We start the week by walking down the street, looking casually into our local H&M branch. Oh, look – a nice top. And this faux-leather bag – TFP would totes rock that. And what’s that yonder? It’s only David Beckham in his flippin’ pants. TFP has been on the Beckham Bandwagon for nigh on a decade now. It’s too late to get off (fnar) now. So yes, this means fancying despite the ridiculous tattoos, and the (inevitable) thickening of the waistline. Because he’s also discovered true style with age, as well as a reassuring heft and oh-god-his-left-eyebrow-in-that-final-photo-TFP-is-undone… It’s BECKS IN HIS KECKS:

Beckham in triplicate: Because TFP cares

We move on (not-so)-swiftly to another TFP favourite. Have you seen The Kids Are All Right? Or 13 Going On 30? Or You Can Count On Me? Oh, you’re not really a movie person? Fine. Perhaps you enjoy reading Hollywood actors write convincingly and surprisingly passionately about issues you vaguely care about. Yes? Then look no further, for Mark Ruffalo is your guy. TFP wants to tuck him in its pocket. Look at his cute, smooshy face:

Forever tardy to the party, TFP recently watched Thor for the first time. Have you ever had that ‘ding dong!’ moment when a hitherto unknown truth about your personality is suddenly and forcefully revealed to you? TFP exerienced that in glorious THX Dolby surround sound when it realised it is really into muscles. Like, really. The trigger for this Damascene conversion? Bloody Chris Hemsworth. With his Ken Doll-looking fine ass. TFP would hit that like the hammer of… well, Thor.

TFP had never heard of actor Daniel Henney until last week, when he popped up on its Tumblr dashboard. Look. TFP needs to know what they feed the boys in Korea, cos all TFP knows is that they turn up looking all hot an’ shit and TFP doesn’t know where to look. So yeah. Dan – can TFP call you Dan? – we dig your matinee idol looks and wouldn’t mind if you were to call and see if TFP would be available for a drink. TFP likes any drink with an umbrella in. Classy. Anyway, here’s Henney!

We end this edition with a hot French actor, the star of award-hoover, The Artist. TFP saw The Artist a few weeks back; if you’ve yet to see it, go – it really is a charming little film. And while Uggie the dog is the cutest thing in it by a country mile,  lead actor Jean DuJardin is no slouch. He has the crinkly eyes, the self-deprecating little smile, the characterful nose (the type of which TFP loves so much!), and in real life, is going delightfully grey at the temples. Plus – he’s French. Unf and indeed, ngngngg.

Okay. That’s all for now. Now scram – have a great weekend!

My next appointment is in February 2012, when I hope the prognosis will be positive. Who knows, maybe I’ll write about that too…

Thanks for reading!

Some tortures are physical
And some are mental,
But the one that is both
Is dental.
~Ogden Nash

My appointment was late on a Tuesday afternoon in December. I sat in the waiting room, watching a computer screen on the front desk explain what a diastema is and how this fancy clinic could help you to sort it out. It was only one of the many treatments on offer – I’d never known there were so many options when it came to your mouth. I watched the programme run on a loop, wishing I’d found the time to eat some lunch. Half an hour after the time ascribed, I was ushered into the exam room.

R, the woman I’d been speaking to over the last couple of weeks (and owner of the clinic) came forth to shake my hand. “Adewunmi!” she said loudly (I would soon discover that this was the only volume she operated at). “So nice to meet you. My my, your gums are red. Come in!”

Now, I have a curiously high pain threshold, but what followed was some of the worst pain I’ve endured in my life. Let’s take a quick trip down Pain Memory Lane: when I was 13 years old and at boarding school, I lost my footing on the gutter in front of my dormitory. I landed, not too cleverly, on my face. I tore my lip wide open, my face swelled to about double its regular size, and it’s only a miracle that I didn’t somehow nail my tongue to the bottom of my mouth with my top teeth. I was pulled out of school to recuperate – at home I had to be fed like a baby – with a spoon and bib to catch any drippings from a mouth that was too swollen to close. I still have a tiny scar and bump on my top lip.

A couple of years later, I woke up to find my entire body swollen, like the Michelin man. I went blind for a couple of hours, and was in so much pain I was humming, like a wounded animal. The school nurses thought it was blackwater malaria. It turned out not to be, but it was malaria so bad I had to be put on a drip in hospital for a week. It’s one of the few times I’ve seen my father cry.

I’ve had a car run over my left foot and a horse stand on my right one. I’ve smashed my hand in the door of a Peugeot 504, and I’ve had cramps so bad I vomitted. All these experiences were left in the dust by the pain my dental woes have cost me. It’s got me rethinking childbirth as a future endeavour.

I was in the clinic because my dentist had referred me for periodontal work. In basic English, my gums were fucked – and they were threatening my teeth with eviction. In an oddly cheerful tone, Dr L told me: “You could go on a waiting list on the NHS… but that might take anything up to 18 months. By then, you’d have lost all your teeth!”. So I sucked it up and decided to go private. At the initial consultation in November, a ridiculously good-looking periodontist broke down how terrible my situation was. Coming on the heels of my childhood dentist telling me I was a ‘tongue-thruster’ (sadface), this was devastating news. By the time I walked in to R’s exam room, my gums were on the verge of collapse. Later she would tell me she’d rarely seen worse: her comment on the redness of my gums had not been a compliment – overly-rosy gums are a sign of super-inflammation.

