STONE COLD HAVEN

One of the most offensive comments I’ve ever heard was “he said if we paid £40 extra each, we’ll get into the VIP section”. This was one of my friends in a taxi feeling excited about getting off the phone with an “insider” from the club we were going to. Up to that point, I really hadn’t taken notice of where we were going clubbing, I was more interested with what we were going to eat first because I was hungry.

“£40?!”, I exclaimed in shock, “to get into a pub in South East London? You can get a blowjob for £40”.

“That’s for a VIP pass” the argument followed, “And it’s not a pub, it’s a club”.

I’ll come back to this VIP thing in a bit. It had been a great Saturday that started with us drinking at midday. It’s been a while, but I applied for my overnight visa from er indoors and it was duly granted to allow me to attend a Christmas drink up after a game with my Arsenal supporting friends. Even she knew there was absolutely no chance expecting me back home on Saturday night and promptly granted the visa.

So we sang and made merry, and even thought of opening a book to bet on how many of us would actually make it to the stadium. It didn’t matter that the pub was literally a few minutes’ walk from the Emirates, 5 pm got to us quicker than we could order enough pints. It’s one of those things that always gets you – being in your seat before kick-off is just an elusive bastard.

We quickly got into the cheering rhythm as the first half flew past – with one of my friends who was there for the first time (he supports Liverpool unfortunately) spending most of the time being mesmerized by the magnificence of the Emirates stadium. Seriously, this guy was taking photos of the pitch and the players instead of enjoying the football match. We excused the poor bastard – it was his first time in a proper stadium, one of the best in the world.

The result was disappointing, but I’ll take a point after a European weekday game with our boys coming back with a late equalizer. Everyone was still in a party mood as we headed back to the pub. Those who did not have overnight visas ended up having the traditional ‘one for the road’, and making mental notes for the next time – “make sure your missus sanctions an overnight stay”.

Fast forward a few hours later, and we had been roped into visiting an African club in South East London. When I heard the driver in the taxi being told the address, I said there’s no African club anywhere near that road and it’s a bloody long road with hundreds of nightspots. An African club is not one of them.

So imagine my surprise when they said we need to pay extra for a VIP pass. You see, I have a problem in principle. This whole “VIP status” in clubs or entertainment venues is just taken too far. It makes no business sense whatsoever. Why create second class citizens and try to segregate people in a place that is a shit venue in the first place.

If you’re going to make me a VIP – it better be VIP. Don’t try and entice me with a section of the pub with a few fluffy seats and a huge ugly fuck off bouncer built like a brick shithouse stopping people from entering the fluffy seated area.

I’m still listening to the same dodgy music, still smelling the same sweaty bodies like every other fucker in the pub, fighting like everyone else to get a pint at the bar, using the same dodgy and smelly toilets with the same lollipop selling, chewing gum peddling toilet attendant that’s’ smiling at everyone. If you’re going to make me VIP, make sure you have heated toilet seats, a surround sound system playing jazz fm, a toilet that can wash my ass with soapy water, and blow dry all the cracks and curves that nature endowed on me. (more…)

I have a deep rooted cynicism for politics, notwithstanding the fact that I don’t trust politicians as far as I could spit the fuckers.

You always know it’s election season when they start gallivanting around the UK purporting to reach out to the Kenyan Diaspora and pretend they care. It’s the twisted rendition of them visiting rural areas to hand out lessos and bags of sugar to the hapless electorate who are supposed to be thankful that the politicians are coming to their village to listen to them.

I mean, these are the same folk who literally hijack burial services because it’s one of the most sure fire ways of reaching a captive audience. They don’t even give a damn about the deceased and instead shamelessly preach their tribalistic nonsense.

The game has changed with dual citizenship a reality. It gives politicians access to campaign funds from Diasporans abroad desperate to maintain a link with politics at home. It gives them potential access to votes if the Independent Electoral and Boundaries Commission can get its shit together. It gives them a platform to spew their diatribe and tired political messages.

Kalonzo Musyoka is already at it with his entourage of dodgy ministerial lackeys and civil servants. And guess what their carrot is. Kenyans in the Diaspora should lobby for a seat in parliament.

