Thank you for visiting! If you're new here, you may want to subscribe to this Blog's RSS feed or join the Forum for exclusive articles, updates, stories, news, tips, and useful information for ameteur and professional writers alike.
See you must understand, I can’t work a nine to five, so I’ll be gone ’til November. [Wycliff Jean: 1997]
To the casual observers my wanderings may suggest a terminal dissatisfaction with a place called ‘home’. At the age of twenty-eight, my ambition was to get as far away as possible from any idea of ever living or working in Britain again. I had shown I could not work for ineffective management the day the last boss told me:
“You’re black, articulate, and arrogant. Arrogance from someone black gets up people’s backs more than arrogance from someone white. What you need to do is get…”
At which point she proceeded to pat the air from inches above the ground before continuing: “Or your colleges are gonna see you as a threat.”
I was not sure, if June, like my primary school teacher before her, was making a self-fulfilling prophecy, or telling it as it was. I certainly did not feel I had a problem with the people at work. I was no more arrogant, I felt, than anyone else in the Property Development Department at the height of the “loads-a-money” house price boom. Proud, perhaps, but if my colleges had a problem with me I expected them to speak to me face-to-face. “Or was it a management problem?” I wondered. The company had an Equal Opportunity Policy that most members of staff could not agree on.
“If there was a problem, June, might it not be more to do with being young, black, well paid, well-groomed, well liked by clients and associates, and very good at my job by all accounts?”
June did not see it that way. And although she could deny no part of it, she continued to make life for me a working hell. This sudden “clash of personalities,” as it became known, quickly escalated into a torrent of allegations and counter-allegations. At our pub lunches, my colleges sat feeding me sympathies. During office hours, they smiled through tight lips, afraid for their jobs. There was no fun in mine anymore. I was pushed, so the Workers’ Union said, but I walked out smiling.
That year I received the BBC Radio Drama Young Playwrights’ Festival Award for Hair broadcasted on BBC Radio 4. The following February, I invited all of my ex-colleagues to a self-production of the critically acclaimed stage-play, Boy with Beer. June did not show up on opening night. She had buried another million-pound property mistake behind the office filing cabinets and had moved on to pastures greener. These days, I image her living in Hampstead splendour with one or two kids, a sizeable mortgage, a top job in the private sector, and oppressing the poor husband our talkative receptionist used to call “one weak-looking white man.”
As for me, good writing and early successes have not brought with them any reason to crack open the champagne. America may have Spike Lee, Toni Morrison, Angela Bassett and Danny Glover, to name a few, but the recent success of British films at the box-office has brought with it no significant or corresponding improvement in the profile or fortunes of our black writers, actors and movie makers. In fact, the most popular black presence in British films is still the American actor Paul Robeson.
In Britain, black projects are considered a bad gamble for investors and of “limited appeal” to a domestic TV audience, as well as to cinemagoers in the major movie markets worldwide. For black British filmmakers the current climate of increased funding and production opportunities, has had little, if any, effect. Since the success of Isaac Julien’s Young Soul Rebels first raised hopes at the start of the 1990s, just a handful of films have been made and released in Britain by black British film-makers. Julien has never made another feature film, and currently works in the United States.
Similarly, Oscar-nominated for her role in Secrets and Lies, Marianne Jean-Baptiste has not appeared in a British film since, nor has Adrian Lester been offered a leading British role after staring in the $60 million dollar American film Primary Colours along with John Travolta and Emma Thompson. Like author Caryl Phillips, both actors have decided to base their careers in America.
Talking to Isaac Julien over lunch one afternoon in New York, it was clear to us both that black creative artists in the UK often struggle to reap the benefits of a successful production (be it theatre, film, book, or music). One would expect that the strong international influence of Africa-American and Caribbean popular cultures would offer greater opportunity to market black British creativity to a wider audience. Not so, in an industry where an Irish project can be ‘mainstream’ or ‘universal’ while a similar black project is considered of ‘minority’ interest.