Before she could attack the pockets which had formed around my gums (and which were eroding my bones), I had to be numbed with local anaesthetic. Not a problem, I thought. And so we began. A curiously handsome dental nurse, G (think Justin Chamber’s younger, hotter brother), came into the room to assist. I registered a sense of relief that I was wearing a nice jumper and makeup (“my gums may be a mess, but look into my eyes, G. See how my eyeshadow sparkles – for you!”) This was more evidence that my vanity trumps all – a few months back while I was sure I was dying of pleurisy and the nurse attached ECG leads to my chest, I still allowed myself a jolt of pleasure that I was wearing a pretty bra.

We started off with a bubblegum-flavoured numbing gel smeared onto cotton wool pellets. They were shoved behind my lips until I felt ‘a tingling’. For 30 minutes, I lay on the couch with a paper bib on, contemplating when I would be able to eat toast again. R came in after about 10 minutes. Would I care to watch a film while we were waiting for the gel to work? Sure, I said. She brought out a little gizmo – glasses with tiny telly screens and headphones attached. I chose Casino Royale – there was the option of Friends, but did I really want to be laughing at Ross & Rachel’s Vegas antics while someone went to town with electrical tools inside my mouth? I’ll take Le Chiffre hitting Daniel Craig repeatedly in the knackers, please and thank you.

Source

Finally, we were ready. Time to administer the local anaesthetic. The injections hurt like hell. By the third, I began making yelping noises. By the fifth, I was crying silently. In my prone position, the tears leaked out and flowed straight down the sides of my face and directly into my ears – a state of affairs so pathetic, it made me cry even harder and uglier (if you know me in real life, you’ll know I’m an ugly crier). By the tenth injection, I was snotting uncontrollably. Thank goodness for the dark goggles I was wearing, and a quick shoutout to my new sponsor, Kleenex. I eventually stopped counting the injections when we hit 30 – that’s when I began to hope to fall into a deep unconsciousness. Other note-worthy things:

• My nose went numb
• So did my upper jaw and ears
• I can communicate in ‘sign language’ – thumbs up/down, frantic thigh-slapping, undulating hand movements, the diver’s ‘A-OK’ sign, squeezing my left hand…
• It’s a curious sensation, having two strangers’ hands in your mouth
• Most impressively, we discovered that my gums were not taking to the anaesthetic – was it because its effects were being countered by the extreme inflammation? No-one had seen such extreme sensitivity. I snuck a look at R’s tray afterwards – there were at least six empty vials of anaesthetic on there. On my third visit, she expressed her surprise at my militant gums yet again: “Why can you still feel this? How can you still have so much feeling? I doubt you’ve ever been totally numb in your life.” Somewhere deep inside, a tiny place where the pain was yet to reach, I hollowly whispered: “ONLY EMOTIONALLY, DOCTOR.”

R worked like a maniac. At one point, she stopped using the electric version of whatever tool she was working with and went Rambo on my gums with a manual implement. There was so much blood. How much blood? You don’t know, man; you weren’t there! I could see the suction tube go red every few seconds as G vacuumed out my lifeforce. Every so often, they’d let me up to spit into the sink – the blood was always a deep, rich red; thick and alarming. I began to wonder if I would have to take iron pills to recover from the loss. 90 minutes in, G left to attend to another patient, and was replaced by A, a warm older woman who occasionally patted my forehead to soothe me as I cried. Throughout the procedure (it lasted more than two hours), R kept saying “Well done” and “You’re so brave” – encouragements I lapped up like a needy girlfriend. “Thank you,” I replied, around a mouthful of blood.

Finally it was over. The tears had dried to that awful crepe paper feeling you get when you don’t moisturise soon enough after a shower. After collecting myself, I moved to get off the couch and… promptly fainted. As I went down, I heard the alarmed “WTF?!” noises of both R and A. When I came to, I was back on the couch. Still woozy, I tried to sit up and was gently pressed down. “Have you had lunch?” asked R. “Um, no,” I replied. The look I got in response was not friendly. “Lie down – you’re going nowhere for a while.”

So I lay there, self-pitying tears occasionally sliding out of my eyes, sipping sugar water and idly wondering if G was single (I can’t switch it off – it’s a problem). I tried massaging my earlobes; I vaguely remembered reading somewhere that they were an acupressure point, good for relieving stress and inducing calm. The following day, fully sober, I realised I’d seen it in a movie, The Truth About Cats and Dogs. And it only worked on Great Dane mixes. Oh. I called my sister to ask if she would come and get me. She agreed. Three seconds later I remembered it was her birthday. Ten seconds after that, I remembered her birthday presents were sitting on my armchair, unwrapped. My sister is a saint.

After feeding me soup, my sister put me to bed with painkillers and a hug and took her unwrapped birthday presents home. I fell asleep with chlorhexidine mouthwash still making my mouth smart, only to wake up at 3am with a wet face. A fumble with the light switch revealed a pillow stained with blood. My gums carried on bleeding gently – with me replacing gauze every 20 minutes or so – till about 7am. At 7:30am, following what was possibly my twentieth saltwater rinse, I emailed work to say I wasn’t coming in.

I’ve been back to the clinic a further two times since December. My mouth is a hundred times better. My teeth look and feel amazing. I’ve stoped biting my cheeks. My gums don’t bleed for the hell of it and are a normal-sized, healthy pink colour. I have bought an electric toothbrush. I can eat toast again. It’s a miracle of modern medicine. I am in debt. But I am so delighted.

I must end this here, though – I have some flossing to do.

Right?

