THE LENNY BRISCOE II REPORT

                                                                THE FLY EP In an era where so-called beef is being flung about like a food fight in an abattoir, The Fly EP is a (desperately needed) breath of fresh air. Producer Likwid Ice collaborates with Kwadjo Spiri, the MC, for this groundbreaking 5-track opus. If you are a supporter of incoherent “mumble-rap” or rappers shooting off their mouths all the time about popping off imaginary guns or popping non-existent tags or ghost champagne bottles then I suggest you stop reading HERE . I have nothing against them, I just couldn’t resist a dig, you dig? Obviously, there’s a healthy bit of braggadocio on this EP because…well, because it’s a part of hip-hop culture. On the whole though, Spiri delivers intelligent bars in Twi, Pidgin English and Queen’s Engli...

                                                                THE SQUAD Minutes after Sally's chilling statement, the little melee is almost forgotten when we hear a loud business-like screech of car tyres outside. My first thought is “it is the police”. That is when I realise that Farouq had sneaked outside perhaps to have a cigarette or escape due attention. Too late, he’s gone , I think. I rush outside and it’s anything but a squad car that had made that grand appearance. It is a battered banger of a vehicle with blacked out windows that had ground to a halt in front of the joint. Out step a few individuals clad in black hoods and track bottoms. The youngest one of the lot remains behind the wheels and rolls his window down casually. The leader of the out-steppers who looks about 40ish walks purposefully towar...

Now there were a bunch of Turkish lads who frequented the joint – more for the fact that they are semi-pro punters and the bookies was right next door – as opposed to just having a mere healthy love of the beautiful game. So full of life, they are. Yet to say that this group were temperamental will be a grand understatement. Matchday with them was synonymous with drama. For instance, the typical missed sitter by say a Gabriel Agbonlahor or a Jozy Altidore (and thank goodness these "strikers" no longer steal a living in the Premier League) and my Turkish cousins will cuss out the TV shaking their balled fist in fury. You did not have to be a language expert to tell that they were swearing but what was being said, only Lord knows. And from their conduct, I wouldn't be overly shocked if they didn't know what they were saying themselves. Occasionally, a team that they had bet against will score a nice little goal and an innocent glass or bottle had to h...

I like to watch football where I watch football in Longsight, Manchester although I live in a different area.                                                                                                                                                         Maybe it's because there are some ever-presents with genuine tactical nous who drop analysis that could give Andy Gray a run for his money. Hell, sometimes they give a whole me a run for my money like I had any.                                         ...

"Allow me to help you please" I said like a true gentleman (which I am). I scanned her items adroitly before she could utter a word of protest.  It was only when I attempted to pay that she spoke for the first time. She refused my offer but I had earned her trust.  She thanked me and mentioned her name to me. I told her mine. "Today is my birthday", she said completely out of the blue. I was taken aback.  "Today is my birthday too", I said. But she wasn't even slightly taken aback. So I was taken aback again that she wasn't taken aback. But she is an elderly person and elderly people seem to know everything.  I half-expected her to say   "and I know you called in sick at work because they won't give you the day off and there are a truckload of men in your house consuming all your chicken and Pepsi" . But of course she didn't say that.  "How are you celebrating?" "Not doing much really? I'...

                                                       If you thought this is about celebrating birthdays by popping champs in the VIP area, acting a fool to so-called Trap music or whipping and naenae-ing in the club and waking up in the morning next to a blonde-haired stranger with a fat ass, then you can stop reading here . Real OGs don’t do those things. This is about a trip to ASDA. (Real OGs do these things). And the seldom trip to ASDA is usually routine: a quick chat with the conscious security man, CJ. You know the usual topics like life, love, lust, ladies…oh and the merits (and demerits) of being young, sexy Black fathers etc etc bloody etc. Then it’s off to the magazine aisle. This is where I cop a FourFourTwo magazine. But not before I check through the fitness mags with their impossible and unattainable banners like: ...

So what was I to do? The aim has always been to be more Hitchcock than Hitch but there I was being subtly asked to play Cupid. Poor old Jamal who had been single for so long, he had forgotten how long for. “They’re both single” I told him. His spirits lifted. Jamal understood there was no way of either of us knowing who was more likely to be game – Keisha or Ashley? It was a textbook case of trial and error. What was wiser? To zone in and put all eggs in one basket or to spread his tentacles and hope for the best? That was entirely and clean up to him. He went to work. And thus, ladies and gentlemen, commenced email festivals and textual (yes, you read ‘textual’) activity all over the place. Don’t get me wrong though; there was lots of actual work being done as well – you know, dignity of labour, work and happiness, hard work builds a nation and all that crap. KPIs were shooting through the roof. How was Jamal doing? He was getting a variant mix of vaguely encouraging ...