The Fuller Picture, a report co-produced by the Black British Film Bulletin and the British Film Institute, identified a ‘cultural gap’, and called for “The urgent appointment of senior black personnel in commissioning and other funding institutions. At the time of writing, none existed at the British Film Institute, British Screen, at any of the Lottery-funded franchises or at the BBC.” Since commissioning is a highly personal issue and comes down to whether one, likes or can relate to a project, who will champion the work of black talent? Can we really expect one film, play, or book every few years to do everything?
One day just before my thirtieth birthday, I decided to apply for The Carl Foreman Award organised by BAFTA (British Academy of Film and Television Arts). All entrants had to be British, under 30 years old, and submit a full-length screenplay with a completed application form. The winner of the competition received a bursary for six months of study at a leading U.S. Film School specialising in Screenwriting.
I was excited to be called in for an interview in front of some eleven men and the widow of the great American/British director in whose name the award was established. They fired various questions at me, many of which revolved around the subject “How do you feel about representing Britain abroad?”
“Well, I do consider myself British by birth, English by socialisation, and black by the hand of God,” came the reply at one point. They laughed at that. “I don’t foresee a problem. Like anyone of our black sportsmen, I too would be proud to fly the flag for Britain in the United States, or anywhere else for that matter.”
They smiled and nodded then. Two days later I received a call from one of the judges who lived in my neighbourhood:
“We thought we would let you know, Paul, that your script was the best we received, and that you were the best candidate at interview. We have, however, decided to offer the award to someone less capable than yourself. Since we felt that he would benefit more and you would succeed anyway. Please take my telephone number, and if there’s ever anything, I can do for you…”
I thought I must have been dreaming. Then my former Literary Agent at International Creative Management (ICM) rang to confirm the same message. “That’s the worst load of bullshit I’ve ever heard,” he said. I could not agree more.
Shortly after the 1980s property boom turned into the negative equity of 1995, I decided to spend some time living and writing abroad since I was now homeless at home. I dreamt of exploring the centre of the free world using my pen as sword and a notebook computer for a shield. I wrestled with the forces of evil trying to defeat the collective good and was rewarded for my efforts based on merit and ability, and not according to some arbitrary rule of ‘family and friends’ or ‘The Old Boys’ Network.’
For the quiet dreamer in me who sought the sweetness of The Cosby Show family; the support and guidance of a ready-made community; dynamic, intelligent friends and lovers; or access to a creative and economic powerhouse - the USA screamed out “Look no further!” There, on the World Wide Web of my subconscious mind, I could clearly see the message scrolling past in bright fluorescent letters;
“You long to belong in the place where everyone is a ‘foreigner’ and there are virtually no un-Americans.”
Paul Boakye goes in search of an extreme sports fanatic and finds Sébastien Foucan is a guru in the making.
We started in child-play and we never stopped. It became like our culture; a way of life. So we practised our discipline and we called it Parkour.
Call it a discipline, an art, a sport or urban ballet. Name it Parkour, Le Parkour, Free Run, or just PK; many people would call it just plain crazy. It’s hard to tell exactly how wide the edges of the Millennium Bridge might be, but it’s easy to tell how far the river Thames is below, and that the figure flying from one ledge of the bridge to the other is Sébastien Foucan in Channel 4’s documentary, Jump London [2003].
Needless to say, this is an extremely dangerous pastime. Almost every Parkour web site includes a disclaimer such as that found on Foucan’s own homepage:
“You must take responsibility for your health and safety! Parkour is a potentially dangerous sport, which is often seen practised at a very high level by professionals. Don’t take risks - you may be risking your own life.”
However, it seems that Nike and Toyota don’t mind living a little dangerously these days in pursuit of the fruits of their advertising spend. Both companies have featured Foucan and many of his signatures Parkour moves in European television ads. Nevertheless, interest in the sport is growing rapidly. Exact figures are hard to come by since there are currently no leagues, competitions or official associations, but there is already talk of making Parkour an Olympic sport. If the numbers of new web sites is anything to go by, this new Parkour craze could soon make Foucan a very rich man indeed. If he plays his cards right, that is. I wanted to know just what money and fame would mean to the man they call, Mister Parkour, and walked smack-bang into a rift between two old friends, and the ensuing battle between commercialism and spirituality.