How are you all doing? Ready for the weekend? Of course you’re not. Because you haven’t had a dose of handsome men to lead you gently into the green pastures of Saturday and Sunday. No worries, TFP is here to provide that service. So take a deep, cleansing breath, turn your monitor discreetly away from your nosy colleague and slip your feet out of the confines of office-appropriate shoes. It’s time for The Friday Pretty – the first of 2012!

We open proceedings with a dude who’s probably dumber than a box of lacefronts. But you know what? It’s okay if he is. He is so pleasingly proportioned, so stereotypically attractive, so uncomplicated and um, gym-toned, that he transcends logic and good judgement. He’s just a perfectly simple pleasure to behold. TFP is a fan of his work in She’s The Man (srsly, one of TFP‘s favourite Shakespeare-relocated-to-a-US-high-school teen flicks), and Step Up (‘urban’ dance movie? TFP is so there) and soon, he will delight us all in Magic Mike, a dark movie about male strippers… *snicker* (stills from the movie recently caused the internet to pant in unison). It’s Channing Tatum, of course. In the crude parlance of the internet, he ‘could get it’:

Next up, a man who came back into TFP‘s orbit when he was announced as one of a trio of new Gillette spokesmen. TFP is actually shocked that he’s never featured on these pages before. Look upon his delicate features and lust! LUST, TFP SAYS! Over to you, Gael Garcia Bernal:

Hey, remember back in 2001, when we first became acquainted with the term ‘va va voom’? Yeah, you do. Remember how we all went around asking no one in particular, “Hey, Bobby! What’s the French for ‘va va voom’?” Heady days. Well, THIERRY HENRY IS BACK! In like, England, and like, playing for Arsenal again. It made TFP‘s lifelong Gooner brother burst into emotional tears. TFP‘s tears were caused by the full beard Henry insists on wearing these days – look, it’s a magnificent bit of facial topiary, but it covers up the glorious landscape of his face. Witness the fitness:

We stay in North London’s glorious past for the next dude on TFP‘s hitlist. It’s Freddie Ljungberg. As featured in his pants for Calvin Klein back in 2003, he became the male equivalent of Eva Herzigova’s famous ‘Hello boys’ Wonderbra ad from a decade earlier. TFP swooned then, and swoons now. Look at those cheekbones – you could cut a block of cheese on them! (Er, also: those ridiculous pillowy lips – UNF):

Man of the moment, Michael Fassbender is next up. He’s winning awards for everything at the moment, and fair enough – he’s a very good actor. TFP loved him in Fish Tank, (which according to funny and excellent writer @MhairiMcF, could’ve been called ‘My Confusingly Hot Not Dad’) is off to see him in Shame at the weekend – high hopes all round, best exemplified by this magnificent tweet. Anyway, back to Fassbender. TFP loves him best for the hints of red in his beard; it ignites the famed Gingerlust™:

We end this ogle-fest with a classy dude in a classy suit. Cos TFP is classy like that. Paul Newman – TFP‘s top hot dead dude. RIP, Paul. We still think you’re hot (and talented, obvs):

That’s it. See you all next week. Rave safe, consume alcohol responsibly and get off my lawn!

HAPPY NEW YEAR, READERS! (here, have some Matt Bomer looking into the future, dreamily.)

Listen, there was a bit of a kerfuffle in the media at the beginning of the year, and that meant I was less able to perform my blogging duties. But that’s over now, so let’s not dwell, yeah? How are you? How’s things? I’m in the middle of completing my tax return (this largely involves dropping to my knees and letting out a keening cry of frustration, so I limit the joy to no more than a couple of hours a day) and occasionally looking on RightMove and yearning for flats where the bathroom has a window. But woo, 2012!

Thanks for coming back to read YGD, and to all new subscribers and readers, hello! Like that guy you went out with for six ill-judged months in Sixth Form told you, our contact may be sporadic, but baby, it’s real love. So please stick around.

PS: there’ll be a Friday Pretty tomorrow. BOOM.

In that spirit, here are a few things I, Bim Adewunmi, did in 2011:

• I read 33 books this year. I started by laughing, crying and gasping with recognition at Sathnam Sanghera’s fantastic The Boy With The Topknot, slogged through Jonathan Franzen’s Freedom (and honestly, didn’t mind it as many seemed to), reunited with the Sweet Valley twins (they have sex now), raced through The Hunger Games trilogy, giggled at Tina Fey’s Bossypants and worked through the pleasant dreamy fog of Teju Cole’s Open City. And then there was the magnificentThe Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot. I can’t decide which was my favourite read of 2011, but I can tell you the one I hated with the kind of passion that fuels wars – Jennifer Egan’s A Visit From The Goon Squad. Lawd…
• I watched 51 never-seen-before movies this year: the first, on January 3, was The Kids Are All Right, and the latest was Tropic Thunder – guess which one was miles better? Only 12 films on the list were released this year and I can’t make up my mind which is my favourite. It’s between Drive, Attack The Block, 50/50, Friends With Benefits and The Black Power Mixtape. For sheer fun and verve, I’d probably go with Attack The Block.
• Work-wise, I had a cool year. I got to interview Jane Pratt (OMG!) for The Guardian. I wrote two cover stories (whoop!) for G2 – on women’s football and a very long piece on shadism (check out the cool cover here). I also got invited to speak on NPR(!) and Radio 4′s Broadcasting House about the London riots.
• I had my first public reading this year. The lovely literary people at Letters You Never Sent allowed me to read a letter to Primark out in front of paying punters. In the course of the reading, I invited the audience to look at my bottom and extolled the virtues of fleece-lined tights. I know.
• I blogged a lot less this year (sorry if you wanted more) and while I loved writing all the posts, here are my personal biggest likes of the year: The Electrician Always Buzzes Twice, The Day I Got Kicked In The Street, YorubaGirl at A&E, Kids Characters All Grown Up and my very personal favourite, the essay I did about dating, Are The Players Playing?
• Other cool 2011 stuff – my friend took me to see an old fave An American In Paris on the big screen at the BFI as a birthday treat, I made kitchen curtains (red gingham country kitchen-style), baked a zucchini loaf for the first time, went to see FELA! at the National Theatre, bought about 10 new nail varnishes, started eating fish again after a 20-odd year hiatus, began wearing lipstick, lost a tooth, underwent dental surgery (an essay on that is under construction), bought my first electric toothbrush – BUZZY! – and acquired a filing cabinet. Also, my afro matured incredibly cutely.