Forgive my cynicism, but if the Vice President was serious about representation of Diasporans in the Kenyan parliament, he should have pushed for the creation of such a presence before the constitution was sealed.

What point is there jerking off excitable Kenyans in the Diaspora with the tantalizing prospect of a seat in parliament instead of presenting it as a bill for law change in the said parliament and having it debated. The parliament building is in down town Nairobi and not in East London.

All Kalonzo and other politicians and their hapless bus boys and girls are interested in is exerting influence over the Diaspora to gain advantage before the election next year.

The Vice President should stop being a manipulative punk and stop taking people for idiots. The government can’t even sort out the issues around the ICC and the criminal case against the Occampo 6, and he’s here promising a seat in parliament for the hundreds of thousands of Kenyans abroad? Does he think we walked into this election season from the cotton fields?

The irony is that Kenyans abroad are directly responsible for 5.3% of Kenya’s Gross Domestic Product. That’s a budget segment even bigger than the budget of most ministries in government. And all the punk can offer is a single solitary seat in parliament? What’s he going to give us next, a meal for our Diaspora MP every time he or she attends parliament?

If Kalonzo wants to impress us, get the president and prime minister to create a full blown ministry of Diaspora affairs to channel the human, social and financial capital and absolute clout that Kenyans abroad can bring to bear for the development of the country. You don’t need any Kenyans in the Diaspora to lobby that one for you – you’re the vice president, convince your bosses.

Kalonzo should stop this cheap ass politicking and cock teasing of Kenyans in some back water in East London. Go back home and get us some real shit in government.

And in case you were wondering where my contempt for Kenyan politicians comes from, have a look at this article I wrote quite a while back about the Rapists Of The Kenyan Spirit. Believe me, these guys don’t do themselves any justice – but I have to tell you, I blame all of us Kenyans for collective gross negligence and deriliction of our civic responsibilities by the reckless and irresponsible way we keep voting these punks into parliament.

And don’t forget the shot gun wedding that Kibaki and Raila had to endure. we still don’t know who’s children will survive this marriage..

If you haven’t yet, follow us on twitter. You might even get the chance to help us get Larry Madowo laid.

I always figured I was in the wrong profession. Not that I’ll even get away with trying to sell my body. A sell-by date doesn’t even apply in my case. I doubt that I’d ever pass any type of screening that would declare me fit for purpose for what seems to be a very lucrative trade in austere times.

Legend has it that there’s only 2 professions in the world that are recession proof. Being an undertaker and prostitution. You’ll never run out of a ready customer base willing to pay the going rate for services rendered.

But of course once in a while someone just takes the piss and redefines their own rules in the market. Take poor old Dawn. She thought she’d hit the jackpot, but didn’t account for her client being a thief. For the record, whoever pays for sex to the tune of £1.7 million in less than 3 years deserves to be locked up in prison and the keys thrown away. That kind of stupidity endangers the human gene pool.

It’s bad enough that the guy steals over £3 million from his employer, but he should have been executed for the manner in which he spent the proceeds of the heist.

The lady argues that her sexual services were value for money and the guy was prepared to pay the market rate – a rate her accountant estimates at about £20,000 a week. Even the judge in this case hard a problem with that appraisal of the defendants market value as a professional provider of horizontal refreshments. Which makes you really ask the question – is any pussy worth circa £3K a day? The law of the land clearly thinks not.

But then again, what price do you put on someone being a platinum idiot and agreeing to pay that amount. The lady is clearly aggrieved that she’s losing the fruits of her loins, literally – but you really can’t argue about a judge clawing back the proceeds of crime. It’s forbidden fruit.

My take – she should have hired a more savvy accountant to keep her hard earned money away from the long arm of the criminal justice system. There’s nothing that’s more of a bastard than thinking you’ve earned £1.7 million for a judge to tell you “actually, sweet heart – you need to pay that shit back”.

Or maybe she should have opted to become an undertaker. There are no grey areas when it comes to splitting hairs over the prices of the services rendered.

So I’ve also joined this twitter thing. I’m told its safer and more sane than MKZ – but what do I know. You can follow me on twitter and find out whether I get the hang of it.