Casual smokers

Not content with being unhealthy I am also slowly smoking myself into an early grave.

Unlike some smokers I picked up the habit fairly late and the moment I came to terms with smoking I felt stupid.

Not because smoking is inherently bad for you (or that it makes you a social leper) but because I used to be a preachy non-smoker.

And there is little worse than that...except for a casual smoker.

The transition from non-smoker to lung blackener is gradual process.

Now I am out of the smoking closet, have left the self denial behind and come to terms with it, it is impossible not to look back at myself and cringe.

Like looking back at old photos of yourself with once fashionable clothes or stupid hair there is nothing more embrassing than the phases of being a a smoker.

And it’s all because the phases between becoming an adolescent smoker and an adlt smoker are so annoying.

Fellow smokers, have you noticed that when non-smokers tell you how badly you are killing your lungs, casual smoker remain strangely quiet and never mention the fact that they smoke?

And casual smokers only smoke, or so they claim, socially – when they are having a drink.

But by far the worst is that they hunt in groups. And then they bum your cigarettes – never before has a pack of ten so quickly turned into a pack of two.

Casual smokers have a little smoker inside them struggling, scratching and clawing their way out desperate to blacken their lungs.

Either let the little bastard run free – or have the will be to commit an act of violence him.

Whatever you decide go and buy your own!

Racial profiling

As sure as an Englishman will always acknowledge a fellow Brit abroad, minority groups do much of the same here in the UK.

As a black person I often acknowledge other black people when I see them in public. Usually a nod of the head followed by us both muttering “alright” quietly and then going our separate ways.

It is not just black phenomenon either, I have seen my Asian friends do the same thing. In fact it is not even strictly a racial thing. If I see other Arsenal fans I will nod and mutter at them too.

It works particularly well when you are in a place where you are less likely to find people of the same background. It worked much better when I lived in Preston compared to where I live now in East London.

Some of my friends think it is strange and perhaps even racist. But it’s just a bit of fun… or so I used to think.

It seems that people are racially profiling me to make me do shit for them.

This phenomenon, which I call getting ‘blacked’ (insert your own racial term where appropriate), occurs when people try to use your colour as a flimsy pretext to get you do something for them.

I am always getting ‘blacked’ by the guy who sells The Nation newspaper, I constantly get ‘blacked’ by a tramp I see on Oxford Street and the 1,000 yard is useless against the charity guys who ‘black’ me almost on a daily basis.

And some people actually fall for it. Some guys hand over money and give up time on the basis of it.

Not me though – I’ve decided to walk with my head down from now on.

Of mice and men

As a man I am faced with a common dilemma.

At what point is it acceptable to confront a fellow guy? The issue can be very murky - a number of variables come into play. Is he bigger than me? Has he got hard mates? Will my mates run away if all hell breaks lose?

Then of course there is whether or not you should even raise your hands in anger? My clenched hands are pacifists and rarely strike people.

However, at the weekend my commitment to remaining calm was tested to the limits.

It’s Saturday and I’m in Market Place – great music but aggressive regulars – so the chances of trouble are high..

Needing a drink I fight my way to the bar and ordered four bottles of beer (I’m not flash it was on offer for £10!).

On my way back a guy cheekily asks me if he can have one of my drinks. I laugh and continuing trying to battle my way back to my spot on the dancefloor.

“Give me one of your drinks,” the comedian says. He grabs one of the bottles in my hand and tries to wrench it from my grip.

With my hands full he manages to grasp it and, before I can remonstrate, he’s taken a large swing from the bottle.

Crunch time.

I turn back to fight my case, after all, I’m no mug, I’m a big lad, I can handle myself, this man is taking a liberty.

I spin on my heels.

He’s bigger than I remember.

"The bastards!"

The policeman and I looked into my bedroom.

The contents of the bottom draw had been strewn everywhere - including the emptied cases of a few racy DVDs.

“They took your smut too?” the officer said smiling. I nodded, like every man I thought they were well hidden. “The bastards!” He added laughing.

Rewind five hours and I hadn’t even contemplated that my flat was in the process of being ransacked. The thing about being burgled is that you never think it will happen to you.

So after having a few post-work drinks and picking up some take away on the way home -I did not entertain the belief that I could have been robbed - even after my key got stuck in the door.

After 15 frustrating minutes of standing in my hallway I decided to call a locksmith, who, as it turned out, would also rob me later that night.

The locksmith - who kept reminding me his company was called Goldilocks (like it was the wittiest company known to man) - had spent a full hour trying to open my door when the guys upstairs came in from their night out.

And that was the first time thieves crossed my mind.

“You sure you haven’t been burgled?” one of them said.

“I don’t think so,” I replied. “Wouldn’t my door be open if I had?”

How wrong I turned out to be. Once Mr Goldilocks opened my front door all my possessions - and my housemates possessions were strewn across the floor. I assumed that shelf had collapsed.