What does 2012 hold? Who knows? Well actually, I do a bit. I know I’m getting dental implants in January and I know I’ll be in considerable financial debt following it. I’d like to go on holiday next year. I’d like to fall in love (hook a sister up, yo), write more (journalism and fiction), make more money, move into a bigger flat, get a dog, learn to swim, and actually, genuinely become a bicycle owner/rider.

To utilise a format more commonly found on Tumblr, I want more of this:

…and a lot less of this:

How about you? What hopes/dreams/ideas do you want to see happen in 2012? Share in the comments!

All in all, 2011 belonged to one chap, didn’t it? I shan’t beat about the bush: it belonged to Ryan Gosling. He was on our big screens (Drive, Ides Of March, Crazy Stupid Love), on our Tumblr dashboards (Feminist Ryan Gosling, FuckYeah!RyanGosling, Librarian Ryan Gosling among others…), on our small screens (being interviewed on Ellen DeGeneres, in a onesie, or breaking up a fight on the street in New York, or reading out a selection of the Hey Girl posts…) and in our dreams (c’mon, don’t be coy). And so this end-of-year The Friday Pretty is dedicated to the man who inspired TFP to covet a satin bomber jacket. With a scorpion on the back. That’s right – it’s an All Ryan Everything edition of TFP. Is this life? (Yes it is. Ovary up, women!)

Here he is, looking for all the world like he’s suggesting something filthy to (a clearly charmed) co-star Michelle Williams. What is that I can’t even:

And here he is again, this time in Crazy Stupid Love, showcasing that absurdly sexy neck. Again – what is this I can’t even:

TFP had never wanted to know the science behind a starched shirt before this photo. How is it so stiff? (the shirt, you dirty buggers) And how is it so snowy – is it all in the post-production? Cripes, see for yourself:

This is him as The Driver and seen through the filter of Feminist Ryan Gosling, in full-on ovary-flipping, spontaneous-pant-combustion mode:

And finally, here he is, with his alleged new girlfriend, Eva Mendes. Listen. TFP isn’t over the moon at this news. But if it was going to lose R-Gos to some Hollywood girl, who better? She’s pretty cool, seems smart and has a great devil-may-care smile. They look happy. *sniff* (*shreds pillow in distress*):

And because it’s Christmas, have a little bonus on us. TFP went to see 50/50 a few weeks back. Sweet baby Jesus in a manger – how adorbs is Joseph Gordon-Levitt in that? How charming is that film? And how much are we looking forward to seeing him in The Dark Knight Rises in 2012? TFP has a feeling 2012 will be huge for JGL. Here, have a little perv to get you through that gap between Christmas dinner and Doctor Who when you’re forced to play Charades:

HE KNOWS...

See y’all next year. Have a lovely Christmas, be safe, be merry, be fabulous. And please – have a drink in honour of The Friday Pretty. There’s much perving in store for 2012!

xxx

Both my parents are political and hearing of the 70s and 80s through the filter of their Nigerian-ness is brilliant. In talking about their lives (together and apart) in the UK, my parents paint a picture of acclimatising (literally and metaphorically) to Britain. What did they keep? What did they lose? And why? What has changed? How? What has stayed the same? Where did they travel? What did they see? How has Britain re-shaped their Nigerian-ness? What do they see when they look at me and my oh-so-British siblings? How do we differ? How are we alike? What’s for dinner? [scratch that last one.]

So. I am starting to collect stories from British Nigerians and Nigerian Brits. It is an effort to write my own history, and by extension, my parents’ history and the history of a whole bunch people like us. Away from the discrimination, the troubles and the hardship (though these stories will feature that too) and looking at individual lives, families, communities. It is to be a social history of a group of people – the clothes, the parties, the food, the homes, the decor, the jobs, the lovers, the music, everything. This is to be a history of internal as well as external lives.

If you follow me on Twitter, you’ll know that I’ve been asking for people who want to take part and share their stories for the project. I want interesting stories – whether you’re second- or third-generation Nigerian or fresh off the Arik Air flight. How did you come to be Nigerian in Britain? Are you married to a Nigerian Briton? Are you a British Nigerian who *gasp* married out? Have you lost your links to Nigeria? Do you have an interesting job in the British-Nigerian economy – suya-maker? tailor? hair-braider? egusi seller? I want to hear from you, please.

I have no funding for the project so cannot pay you, unfortunately. But who knows what’ll happen after all the stories have been collated? If you live in London, I will come and meet you and talk to you (and your family) in person. I’ll also happily conduct phone and email interviews for respondents outside of London. Pseudonyms to protect identities are not a problem. I am happy to accept voice recordings as well – just make sure they’re good quality MP3. And photos! If you have any photographs of yourself/family over the last 40 years, I would love to see them – I’ll make copies and return all originals. Please spread the word to your friends and families across the country. Please help to make this idea an interesting, detailed and useful reality. Please send enquiries, questions, photographs and stories to yorubagirldancing@gmail.com and I will do my best to get back to you as soon as possible. Otherwise you can reach me via the Yoruba Girl Dancing Facebook page, my Twitter or Tumblr.

