Four scores and eight years ago (or just eight years ago, as I don’t know what four scores are) I was nearing the end of my post-graduate course in journalism. I untacked an advert pinned to the school’s noticeboard looking for feature writers to work for the UK’s biggest press agency, based in Bristol, and took it home.
Then I invited a friend over for dinner. This friend was already a journalist and much further along her journalism career than I, for she did not stop to wang about smoking weed and achieving nothing for a few years. While we discussed my career options, I remembered the ad that was stuffed into my satchel and I pulled it out to show my friend. Continue reading
When I was a yoof, I used to hang about with a group of lads who’d shout ‘pigs’ whenever the police drove past. I didn’t approve. I prefer to say ‘5-0!’ like they do in the Wire. But not in a disrespectful way, because I bloody love the police. Just in a kind of Baltimore kidz on the street, rollin with my homies kind of way. I’m cool like that. I also say ‘Omar comin!’ and I hope you do too.
But yes, the police. The ambo’s. I love them all. We go about our daily life not needing their assistance. And then crash, bang, wallop – something goes wrong and there they are, ready to see you through your emergency. Continue reading