“If Parkour becomes an Olympic sport I can’t say it’s bad,” says Foucan, “but for me it’s not my way. This is for other people. My goal is not to make Parkour a competitive sport but to make more and more people understand Parkour like they understand Tai Chi. Tai Chi is not Olympic, but it is a discipline. I’d like everybody to practise this discipline, Parkour, in their own way, at their own level, but competition, with winners and prizes is totally opposite to my goal.”
Born out of childhood play between Foucan and his former friend David Belle, Parkour’s journey from Parisian roots in the suburbs of Lisses to its present status as arguably the most compelling new sport in decades, has not been without its trials and tribulations. After appearing on Channel 2 TV in France, Foucan and Belle formed a group called Yamakazi with people they had inspired along the way. The word, “Yamakazi” comes from the Lingala language, mostly used in Zaire and Congo, and means “strong body, strong spirit, strong man.” It is an equally apt description of Foucan and his ideals for Parkour as a discipline.
Later on, as the media circus came to town, the group split due to personal disagreements and infighting. When the split came, the rest of the group continued and made a film with Luc Besson called Les Samourai des Temps Moderns, telling the fictional tale of a group of Robin Hood types who use their Parkour skills to evade capture, while stealing money to fund the healthcare needs of a child injured copying their Parkour training. In reality, two youngsters actually died copying moves from the film. As Foucan recalls, “With no message, nobody to explain; it was only a movie, kids can be very impressionable. But we are not Spiderman or Superman. This is why it is so important for me to do documentaries like Jump London because we can explain the discipline and tell people not to try this at home. There is more to Parkour than spectacle.”
In practice, there are fewer predefined movements in Parkour than say, gymnastics, martial arts, or other extreme sports. Parkour is about fluid unlimited movement over obstacles, and the ability to improvise is as important as being able to replicate previously practised moves. Despite this, Parkouristes, as they are called, regularly practise many “basic” movements. Foucan cites the importance of good jumping and landing techniques.
Casino Royale - Sebastien Foucan in 007 - 2006
“It’s like anything,” says Foucan. “Once you practise, you develop step-by-step. After you’ve reached a certain level, you can do something bigger, stronger, it’s normal. But it’s more important how you move than scaling great heights.”
For the British public, we first became aware of Parkour on BBC TV’s Rush Hour, featuring David Belle leaping across London’s rooftops from office to home in a bid to catch his favourite TV programme. However, the biggest international surge in interest occurred after the screening of Jump London, in which the charismatic Foucan explained the background to Parkour while we watched in astonishment as he and his team of French “Traceurs” vaulted, somersaulted, and tumbled across the capital using some of the city’s most famous landmarks as their stepping stones.
Isn’t he ever afraid though? “When I was younger, maybe,” he tells me. “When I didn’t know exactly my body, how I feel, I was less connected with me, you know, but now I know me. I know my limitations. If you give me a musical instrument and say, play, it’s impossible for me. But learning something step-by-step, a human being can achieve amazing things.” So does he have other interests outside of Parkour like Buddhism or meditation, I asked.
“Parkour is my meditation. But I also like Asian philosophy and martial art. I like Bruce Lee, Michael Jordan, Mohammed Ali, and Gandhi, and all these people and these things have influenced me. For me, it’s about how you can be efficient without destruction without doing bad things. It’s about doing good things that people can admire and that help them to do better.”