Please help.

Thank you very much

I thought it was interesting that the video went viral on the same day that a report from the Joseph Rowntree Foundation says working class white Britons “feel alienated and last-in-line for resources such as social housing”. As a black person in the UK, born and largely raised here, something’s that’s never far from my mind is this ‘disaffected white working class’. I was born solidly working class myself, in east London, and this narrative of ‘the festering anger of the white working class’ is an old one which recurs every so often. Here it is in 2009, here and here. It was swirling around before I was born in the early 80s, it’s been around since, and it seems unlikely, in this economically worrisome time, that it will go anywhere anytime soon.

The woman on the tram made me angry and sad. Suffering, or even just perceived suffering, often makes us blind to the pain of others. When you are being hurt, you lash out. This is not new. And so in many ways, the woman on the tram was not so shocking. We hear people express these sorts of sentiments in our national newspapers all the time; the language may be a tad less vulgar but the message is essentially no less inflammatory. I’ve found it behind the conversational “where are you from“s all my life and it is often behind the on-the-surface complimentary “Your English is so good!” (I should hope so, considering how I earn my living…). It’s why I always call myself ‘English’ around these people – the more polite would-be bigot never says: “No, you’re not!” and I get to stare them down in a satisfactory manner. My glower basically means ‘CHALLENGE ME, YOU ARSE’.

High or not, the woman on the tram is not alone. Many people think like her. Never mind the fact that it is vastly untrue that immigrants are favoured for social housing and other resources. Disenfranchisement, once it’s set in, is never easy to tackle – just ask governments across the world. As I do far too often, I look to the genius of Chris Rock on Bigger and Blacker:  “White people ain’t losing shit. If y’all losing, who’s winning? It ain’t us!” (up till about 3:15):

Preach it, Chris.

But let’s not play oppression bingo.

It is boring and tiresome that we’re still talking blackness and Britishness as mutually exclusive states of being. I’m tired, man.

Do and be better, people.

Last week, at a literary night called ‘Letters You Never Sent’, I read out a letter to a roomful of strangers (and a few friends). It was the first time I’ve ever read any of my fiction in public, to a paying audience (eek!) and I enjoyed it very much – thank God for tights which absorb nervous wee, eh?. This month’s theme was ‘Corporations’, and below is the letter I wrote and read (the above-mentioned tights make an appearance). Hope you like!

Dear Primark,

You wily, wily minx.

As I stand here, reading this letter in front of these people, I’m wearing no less than two items from your A/W 2011 collection. This skirt, which highlights my – admittedly already pretty nice – arse, is from your new outpost in Stratford Westfield. And the tights, lined with soft velvety fleece and therefore a constant toasty 130 denier, came from the Hackney branch. They’re not just winter warmers, though. No, they are your latest assault on my principles, good judgement and my impoverished writer’s bank balance. They are a blatant play on my brand nostalgia.

I put my foot down in April 2009. The allegations levelled against you were too grave to ignore. There was talk of child labour, third world exploitation, a blouse for a full twenty quid. No more, I said. I severed all ties with you. I even threw out your old things. I sat in my flat, wearing one of your old t-shirts, eating cheesecake by the trough and remembering the day I first met you. It was on a lunch break in East Ham, back in Year 10. Then, I came to you for circulation-hindering skinny jeans in a rainbow of colours – a trend, which in the late 90s, was eschewed by the fashion pack but beloved of black girls in south and east London. I can say with no shame that besides family members and complex carbohydrates, you are probably my longest relationship. And following our split, I resisted your siren call for a good year at least.

To be fair to you, you put up no advertising to lure me back. You respected my privacy at what the tabloids like to call ‘this difficult time’. Friends would tell me you were doing well, or I’d catch a report on your new manufacturing standards on the news. Sometimes, I’d walk past and see other women talking excitedly about you. I can’t lie, that hurt. But the hurt was a price I was happy to pay if it meant I could look those bitches Hennes and Zara square in the eye.

But as is often the case, mine was a hollow victory. Earlier this summer, I found myself at your Oxford Street door. With a heavy heart, and an even heavier tread, I crossed the threshold. I was panicked, eyes flitting about nervously – suspicious behaviour noticed by a security guard made mean by long hours and limited power. With one step, I let you back into my life. I bought a ring – how symbolic – a lizard embedded with cheap coloured stones, and as I placed it on my finger, I knew I was in your clutches once more. I felt like Smeagol in The Lord of The Rings, entranced by the power of the ring. The other shoppers became the Nazgûl – ringwraiths – albeit Nazgûl interested in disposable fashion in man-made fabrics. I may have won the battle, but you, dear Primark, had won the war.

Bet they never had to shop at Primark...

If I could compare my thoughts at the till to a moment in popular culture (and I will, because I’m self-obsessed that way), I would liken it a scene in Annie Proulx’s novella, Brokeback Mountain. As I entered my PIN into the card reader, I fancied myself as the anguished Jack Swift, (played by Jake Gyllenhaal in the movie) crying to Ennis Del Mar: “I wish I knew how to quit you!”. Of course, my Ennis was the faceless Primark overlords, not a taciturn Heath Ledger, but the sentiment remains very much the same. For the more old school cinephile, I quote another great of the silver screen, Al Pacino as Michael Corleone in The Godfather part III: “just when I thought I was out… they pull me back in.”

