Go back to Nicaragua!

What can only be described as a fantastical moment took place last week on a Tram in Croydon, South east London.

A woman by the name of Emma West, was sitting on the tram with a child on her knee, hurled racial abuse at a whole carriage of passengers who sat in awe of her, the video which was secretly filmed by a passenger, was later leaked to Youtube and has had over 5.9 million hits on youtube alone.

The tirade was relatively poor in my view; at some point during her expletive-filled rant, she inched very close to using the word nigger but in a fast and rare moment of lucidity, she  managed to change it to Nicargua “go back to niggg…caragua” she said. 

A young black man was about to retaliate but was quickly calmed down by another passenger and was consoled as he was seemingly upset by the abuse the women in question was hurling with fascinating conviction.

The transcript of the rant goes something like this:

“What has this country come to … with loads of black people and a load of f—— Polish,”, “sort out your own countries, don’t come and do mine, Britain is nothing now, Britain is f— all, my Britain is f— all now.”, “You ain’t English… You ain’t English either.”; “you ain’t English either…you’re black”, “go back to fucking niger…argua” …

I was laughing throughout the whole video, I found it utterly shocking and quite ridiculous, I thought about how I would’ve reacted if I were on the same carriage and I came to the conclusion that I would have had to ignore her and not dignify her accusations with an answer, but I also believe that if it wasn’t for the child she used as human shield, she would have been sorted – Kung Fu style, having said that I am glad nobody attacked her and made her the victim. 

Emma West, 34 (West seems to be a popular name for weirdoes – apologies to the normal and respectable Wests) from Addington in Croydon, was arrested on Monday 28^th Nov by the British Police on suspicion of aggravated public order offence.

 I think she was arrested for her own protection as she is rumoured to having received several death threats, turning her into the victim in need of protection. Bravo!

Now my 2 cents:

I have lived in Britain now for a long amount of time, and have never felt an outsider, I never considered myself to be different from any English, French, Black, white or Chinese counterpart, I am an individual, my abilities and attributes are measured by my principles, morals, integrity and intelligence, not by my skin colour, size or nationality. 

Now, being Algerian is a bit of a problematic given in our integration in any society, if we speak specifically about the UK or another predominately white society, we’re always confused by the fact that geographically we’re Africans; politically we’re in categorised as Middle-East, and culturally we’re North African with a strong French influence, sub Saharan Africans recoil at our North-African stance, 

You’re not Africans, you’re Arabs, Arabs say you’re not Arabs you’re Berber, and the Berber say no you’re Arabs not Berber.  We don’t belong to any certain culture, we have our own, we have to embrace our origins, be it African, Mediterranean, French, Arabic or Berber and that’s what makes us Algerian.

So we agree we’re Algerian (I know, a little over simplistic – but you should know I am highly intelligent and came up with solutions to life long anthropological questions).

As an Algerian, you move abroad, and you stand in front of an immigration information sheet 

please tick your ethnic background;

Black: I could be and my best friend is black, honest, I am not racist…

Chinese: NO (but the new & upcoming Algero-Chinese race might need a mention)

Asian NOPE

British white: NOPE

Irish white: NOPE

Other white: YES

Arab: YES

Other (please specify): specify what? that I am an alien?

I personally stand in front of this confused, as an Algerian I could be black and I could be Arab, but I am blond, so I am other white no? No you’re Arab African and a Muslim. 

Jesus was Middle Eastern; don’t believe the movies that give him blue eyes. And a ginger beard, for all you know he could uh uh uh god forbid Brown!

Colour is not a religion or a culture; it’s just skin pigmentation that is biologically attributed to evolution and adaptation of the human being to his environment. Racial classification according to skin colour is the result of racial classification by anthropologists and scientists in what was called scientific racism which was denounced after the end of the Second World War and the Holocaust. 

We are all human beings, we all eat, sleep, pee, have sex (not me – I am a virgin), love and hate

Actually reading back, all of this seems so ridiculous to me, aren’t there more important things to worry ourselves with than skin colour?

Mark Twain (his 176^th B’day today) said: 

Such is the human race; often it seems a pity that Noah... didn't miss the boat.

Watch the horror here 

Dz-Chick…simply Algerian.

The Bag Issue!

To overcome all urges of suicide by paper-cut, or the existential crisis I seem to be suffering, I thought a girly (annoying) post to raise the moral (mine).

Gentlemen I suggest you look away now….

I am going to discuss handbags, yes, you read correctly, Handbags, I want to talk about my damn handbag because I am…..well…it’s worth it! (damn you L’Oréal)

They say once you go designer, you can never go back, and it’s absolutely true, so the ladies out there who are still happy with their H&Ms and Zaras, I advice you never go down the designer path, because you will be experiencing substance abuse issues and within 3 years, you will be staring at your house deposit, sitting in your wardrobe stacked in cotton pouches like some treasure saved for the cold days, as it were!  And one day you will have no job and no money and you can’t sell your bags because you love them so much so you keep them with you and carry them around and that’s how you become the ‘Bag Lady’.

Lousy attempt at raising the moral above, I admit, so I am going to try again…

The content of a lady’s bag says a lot about her personality they say!
Today, my bag is Red, designer naturally (show off, yes but name dropper, NO), has 4 pockets, all full of treasures, content is as follows (gentlemen I told you to stay away):

Perfume, 2 phones (I am well dodgy), makiyage (that’s makeup for you), umbrella, Book, elastic bands, pair of spare (clean) knickers, tangled headphones, lip balm, hand cream, cleanex, purse (also red but not on purpose), 2 sets of keys (I am the janitor), oyster card, work security pass, gloves, ballet pumps (that’s flat shoes for you), a bottle of mineral water and a box of paracetamol (you never know when I'll need to fake a headache), and finally a pen which I stole from work.