But when I saw the hole where the Wii and TV used to be my heard sank.

“That’s £150 please,” Goldilocks muttered refusing to look me in the eye. “Sorry about the burglary.”

After another 90 minutes the police finally turn-up.

Apparently the thieves cam through my housemates window - which they crowed open - and then ran to the front and latched the door.

So now they are enjoying our Wii, TV, computer monitors, cameras, clothes, PSPs and trainers.

Not to mention my collection of films under my socks in the bottom draw.

Meeting Francis O’Keefe

As my ex-girlfriend would no doubt agree, I have a strange habit of attracting weirdos.

Whether I’m on the train, in the supermarket or just walking down the street crazy people seem to be drawn to me like a magnet.

Last weekend I’m back in Luton. It's Sunday and i'm in a pub sitting with my Dad and a friend of the family. A man walks over and asks to sit down.

The man, an old Glaswegian fella, looks harmless enough and settles down with a pint of Guinness.

While I’m looking at a pretty brunette in the corner playing the games machine, the man mistakenly thinks that I’m trying to make eye contact with him.

Just looking at him has sealed my fate. He has made a friend.

The white-haired man stands up and thrusts a hand in my direction. I take it and shake it.

“I have never met a black man,” he slurs.

I start to worry, he's clerly drunk... and by the sound of it he's probably a bit prejudice.

“I have never met a white man, or a green man or a yellow man,” he adds.

Okay, so he’s not racist, just a little drunk. I think about what he says. In it's own way it's profound - if a little cliched.

“I’m Francis O’Keefe – will you walk with me?” At that point I begin to have doubts about his sanity.

“I guess so,” I reply. I wish I could move seats because I want to laugh – and if you laugh at a wild-eyed drunk.

“I believe in two things,” Francis continues. “Love and care. Will you walk with me brother because If not you can just fuck off.”

I look over at my Dad and he’s laughing… I drink the rest of my drink swiftly signalling that I think it’s time to go.

As I get up to leave Francis stops me. And thrusts his hand out again…

“I’m Francis, I have never met a black man,” he says again.

He clearly has no recogniton of the converstaion we have had little more than five minutes ago.

I have to get out or I'll burst. Laughing into my hand I quickly put me coat on - as I leave, Francis waves warmly.

As the pub door swings closed I have another quick look in at my new friend.

He’s ambling towards the games machine with his hand thrust out in front of him.

Beggars and choosers

There’s an old saying – which I think is British – that perfectly sums up our collective attitude to gratitude…beggars can’t be choosers.

Personally, I think it’s pretty apt. If you’re in need all donations should be gratefully received but apparently not everyone shares my views.

I found this out to my peril on Friday night. I’m out in Soho with my housemate, my colleagues and some of their buddies and we’re standing outside a pub.

The weekend’s finally come out of hiding and we’re in high spirits; smoking and drinking and laughing.

And then, out of the corner of my eye, I see a homeless woman ambling towards us.

I immediately begin to look solemn (for some reason I think it’s disrespectful to look too happy in front of the destitute) and begin rooting around my pocket for loose change.

I always try and give money to the homeless – not because I’m charity minded but because I believe in Karma – but being on the breadline myself there is only so much I can give.

So the homeless woman, seeing that I’m feeling charitable, come and stands next to our group with an old coffee cup in her hand and extends it in my direction.

My hand is in my pocket looking for a suitable donation, and the first coin my hand settles on is a five pence piece.

I smile at the homeless lard, feeling the warm glow that only comes form helping your fellow man, and place the coin in the cup.

She smile back....until she looks down and notices the denomination of the coin I’ve handed over.

Angrily, and with a look of utter disdain on her face, she empties the cup in my hand - which only had my shiny coin in it in the first place - and rages off.

I look at my drinking buddies no utterly bemused and they look back barely containing their amusement.

I guess beggars can be choosers.

PDA (Public Displays of Affection)

Being single – and I’m sure other singletons agree – that there is nothing worse than PDA.

Don’t get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with holding hands on the street. A cuddle in the park is also fine in my books. Even kissing on the tube is alright.

But dry humping near Oxford Circus station at rush hour is enough to make anyone feel queasy.

I’m leaving work with my colleague and as we round the corner to the tube station the resident homeless fella (which I have nicknamed Rufus – I don’t know why…he kind of looks like a Rufus) is leaning against the wall opposite.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see that his hips are thrusting but as he’s usually drunk at this time I just blame on Stella.

But on closer inspection his girlfriend (who I call Jane. Don’t ask) has her legs wrapped his waist and is enthusiastically bucking up against him.

All this at 5.30pm on a weekday – what’s more no-else seems to mind, or perhaps care, as they continue their daily dash out of the City.

My colleague, who was also been looking on chuckles and says “Jealous?”

I don’t even dignify it with a response.