But I digress.

Now that I’ve re-popped my Primark cherry, I’m in here almost every other week. This skirt and tights, sure, but also a comfy snood which has shed its synthetic yellow wool all over my navy coat, a cute baby pink beanie for just 50p, and only last week, a paddle brush to subdue my afro in the mornings. Your return into my life has been insidious but if I’m honest, not entirely unwelcome.

The truth is, though, I don’t want to shop in you, Primark. I don’t. And when the economy picks up in a few years’ time, no doubt I will leave you in the dust once more. It won’t be personal and you shouldn’t take it as such. Much as I crave cheese despite a ferocious lactose intolerance, I will visit you when I can and repent at leisure.

Let’s not think of the estranged days to come. Let’s take the (500) Days of Summer route – big up the happy times, bury the bad ones at the end of the movie. I am yoked to you and you to me.

Let’s just enjoy our time together, eh? Hey, I’ll probably see you Saturday.

Lots of love,

Bim
xoxo

The winner of People magazine’s annual ode to male attractiveness, ‘Sexiest Man Alive’ was announced this week. And the 2011 winner is… Bradley Cooper! *record scratch* WAIT, WHAT? Look, TFP has a lot of time for Bradley Cooper, with his rock hard abs and strangely owlish face – a lot of time. But lest we forget, 2011 is also the year Ryan Gosling emerged as a force big enough to derail the internet from its main purpose of generating useless memes and endless photos of cats. Derailing the cat ladies of the world? THAT’S A WHOLE HEAP OF SEXY. Still, no shade – well done, Bradley. Here’s a picture of you:

We move on to our next attractive person this Friday, dropped from TFP‘s affections in recent months amid all the Gosling-activity. Andrew Garfield, to paraphrase the timeless pop of Pet Shop Boys, You Were Always On TFP’s Mind. TFP rewatched a clip from The Social Network in which you were adorably broken and got a little bit excited again at the prospect of your Spiderman movie. Your large hair and generous lips are always relevant to TFP‘s interests. Y U SO CUTE, EDUARDO?

As we celebrate another birthday, it seems only right we look back. And so we delve into the murky depths of TFP‘s earlier years now, and after swimming awhile, alight at the destination marked: ‘HARRISON FORD AS INDIANA JONES’. There’s very little needed here. Just remember: Harrison Ford, in 1981, rakish charm phaser set to stun, that fedora, that whip, that… swagger. Between Indy and Aragorn in The Lord of The Rings, TFP became a woman that magical summer… Ngngngngnnng:

We end this week’s edition with a little birthday treat. TFP has long been a fan of the internet’s best kept secret, The Misadventures of Awkward Black Girl (seriously, it’s ACES) and this week – this birthday week – it felt right to commemorate this love by including the object of internet lust that is White J. White J is just the best. He’s funny, awkward, pleasingly attentive and super cute, as played by Lyman Johnson. Here he is helping a tortoise cross the road in South Africa. *ovaries explode* LOOK:

Y’all, that’s it. It’s cake time over here – please send all birthday gifts to the usual address, c/o the internet. Have a lovely weekend!

One such Friday, I was returning from getting my eyebrows threaded in Dalston. Newly neat brows still smarting slightly, I got off the bus outside the cinema and began to gauge the traffic on the road I needed to cross to get to the library on the other side. I paced up and down the pavement, trying to find the mathematical sweet spot; a location that would preclude me getting flattened under the wheels of a bus. This went on for a few seconds, maybe half a minute. And then I felt someone looking in my direction. “This is Hackney,” I thought. “Don’t show fear.” So I slowly – casually, even – looked up. And there he was, one of the most beautiful human beings I have seen since I’ve had eyes. Somewhere in the back of my mind, Berlin’s Take My Breath Away started up, a John Woo-esque white dove flapped its wings in ecstatic slow motion, a single tear worked its way down the wizened cheek of an elderly Native American.

He looked like one of those anonymous models Gap uses to advertise its chinos and cardigans, like he wouldn’t be out of place snapping his fingers in time to a show tune while wearing some mustard yellow jeans (remember that cycle of ads? Never Forget.). Dark brown eyes, skin the colour of peanut butter, hair a blown out afro, height: appropriate to mine. Sure enough, he was even dressed like a Gap model, in a dark blue chunky knit jumper, brown jeans and what looked like original suede Kickers. He was speaking in a low voice into his iPhone, so I carried on pacing, ostensibly checking out the traffic, but in reality edging slightly closer to hear his voice (it always pays to do a quick ‘Beckham test’ – check the voice matches the man). It was deep, but not too Barry White, and wait for it, he was speaking French. I gave myself a mental high five. French! This no doubt meant he was a pastry chef on an apprenticeship in a big London restaurant. At the weekends he loved nothing more than to prepare and feed tarte tartin to his lover (me) while rubbing shea butter lovingly into my hair. It was an involving fantasy. So involving in fact, it took me a little while to realise that I had interrupted him looking at me. I had been the object! He had been checking me out! What an ego boost! Shortly after the realisation that I was rejoicing at this factlet, it hit home that I was being a very bad feminist indeed. I looked back at him – he was off the phone now and slipping it back into his pocket. We made eye contact again. He smiled – a ghost of a grin – and then I crossed the road to return my books at the library.

