants, and what he wants is entirely wrapped up in Delilah Bancroft. Tais is completely enamoured by Delilah’s pregnancy, with the type of fervour reserved for fathers. He doesn't care about her gay husband, or his irritating, gold-digger of a boyfriend. He’s not even bothered by the potential scandal stemming from the impending battle over Delilah’s late father in law’s estate. He just wants Delilah. And everything that comes with her.
Except expected below

Freya sat Tais down in the pew closest to the family and whispered gleefully, “This is the best spot. Trust me.”“Why are you so happy this man is dead?” Tais asked, his tone mild as he surveyed the gathered mourners. He recognised faces not only from the Bancrofts’ company, but clients, acquaintances, the owners of various tabloids, department stores and Michelin starred restaurants the family patronised. They were indeed losing a very good customer. Samson Bancroft had been a man with expensive tastes.“Urgh, don’t say things like that!” Freya made a face of disgust. “I’m not happy he’s dead, but I am happy we were invited to the funeral. We couldn’t get this close to the family unless we were at a board meeting. There are opportunities here you need to take advantage of.”“And here I was thinking this was a social gathering,” he said dryly.Freya ignored him. “Just think what you could achieve if you had a controlling share board member on your side. All those projects you want to push forward, all those plans we have for finance.”His plans had always been logically accepted, but the heir apparent, Edward Bancroft, would not see things the same way as his father. Samson’s shrewd business sense was legendary. Many had fallen beneath his sword of thriftiness. “It’s a funeral. Where people are grieving.”Freya gave a dismissive snort. “No, they’re not. Look, that’s wife number four and five sitting on the other side of wives three through to one.”“You’re gossiping again,” Tais warned. “I’m not interested.”“You need to be,” Freya retorted. She was irritating him intensely today, but she worked hard as his second in command. He was now hugely reliant on her knowledge, considering he’d been out of the game for the last year. “Those women don’t have any company shares. It’s in their pre-nuptial agreements. The company stays with the Bancroft name.”A woman swept past, delicate netting covering her eyes like a film noir femme fatale. She had a black scarf elegantly swathed around her shoulders, which only served to emphasise the extravagant curve of her hips, draped in black silk that swirled to her ankles. Tais watched her as she sat in the pew with wives four and five.“That’s who you need to butter up—the famous Delilah. Before Samson died, he signed all his shares to his daughter-in-law.”“My, my, my,” he quipped. The photograph on her law firm’s website hadn’t done her any justice. He had been looking at it obsessively for some time now. She possibly had conducted the smartest Bancroft marriage to date. A family lawyer, the Bancroft company had not only pushed her services to a range of exclusive, high-paying clients, but she had drawn up her own pre-nuptial agreement, and hadn’t been seen falling out of clubs or bars. More importantly, and by the same turn disappointingly for him, she had kept the wedding out of the national media. “She doesn’t look any older than twenty-five, if that,” Tais murmured, noting that Freya was still waiting for a response.“You’d think being married to Edward would add a few years. I think she’s almost forty.”Tais thought it would be insanely disrespectful to start laughing at such a revelation. “I thought you said Edward was gay?”“He is.” Freya grinned. “Well done for paying attention.”“Then why is he married to her?” Again he stared at the back of her head, glossy, tar-coloured hair twisted into an elegant knot at the base of her neck. What a waste.“Samson didn’t have any idea about Edward. The last thing Samson wanted to happen was for the Bancroft shares to end up in someone else’s hands because Edward’s far too generous with all his friends and er... acquaintances.”“Isn’t that what the cast-iron pre-nups are for?”“I can’t see that one,” she nodded to the front pews, “signing anything. I can see him refusing out of some principle that love is stronger than any contract or some such rubbish. Edward and Delilah have been friends since law school. Maybe she just wanted to get the shares. It’s worked out quite nicely for her.”“Isn’t Edward upset that his father’s dead and his shares are with his wife who isn’t a member of his desired gender?”“He’s relieved. Now he can bang as many cabana boys as he wants when he’s in Miami.”“She’s too smart for this, dipping into the Bancroft murky waters,” he asserted, flipping through the order of service. “This seems... too calculated.”“You’ve had a second long glimpse of her. Is this a spark of interest in a woman?” she asked, her voice teasing.Tais was surprised himself. He thought his libido was long gone. “You sell a fascinating story,” he said instead. “So wives one to five have nothing from the company, and all the controlling shares are in the hands of one daughter-in-law who technically isn’t a true Bancroft.”“If you want the board to approve your plans for international expansion for our department, then you need Delilah. No one can cough without her say-so now.”
“Fair enough.” Tais watched as Delilah wiped a hand beneath her veil and folded her hands in her lap. But then again, he wasn’t at all interested with the shares she held. “I think at least one person is grieving here.”