Noble ideals, but what does he think of the growing commercialisation of Parkour and its activities? The opposing camps argue that this growth towards the mainstream will either see Parkour blossom, or result in the death of its true meaning at the hands of corporate exploitation. Wary of the popularisation of their sport, some Parkouristes claim that this will destroy the community feeling they attribute to being part of what separates Parkour from other activities and makes it special. They fear the posers and fashion labels stepping in for a killing. They speak of the nightmare of Parkour becoming like skateboarding. Those involved in the commercialisation of the discipline claim that increased money in a sport is positive and that large companies supply equipment that would otherwise be unavailable, while consumers retain the right not to buy what’s on offer.
With its large teenage appeal and following, you can be sure that the economic pressures which drive brands to seek out new markets will inevitably squeeze more and more profits from Parkour like anything else from football to hip hop. It could also be argued that these activities still retain much of the special appeal for those who love them, but few would seriously claim that these interests and activities are ever left untainted by commercialism.
For many, the imminent release of a Parkour video game from Core Design is the beginning of a frenzy of media exploitation, and indeed, the concept of the game does seem remarkably opposed to the actual principles spirit behind Foucan and Belle’s original ideals. Do they themselves feel exploited?
Sébastien didn’t want to answer that question and I didn’t want to pursue the issue. Does he have an agent then, I asked him. “Yes, he said. Did he have an agent when the game was first presented to him as an idea? “No.” But he’s got an agent now! “Yes.” So what’s it like seeing himself in a video game? “To see my face in a video game as a kid would have been really funny. But now my daughter can play with me when I’m away, and for me, her Daddy, that’s very, very good.”
So what is it about him that makes him so giving, so willing to share his skills and experience with others, I wanted to know. “Because I love this!” was his reply. “When we were children, we were practising Parkour with love, fun, and a good feeling. We organised parties in the forest and each person brings their own food, and we cook with fire, and people play the guitar; it was peaceful. Nobody knows this, but I remember, and this is always in my mind.”
Yes, but is there anything in his growing up, in his family life, in the way they loved as a family, and dealt with each other, that makes him this very special spiritual person who wants to give? Is he the youngest of several children?
“No. I have five brothers and one sister, and me, I am the third. It’s a good question because lots of people all the time ask me about Parkour, Parkour, Parkour - but never about me or my family. My mother and father came to France from Guadeloupe. This is my roots. I have been there twice. I remember the rocks and the waterfalls and feeling like a big cat; a panther or a cheetah.”
“I read a lot of books. I’m interested in many things. I’m an artist, I practise oil painting. I don’t know. I remember when I was very young one day a woman telling me, ‘You have a special sensitivity to teach.’ When I was younger nobody teach me nothing. All the things I know now I learn by myself. You can learn from your mother, your father, your brothers, but the moment you appear out in the real world, real life is like a jungle. With my groups in the past, when we begin to split is when business come; when the media come; when show come; when the spectacle come, and you know, I felt very good before all that and now probably I try to get it back.”
Friend and photographer to the immortals of jazz, Herman Leonard is the daddy of jazz photography. Paul Boakye caught up with a living legend still in pursuit of pleasure.
Born in Allentown, Pennsylvania, March 6th 1923, Herman Leonard was eight years old when he walked into a darkroom and saw naked pictures of his brother’s wife developing in a tray. It was 1931 with no Playboy magazine or anything like that around and the nudity shocked him. Then he said, “wait a minute, if he can do that with a camera, why can’t I?”
He never told his brother what he had seen that day, but he pestered him for a camera and got to borrow an old Box Brownie. He added a roll of film, pointed the thing and went outside. His first ever pictures were of his friends playing baseball in the yard. The next day they were developed and printed and he gave the prints away. All of a sudden he became a very popular young boy indeed. It was this same tactic that Herman used years later to gain unrestricted access to the late greats of jazz.
“I dreamt as a child of being Marco Polo. I wanted to travel all over the world and delve into other cultures and ethnic groups, and all that fascinated me.”