If our encounter had been soundtracked, that is when the needle would scratch on the record. It’s hardly the correct ending to that meet-cute, is it? In a perfect scene, he would’ve ambled over, asked pseudo-shyly, “Is zis the right bus stop to take me to Bezhnal Green station?” “Yes,” I would reply, before adding, “but make sure you only get the 254 or the 106. The 48 and the 55 turn a corner beforehand at Cambridge Heath station.” (yeah, my sexy banter needs work) And then he would say, “Merci – I mean, thanks – you ‘ave saved my life. I could’ve ended up in Old Street! Maybe I buy you a coffee to say ‘thank you’? I am Gabriele.” Cue a montage of us laughing and walking in the park, hands interlocked, then lying in a bubble bath in a clawfoot tub, then having passionate – yet tender and incredibly photogenic – sex, then feeding each other strudel. There we are, moving into our first flat, here he is cooking us something lovely while I clack out a masterpiece at my typewriter. And then finally, the pair of us emerging from Hackney Town Hall beaming, bouquet dangling at my side, a red rose in my hair and a matching one in his lapel…

What?

Don’t look at me like that. I don’t make the rules of rom-com montages. They just are.

But like the repressed Brit that I am, I crossed the road and he stayed at the bus stop. Once on the other side I – very uncoolly – looked back, to find him still looking at me, smiling (which, honesty compels me to say, would have been creepy from an older, less attractive and threatening man) and allowed myself another mental high five. It was all I could do not to do a little skip but I carried on walking into the library. But the encounter made me think.

Only a few weeks ago, I’d had a conversation with a friend freshly returned from a year in America. She’d described an encounter on the subway in New York, where she bent down to pick up her keys from the carriage floor and on the return accidentally backed into the guy the next seat over. Her flustered ‘sorry!” was met with a smile and “Hey, no problem. You can drop your keys any time.” Once again, I must stress that this was only un-creepy because he was age-appropriate, not un-cute and definitely non-threatening. My friend said it made her laugh. They started a conversation, he made jokes (one of which was “Would you like me to drop my keys?”), she reciprocated, things were cool. He got off a few stops later and my friend got a few knowing smiles and smirks off her co-passengers. No biggie. She followed up her NY travel story with a similar one on the Victoria Line in London. Same scenario – she dropped something, accidentally ended up in the lap of a stranger, apologised. In her words, “he looked like I’d just asked him to give me a lapdance.”

In summary, she said something that really stayed with me: “For flirting to work, both players need to be playing.” It is so simple, and so true.

Safe to say, the London ‘players’ had not been ‘playing’. What is that? Of course, there is the matter of individualism. Not everyone, regardless of nationality, can turn a potentially embarrassing stranger incident into a conversation that lasts from Finsbury Park to Oxford Circus. But I daresay the framework in which such an encounter would occur and end in a chat and a date does not exist in Britain.

When I was 19, I lived and worked in California for a few months. In that time I was asked out no less than three times [a couple of disclaimers - a) I was 19, and probably at my loveliest and b) it was summer and inhibitions were lowered]. One of the men was crazy, sure, but the other two seemed like normal, perfectly nice human men. One got chatting to me in front of the non-alcoholic beer section (oh, America) in Safeway, the other on the street in San Francisco. It took some adjusting to – I’m a Brit with Nigerian roots. You can’t just be all up in a person’s face if they don’t know you, at least a little. No doubt my accent played its part (oh, America) but the underlying feeling was that it is not completely out of place to walk up to a stranger, strike up conversation, and then ask if they “wanna go for a drink or something?”. The movies had prepared me somewhat, but it still blew my mind. The players were playing. That’s heady stuff. And it is something we just don’t do here. It is not in our national DNA, and I doubt it ever will be. I am reminded of something I heard on the radio from an Italian being interviewed about life in England. He said: “I could never be English even if I tried. I think it’s the sun.” True words, Giorgio.

So. ‘Gabriele’, my hot Frenchman. Sorry if I appeared to act like a skittish horse. You must understand it was nothing personal. I’m just British and timid. But come back to Hackney and ask me what bus to get. I will give you the information you need. We can make the rom-com montage a reality. The player’s ready to play.

We begin this week with a treat. TFP was watching The Ghosts of Girlfriends Past on telly at the weekend, yeah? And following a scene in which he danced beautifully, tweeted thusly: “Daniel Sunjata. *bites fist*” Inelegant? Perhaps. But imagine TFP‘s delighted surprise when HE ONLY BLOODY REPLIED. Look, it wasn’t the pillow talk TFP is accustomed to, but you know what? It’ll do. In summary: a) Daniel Sunjata tweeted TFP (ner-ner-ner-ner) and b) he clearly took the time to read the bio before responding. That’s classy. And hot. [PS: he was fab as Bailey's bit of man-toast in Grey's Anatomy, and is set to play Ranger in the new Stephanie Plum movie]

Next, we move onto a crush TFP has harboured for many a year. It’s musician Kano (Kane Robinson to his Ma). TFP doesn’t know what it is, but he he makes everything feel all Year 11-ish all over again. But in a good way (not acne-spotted, gauche and desperate for friends. Ahem.) Kano is relevant to the interests of both Year 11-era and present day TFP. Witness the fitness:

TFP learned to love Bond early in life (FYI the correct order is: Connery, Dalton, Craig, Brosnan, Moore, *spits on Lazenby*). So you can imagine the news of the new Bond movie was met with swotting up – James Bond would be TFP‘s Mastermind subject – and a fair amount of excitement. Some was reserved for the casting of Naomie Harris – ANOTHER BLACK CHICK, WOO – but most of it was for the return of Daniel Craig, a man who makes TFP grateful for gyms, muscles, smashed up faces and crinkly eyes. Nnngh.