When Doves Cry

This probably isn't going to be a very coherent post, but the need to express something is important to help me understand what is happening.

When artists, legends, who have been part of every single moment of your life, start to die - or rather ascend to another astral plane - it reminds one horribly of one's own mortality, the brevity of a person's existence in this world. And it is crushing. I am crushed.

To me, Prince, the Purple God, the Ultimate Diva, hasn't aged a minute. He remains ever youthful, irreverent, insanely accomplished, sweeping through the arrogance of award ceremonies and AR executives with a flick of perfectly coiffured hair, an arched brow and a curled lip. It doesn't make sense that he can die.

This is the man who taught me about sex. I know - totally inappropriate, but that's how I discovered him. He conquered my body before he conquered my mind. I remember that my cousin was obsessed with him. She had posters all over her room of Prince and that enigmatic symbol of his. Prince - whilst acknowledged in my family home as a musical virtuoso - was on the naughty side. The very naughty side. I didn't get why, until my cousin showed me the Purple Rain album. That voice, those rifts, the beat smoked through me and I inhaled every molecule.

Then came the biggest film of the year - Batman - and Prince was all over it. Crazy, sexy, cool as the other side of the pillow. I knew the words to every track Prince wrote, not just because everyone else did, but because that music made me mooooove. Funking up my life was nothing compared to what he did next.

Gett Off. Diamonds and Pearls. Cream. Money Don't Matter Tonight. For that to coincide with my entering puberty, was nothing short of a divine intervention. There was this eyeliner wearing, lipgloss pouting, jeri-curled hair, stubbled, ruffle loving, lycra adoring, short, pert arsed black man, telling me that sex wasn't at all what they told you in church. That it was something to be enjoyed, worshipped, adored, embraced and honoured. That I shouldn't be ashamed of my blooming curves (and my God did I bloom and bloom early) but revel that it was heck-a-slammin'. While Madonna found herself on the side of my parents's disapproval with her cone bras and her pelvic thrusts, Prince was the soundtrack to my sexual discovery and understanding. He was quietly mine while I tried to figure out how you really do get to 23 positions in a one night stand. What more could you want as a teenager surrounded by other hormonal girls?

All the "Prince is so gay" nonsense. Because he liked a nice blouse? Or because he was pretty as hell? Or because people knew if he was inclined, he'd have a girl on her back with a gentle breath to the back of her neck? If he was, it wouldn't have mattered, because he absolutely challenged perception of how black men "should be" or what black people "should like" musically, fashionably, in life. He lived his without barriers, without contention, for himself. A lot of babies in the 80s wouldn't have been born without Prince. A lot of babies in the 90s wouldn't have been born without Prince. Damn. That man is responsible for a country's worth of babies...

I'm pretty devastated by this new blow. I've barely accepted that David Bowie's dead. Barely. And now this. Prince didn't even reach 60. I thought he'd outlast all of us, cooling himself in the waters of Lake Minnetonka, I thought he'd be playing gigs until four am, trying even the most hardcore of fans to stay the distance. I thought he'd be ninety, slinging a guitar over his neck and getting out his pick on stage for the newest artist, or quietly supporting causes behind the scenes and without a single fuck telling folks about themselves. I am wrong. And I've never wanted to be more right about something.

What do we do with this vacuum that Prince has left in his wake? Let's not reduce him to one single thing, particularly his ability to cast a forest of shade in his later years. But let's instead celebrate his immeasurable talent. To be able to play 27 instruments, write, sing and produce your own music, is a God given gift. To have all those accolades and awards, and still want to go and play to fans, to surprise fans, to keep writing, is more than a legacy. It's like being cast in the stars. Enduring until the end of the universe. As my friend said last night, Prince has not died. He's just transformed.



"We could all die any day. But before I let that happen, I'll dance my life away."
Prince