For many people, the photography of Herman Leonard is their first link to jazz culture. Classic portraits of Dexter with a Chesterfield, Duke in Paris, Billie and her dog, Mister, Miles in Malibu, Satchmo in Birdland …These images, in some cases more so than the music, are responsible for our devotion to preserving and protecting the art that musicians of mid 20th Century America created, and Herman was there to report it. It really wasn’t an exploratory thing about different cultures that dragged him into the heart of America’s black jazz scene. You can see it too in Herman’s ‘jazz work’ which came about because he really liked the music. Photography was a way for him to get into the clubs for nothing and get up close to the musicians.
When we think of the Harlem Renaissance, apartheid in South Africa, the great jazz years or the civil rights movement in America, we often notice the coming together of great black and Jewish artists and activists. I asked him what he thought it was that often brings these two groups of people together. “Poverty!” he says, bluntly. “If you’re black you have two strikes against you right away. If you’re Jewish you have a strike and a half against you right away. But minorities, certainly in those days, had a very difficult time in achieving lofty positions in business or anything else. So they went into the arts. It didn’t matter in the arts whether you were black or green, if you could play the instrument.” Except that if you were black, I remind him, you just couldn’t sit at the same table as most of the people who had come to see you play.
“I just hung out. I was just hanging around and shooting pictures of the people I liked. Fortunately, the early work was strictly for myself and not commissioned jobs for magazines or albums. So I had total freedom of expression.”
Indeed, one of the most moving things about Herman Leonard’s photography is that he has never been a mere ‘tourist’ (on the outside looking in) but a participant (describing the inside from the inside) in all that he photographs. This is, I believe, why his photographs resonate with a special intimacy and nobility. In other words, his process directly illustrates the importance (and benefits) of actual participation in the world that we inhabit.
There is a clear and unpretentious symbiotic relationship between Herman and the subjects of his work, hence the viewer can feel the joy, the genius, the power of ‘being there.’ Not to mention his sheer mastery of the technical aspects of the art itself. But I am not objective at all when it comes to Herman’s photography.
“A lot of the pictures I shot in those days were not reproducible in news print; they’re too dark. In a fine quality magazine like Drum, yeah, but we didn’t have any fine quality jazz magazines.”
I ask him why he had spent so much time living outside of America, wasn’t he happy at home. “It’s just the way my life went,” he insists. Hired by Marlon Brando to be his personal photographer in 1954, they travelled to the Far East and on their way back, Herman stopped off in Paris. “France, as opposed to America, was a colonial empire with a certain amount of tolerance of other colours and cultures, so when black musicians came over who were very well known the French were enchanted. They weren’t producing anything of their own in that field, so they were very welcoming.”
Whilst in Paris, Herman also worked in fashion and advertising and served as the European photographer for Playboy magazine. It seemed to me then that the pages of his life have always revolved around his search for personal pleasure, so I asked him this rather sheepishly.
“Sure!” he replies like a bullet. “How about yours?” I gasp for words. “What you’re doing now,” he says, “is something that you get joy, personal pleasure out of, yes? It’s not a question of the money so much as the accomplishment of it and the true satisfaction that you’re devoting your time to something that you consider rewarding and worthwhile. Some others may even agree with you. And that’s all there is: the pursuit of happiness; what the hell! What more is there in life?”
“Regrets? No, life is too short, man. As long as I keep doing and looking and searching and recording and creating, I have no regrets, none.”
What are you up to these days? I ask. “I’m redoing a Bellacq series, if you will. I call him the Toulouse-Lautrec of New Orleans.” Lautrec befriended the prostitutes of Paris and drew and painted them. So, apparently, Bellacq did the very same thing in New Orleans in the 1900s but with a camera. “It keeps my juices flowing. I get all these naked ladies to parade in front of me with a camera in my hand, but that’s about all I can do.”
None of the women photographed for this project are prostitutes; “It’s not a series of ‘hooker photos’ at all,” he tells me. When you look at the images you don’t doubt it. You certainly don’t think ‘hooker,’ you think what a beautiful woman set against these untouched 200 year homes in New Orleans.
And do these women, these mothers and daughters and secretaries from your ‘Bellacq project’ know that you’re about to make them immortal? I ask, finally.