Finally this week, a little something to really start your weekend right. It’s Tom Hardy, who is just lovely. Sometimes, that’s really all you need:

I’m offski. Play safe with your fireworks, drink the mulled wine responsibly, and be nice to people. Have a great weekend, pervs!

This week was epic for all the wrong reasons – work reached tortuous lows, which resulted in TFP falling face first into soothing cheesecake aka ‘eating my feelings’. Before we get bogged down in the vice that is emotional eating, let’s all just agree it’s sometimes necessary before life can go on. We cool? Cool. So how’s tricks with you all? Good? Good. How about we upgrade that shiz to ‘better-with-a-certainty-of-hot-dudes”? You like that? Then let’s go – join me on the voyage of hotness that is The Friday Pretty!

We start the week with a little comfort-perving. Paul Rudd: forever gorgeous (is he part-black? This man just won’t crack!), reassuringly hot but accessible, uber-funny. What’s not to love on a cold October day? Here he is, all adorbs:

Now that we’re all feeling loose and relaxed, we’ll follow up a bit of Rudd with a Joe Manganiello chaser. TFP wants to get all up in Joe’s space. I mean, have you seen his neck? In the words of the great Melissa McCarthy (so good in Bridesmaids), “I would climb that like a tree.” TFP feels you, girl. His is the neck that launched a thousand ships*. (*pants)

TFP has long had a soft spot for Scott Foley – probably down to an adolescence spent watching Felicity (also Dawson’s Creek – the 90s really were a golden era for angsty teen dramas). Now he’s in Grey’s Anatomy, being all cute and sincere – it’s what he does best – and making TFP fall in love all over again. Also, his middle name is Kellerman – just like the resort in Dirty Dancing. Oh, Americans – you sure are funny:

So hot, the man behind him's thinking, "I would, you know..."

Let’s just admit you’d punch a kitten in the face for some alone time with Jason George, and we can all move on. TFP doesn’t blame you – he’s the biggest reason it carried on watching the often very bad sitcom Eve (no judgement, please – it was equally charming in its crapness). No matter, Jason’s moved on to the big time; romancing Dr Miranda Bailey in Grey’s Anatomy (I’m recently re-obsessed with this show, soz). TFP would happily lie on his gurney and count backwards from ten (this makes no damn sense, but).

We end this week’s edition with a bit of Adam Pally. Why? 1) His name’s Pally! He will literally be friendly. 2) He has the twinkliest eyes of all time. 3) He’s currently starring in Happy Endings, another one of those shows hoping to be the new Friends (it isn’t, but it doesn’t make TFP want to stab its eyes out either – A WINNER!) 4) He has such lovely curly hair. It makes TFP idly wonder what our subsequent kids would look like (answer: adorable). Here he is:

That’s yer lot. Now get off my lawn!

For the month of October, my friend @RubyA_79 and I are running a small side project called Alternative Black History Month Facts. It’s a Tumblr blog, and we’d appreciate it if you followed us on there.

Black History Month trainers, y'all.

Some of you who follow on Twitter will already be aware of the blog, as well as the fact that it was inspired by the American blog Little Known Black History Facts, written and run by Brokey McPoverty (she’s hilarious).

Anyway, we hope it raises a gentle giggle for you all. So tell your friends. And every last one of your wotless roadman cousins too. Ta.

Hope you’re all doing swell. It’s been one of those weeks around these parts – mass production of snot, nosebleeds, aches, pains, a stupidly busy week at work and still no sign of John Cho to whisk TFP away for a leisurely mini-break in Barcelona. Dude, what’s the hold-up? In any case, TFP wasn’t going to let a little thing like phlegm get in the way of perving, so here, for your delectation, is a gallery of hot dudes to gawp at. Cheques and baked goods of gratitude to the usual address, please. Ta.

We start off the week with Gabriel Macht, who TFP has had its Sauron-esque eye on for quite a while. What’s not to like – the lovely deep voice? The rakish set to his jaw? The Minstrel (the chocolate, not the medieval entertainer) eyes? Or the neat, even teeth lovingly sculpted by an American orthodontist (probably)? He also wears a suit well, in appropriately enough, Suits – his latest TV project. Yum:

Moving swiftly on and alighting at the next stop on the Magical Pervy Tour, we chance upon the loveliness of Jesse Williams, who is Dr Jackson Avery on Grey’s Anatomy. Hey, remember when Grey’s was like, a really big deal? Well, Jesse’s doing everything in his power to get the show back to those dizzying heights. More grease to your elbow, Jesse! He reminds TFP of an intense cat (it’s the eyes), only you know, human. Also, really hot:

It was a big week for TFP and Ryan Gosling – it basically got to wax lyrical about its favourite crush in a national newspaper (by the way, TFP doesn’t appreciate all the bandwagon-jumping these days; it was on the Gosling team back in the Young Hercules days – ahem). TFP also managed two trips to the cinema to see The Gos in action and coined a new word to describe the mix of emotions upon watching Drive: terroused. It’s a portmanteau of ‘terrified’ and ‘aroused’. You’re welcome:

Finally this week, a chap TFP‘s been neglecting lately. The guilt was largely triggered by this, and so I’m rectifying the oversight sharpish. TFP loves you, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, and can’t wait to see your cancer comedy when it comes out. You’ll always be the long-haired kid in Third Rock From The Sun to TFP and TFP bloody loved that show and that kid. Let’s not leave it so long next time, ‘k? Love you, mean it, boo.

Alright, you whippersnappers, get off my lawn. See you next week!