Of Failed Writers and Failed non-Relationships

Yeah it probably seems far-fetched now. Me, a writer. Too lazy to fix spelling mistakes in my blog entries. With a vocabulary constantly diminishing. Constantly letting MS Word tell me how to form my sentences. Yeah all that and more... but not too long ago -- well 6 years doesn't seem that long ago if you're as old as I feel in all my 24years -- I seriously considered a future of writing.

I was a Business Management/Economics/Accounting/Math student and one of those was gonna be my fallback option if no one liked my writing. I had it all planned out. Short stories to while out the time waiting for the killer script that would make me famous -- at least within my circle of friends. I loved seeing my name in the newspaper on submitting short stories. I'd read George Sydney Abugri's "Letter to Jomo" and think.. "That could be me". Then I moved to the UK. I made myself busy with all things geeky and this is me now.

It's really not all bad though, because a very good friend of mine defines a failed writer as someone that wants to write but find themselves to be better at other things. I would have to adopt that tag since I seem to have done well with my interest in software development. I should order a new set of business cards that say: Faf, Business Analyst/Failed Writer. A bit like Matt Leblanc's character is an out-of-work actor in Friends.

So you dotHeads are asking, "Why this trip down memory lane?" Well how long have you got? Oh, you gotta go? I'll try to tell you in as few words as possible. Over the Bank Holiday period and the few days preceding it, I've been moving out from my place in Wood Green. Yah I know, I probably never mentioned but yeah I moved to Wood Green about 6months ago and now I'm moving head all the way out to the "East Endz".. Dagenham.

In all my disorganisation with moving I found some of my letters from back in school ... soppy love letters and all. From others. I don't do soppy!! Ok maybe I did once or twice but that's not the point. In all that mess, I found the rotting bones of a script that was never finished. My nieces had got their claws on it and inflicted a bit of damage but I didn't want to look too hard at it cos it embarrasses me to read anything older than a year from myself. I would've got a pen out to start correcting things. That and the fear that I probably was good for a 17yo Ghanaian boy and that I wouldn't cut it the grown up world I live in now.

So this is me resigning myself to things. I might not be a bad writer as I fear -- if i tried -- but I have to believe I will be a better at whatever I do in software development. So yeah I will be sticking to the tried and tested unless I win the lottery or better. That said, I'm gonna try to do some writing but will stick to short stories only. If none of them make it on to here, then you know my secret team of proof-readers and approvers have given it a proper thumbs down.

Sorry guys, nothing today on failed non-relationships.

Cheating Politicians, Rooney's Foot and Why I'm Voting BNP

Posts on dotFAF, as the saying goes, are like an onion-laced cake that an ogre-driven bus has run over. I'd cite my references but I'm not sure where it was Confucius or Confused. Anyway, this bus is here, there will be more after it hopefully.

Sorry my English friends but it seems Ghana just got a foot closer to winning the World Cup this summer. Hey, if the English can say they'll win it with not a hint of irony on their faces we can too. Rumour has it that Jermaine Defoe wasn't gonna get picked to go to Germany cos Sven had too many strikers banging in the goals. Another rumor has it (don't ask me who/what/when/where) that Defoe knows a few Nigerians that can go Agbala. So they "tied his foot " and chucked it in the Thames. Somewhere near Embankment.

Cheating Politicians. What else is there to say about it it other than. "Meh!". If Prescott was up for an election, I'd vote for him cos I remember him throwing a sucker punch at some dude that pelted him with eggs. Two Jabs for Two Jags!!

What more do you want from you politicians? A sound environmental policy? Crime busting? Pull out of Iraq? For fuck's sake, the guy only shagged a few secretaries. OK maybe more than his fair share of it but the perfect song comes to mind for all those calling for politician's heads because of something they've done privately. The guy was a fisherman(?) or was it a railway man? Doesn't matter but have you seen the guy? The first few lines of Dr. Dre's "Fuck You" reminds me of him.

"... All dem nights I never had bitches/Now I'm all up in that ass bitches..."

Go on Prezza, you've come of age as a politician! All these ladies knew what they were doing, you didn't think they did you cos you were nice and cuddly did you? It's their payday. Now all you have to do is hold on for a few more weeks and no one will remember what you've done but your wife.

Suddenly there's a brigade of "I'm disillusioned with all the major parties so I'll vote BNP" out there. Tsk! I'm disillusioned with your stupid reasoning so maybe I'll brick your head. How about that? If you're gonna come out as a racist be bold and do it... don't be hiding behind silly reasons like that. Agh!... all this is draining. I'll go an eenie meenie minie mo on the ballot papers on Thursday. So there's still a chance I might vote BNP, but at least my motive would be different. Still wouldn't stop them from shipping my black-ass to Africa if they win anything though.

Choices, choices. Aah the pain!

Making Up On the Central Line

Every Friday. As if by clockwork. She sits across me. Eastbound Central Line. She sits across me. With her pretty face. Nice hair. She sits across from me. She's gorgeous. She looks fresh. She sits across from me. She sits across from me. I steal another glance. I think she saw me.

Damn Farra for making me go for a few drinks at the pub. The Tiger beer is making me wanna say something. Oh no. She's getting out her make-up bag. Not again.

East Acton. My batteries have run out. These huge headphones. OK, i don't have my Metro anymore but I'll pretend the music is still on. This huge headphones. They cost £60. Am I an audiophile or just plain weird. Oh lets settle that some other time. She sits across from me. With her still pretty face. With her makeup bag.

She's got some powder or the other. She doing her cheeks. I'm looking. I wanna say something. But I didn't have enough beer. If I want to tell her she looks perfect. Please stop. Enough. She powdering. She doing her eyes now.
Blue. Grrr.. why? Why God why? Stop. She's still pretty though. My beautiful cygnet. She's changing though.

Splat! Spread, spread. Splat. She's transforming. She's changing. She sits across from me.

White City. The coach is getting quieter. Everyone's saying the same thing. I'm about to go underground, will talk to you later. She's still turning. More makeup. She's doing her lips. Red. I'm an 80's child but I grew up in the 90's. Red lips is not on. She's changing. I don't like her anymore.

This Tiger beer. Maybe next time Farra will say, lets have 2 drinks. Then I will say to my Ugly Duck. Please don't take out the make-up bag. You're pretty as you are. Stop.

Stop. Just sit across from me and be pretty.