TYRONE HUNTER was always effeminate. His father died early and his mother, Irene, and two sisters, Kate and Joanne, gave him dolls to play with as a child. Soon he was fixing hair, applying makeup and being the belle of the ball at the slightest opportunity.
He fell in love with Bette Davis early, then Marilyn Monroe, Judy Garland and Diana Ross, but these days he rather favoured the black drag queen Ru Paul. At sixteen, he dropped out of school, started growing his hair, and changed his name to Tyra. Continue reading →
At twelve my best friend was a boy named David who lived across the road from us. He and I walked to school together, both worshipped Arsenal Football Club, went berry picking with his dad in summer, slept in each other’s house at weekends or pitched a tent in the back yard just for fun in stormy weather.
One day he became ‘an accidental Skinhead’ when the barber gave him a lopsided haircut. I didn’t laugh like the others when his white mate, Steve, said he looked like “a fucking plucked chicken.” David went back next day and had his head shaved. He never spoke to me again after Steve had his hair cropped too, although I lived on the same road in the same house and went to the same school for four more years. He developed Skinhead associations in steel-toed boots and drainpipe denims.
This was the normal pattern of racial division in South London, as we moved from the primary school innocence of multi-racial friendships, into a comprehensive education system reflecting the myriad concerns of a racist adult world. Consequently, the black boys tended to band together, as did the white lads, and the few Asians. There was a safety in numbers we felt.
Our particular band of boys shared the same interest in music and in the white girls who showed us favour. We also shared our teachers’ over-enthusiastic push for us to take up track and field sports. We suffered their “limited expectations” of our potential educational and vocational achievements. A point underlined by the over-representation of black students in the low ability “C” and “D” band classes. Of the approximately 160 black first year students at our school (40%), there were only three in “A” band classes (0.75%). At the start of term there had been just two.
My Primary School teacher had developed a notion that I was “educationally subnormal” (ESN) and in need of remedial classes (Special Ed.) The term “ESN” was then a popular label given to black children, particularly boys and those who were new to British schools. As low expectations lead to low achievements, this “self-fulfilling prophecy” may well have become fact had it not been for my mother’s tenacity, regular elocution lessons, and private one-to-one tuition from a band of strict Catholic nuns. Three weeks into school, and I am moved from the “C” to the “B” to the “A” band. One year later and a black girl joins our ranks. We are now four black pupils out of 90 “A” band students in our age group (4.4%).
We saw Hyacinth in classes only, but Marsid, Steven, and I, hung out both during and after school. Since Steven’s mum would not let him roam too far from “Snobs Ville†where they lived, more often than not, we traded him for Andrew, the school’s champion sportsman and a “B” band student. Times had changed. It was 1979 and Margaret Thatcher had just become Britain’s first woman prime minister. We were now turning sixteen, gaining in confidence, and approaching manhood. Like the new prime minister, we too wanted to explore new territory, to experience things our parents had never dared consider. We were black but we were born here. There was nothing we felt we could not do in our own country. Then as the pulse of black “disco” and “dance” music began to permeate the club scene of Britain’s major cities, we found in its rhythm our raison d’être.
Zoom-Zooms nightclub was nowhere near where we lived. We had each travelled our various miles to get there, but since they played the best Jazz-Funk in a ten-mile radius of Lewisham Town Centre on a Monday night, all the “dance freaks” came out this way to party. We three knew that if we were lucky, we would get the last night-bus outside the club and straight to the safety of multi-racial Lewisham where we could bus, taxi or walk it home. We kissed our white girls goodnight, but Lady-luck it seemed was not on our side. We had to wait for a bus on a dark street in Eltham.
If you were black, sixteen, and travelling across London in 1979, you quickly learnt to sense where your face was not wanted. Eltham was such a place. It is today one of the few parts of South London where the traditional “British Bulldog Spirit” can still be seen in all its ferocity. Most black South Londoners “won’t set foot there”, but we did not know that then. So when the skinhead tapped me on the shoulder from behind, and I turned to face him, he broke my nose. His seven friends charged, howling, “Niggers! Get em!” We ran. We were in danger, outnumbered, they were swinging metal chains, and we ran. Even when we flagged a police car, and thought it would stop to protect us, we kept on running. Then while the officers inside gave us the finger sign for “Up-Yours!” we turned a corner and banged on a door.
A frail, frightened, woman cracked a peek from behind curtains and glass. Her fear was no match for our insistence. She grudgingly allowed us to call the police. She then made us wait outside, so as not to have my blood soak the red of her blood-red carpet. The police came too late, if they came at all, and that winter’s night changed all our lives for good. We never went back to Zoom-Zooms. I was never again in Eltham. Within weeks of the attack our little band of boys had dispersed with each member attaching himself to a different and separate section of the black political spectrum.
Fourteen years later, on the night of April 22, 1993, Stephen Lawrence was stabbed to death by a gang of white youths on the streets of Eltham. He was an 18-year-old student with a very promising future. Everything to live for by all accounts. His death could have happened to any of us. It was patently clear to all that the attack was racially motivated, clear to everyone, except the police. None of the suspects - five well-known local criminals and racists - have ever been convicted. Then again, many of us expected no other outcome. Some have suggested that Stephen should have known better than to get off a bus in Eltham at night. I admit, I knew something Stephen did not know. Something he had yet to learn. For me, the lesson came at a similar bus stop in Eltham that night in 1979. Run! Damn it - run! Except Stephen did not run. Nor could he see that his life was in danger. He was not a boy of the streets.
As for us famous four school friends, Steven went to Oxford University like his mother had always demanded. He is now a top manager in Social Housing. Marsid recently turned forty-three and is Head of Marketing for one of London’s railway companies. Our Andrew turned to the preachings of Rastafari. He now works in Social Services, while me, I’m your friendly Blogger and freelance writer.
With all of Britain caught up in questions of identity following the terrorist bombings of London by British-born Muslims, I’m forced to recall the first time not too long ago that I began to see myself as English. And, yes, I mean ‘English,’ not ‘British,’ as it says in my passport.
I had fallen in love with the dream of returning to Ghana where in the return there would be no loss. Now several years later I was back to fulfil a promise. Funny, the difference a few years can make: Continue reading →
At My Mother's Knee ...
Dear Fatty
The Official "Doctor Who" Annual 2009
Look Who it Is!: My Story
Parky: My Autobiography
.
and 
SAS Survival Guide: How to Survive Anywhere, on Land or at Sea (Collins GEM)
What I Talk About When I Talk About Running
Better Than Sex: My Autobiography
Coming Back to Me: The Autobiography of Marcus Trescothick
Tackling Life
Britain From Above
The Digital Photography Book
The Digital Photography Book Volume 2: The Step-by-Step Secrets for How to Make Your Photos Look Like the Pros!
The Photographer's Eye: Composition and Design for Better Digital Photos
Delia's How to Cheat at Cooking
She Comes First: The Thinking Man's Guide to Pleasuring a Woman
Fabulous Foreplay: The Sex Doctor's Guide to Teasing and Pleasing Your Lover
The Modern Kama Sutra: An Intimate Guide to the Secrets of Erotic Pleasure
The Five Love Languages: How to Express Heartfelt Commitment to Your Mate (Relationships)
Understanding Women: The Definitive Guide to Meeting, Dating and Dumping, If Necessary
Three Cups of Tea
Thirty Days Has September: Cool Ways to Remember Stuff
How Children Learn: From Montessori to Vygotsky - Educational Theories and Approaches Made Easy
Wannabe a Writer?
LeapFrog Explorer Globe
Blood River: A Journey to Africa's Broken Heart
The Good Pub Guide 2009
Make the Most of Your Time on Earth: a Rough Guide to the World: 1000 Ultimate Travel Experiences (Rough Guides Reference Titles)
Stephen Fry in America
Landscape Photographer of the Year: Collection 2 (Photography)