So there, what my bag says about me is that I am a girl! Nothing more, nothing less.  Don’t attempt to analyse me through my bag’s contents because it’s not relevant, I am crazy and my bag doesn’t reflect that, I am a control freak and a little OCD, the bag still doesn’t reflect that and neither does this blog, so …I told you so stay away!

So why women carry handbags, across the chests, on their shoulders or their arms, in blue, red or black is not relevant here, of course we know the colour, shape and design say a lot about our personalities, but the real reason for the bag is that it represents our safety net, we carry a little piece of our lives and our homes with us, we feel naked without it and that’s how the bag lady came to exist, she lost everything but could never part from her beloved bag(s).

Dz-Chick….if she were a bag, she’d be a Mulberry Picadilly!

Hormones and demons!

How your day goes, is governed by how you see yourself first in the morning.

If this statement is true, then my days should always be brilliantly productive, fun and easy (because you know I am… well, FIT), but they’re not.

This morning I scared myself, my reflection was something out of “one flew over the cuckoo’s nest”, had bags under my eyes, hair that would put Ozzy Osbourne to shame and generally looked dishevelled like I spent the night in a tumble dryer, so undoubtedly my day was going to be diabolical…it wasn’t.

So I had to rethink the opening statement, it had to do with something more powerful than ones attitude to his reflection in the mirror and everybody knows mirrors lie, so I had to admit to myself that it was none other than the ghastly hormones.
I am feeling increasingly resentful of these hormones that seem to have taken over OUR senses, this substance that determines our moods and urges, our pilosity and the blemishes that seem to sprout so timely before a date or an interview!

I find myself waking up everyday, wondering what my mood is going to be like, in fear, almost worried of the unknown, I have no control over it, lately I had to confess to being a lunatic and that sometimes (a lot) I talk to myself and I sometimes even think I am bordering on weird, I know I am talking for all women out there when I say this, how did we get here?

I remember simpler times when I woke up worrying more about what to wear (still do that) than about my mood, which was consistently chirpy, the times when I was a vivacious girl who was always always smiling, laughing or doing something fun, now I still hold the face with a lot of smiling and laughing but I fear that is just skin deep and that my happy self has been tainted with cynicism, disappointments and fears, so much so that my thoughts have turned morbidly dark.

You exercise, eat chocolate, meditate, detox, play music, think happy thoughts but the endorphin pumped through our system does not seem to be enough to overpower the negativity, only an intravenous of this so called “happy hormone” could work, unless the happy hormone got dumped, turned bitter and is on a vengeful quest! Then we have no hope in hell!

Hormones dictate our lives, attitudes and moods, throughout teenage years, adulthood and then through menopausal years! Where is the upside? You don’t get offered a seat on the train, you can compete in who can grow the best moustache (not me) and you don’t even get to be someone’s girlfriend, wife or mother!

I came to the conclusion that Hormones are in fact demons that inhabit our veins and whisper despicable things into our souls, they are evil but no exorcist can rid your of them and we all saw what became of Emily Rose!

Dz-Chick…morbidly; lovingly; bitterly; chirpily yours!

Movember Mo!

The conspiracy of the year! All these once good looking men walking around London (and other reported cities where the phenomenon has been sighed) sporting moustaches, horrible, Hitler-like, very brave and ugly upper lip hair growth that is not pleasing on the eye or on the girls lips (apparently – I wouldn’t know).

No one is forthcoming with any information as to what the purpose of the sprout is, the perpetrators don’t seem to be phased by it or by the attention (mostly laughter or puzzlement) they’re getting as a result of their facial disfigurement, very confused looks exchanged between the girls around the office but yet no answer as to what happened to the beautiful man who walks by our bank of desks everyday at 10am for his morning coffee, who ill-advised him to personify C. Chaplin! I feel like am walking through an FLN (1) bureau back in Algeria and want to shout! Where are your pot bellies!!
This reminds me of the time when all the girls on facebook wanted to confuse the boys and secretly agreed to announce on their status where they like to put their handbag when they get home, all the girls proceeded to posting the following status which baffled and excited men, who we all know have the maturity of 15 year olds (wink to a certain someone here);
“I like it on the bed” (really?), I like it on the chair” (my favourite), I like it on the radiator” (who does that?), I like it on the floor” (standard)! Yes we’re still talking about the handbag!
Or when we (the Ladiz) all agreed to announce a colour again as our facebook status, just a colour, pink, red, blue etc…men got further confused but it was none other than their bra colour in support for breast cancer research. I am just glad no one asked us to grow a monobrow for a good cause!
Well as it turns out, Movember moustache is an effort to promote men’s health and raise funds for prostate and testicular cancer, men sport the taches and women support their men by donating generously. So I stopped pointing and laughing at my colleagues and offered to sponsor their cause.

Dz-Chick….likes her man (which man?) non-moustachioed!

Movember official website - here

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(1) Front de Liberation National

Dz-chick....four years on!

On the 12th November 2007, I started writing “Dilemmas of a single Algerian girl in London” and four years later I find myself still writing it, same title, same place, same dilemmas, getting actually tired of it and I am sure a few people out there too, thought unlike me, you are not obligated to visit my page, may I suggest cannotstayaway.com – it doesn’t exists? Sure it does, it brings you straight back to dz-chick.com!

Seriously! 4 years! What gives!!! And 3 exclamation points! Wow
I guess a holiday is in order, immediately if not sooner, but you know how it is, coming up to the end of year 2011, so many hard questions

What have I achieved this year?

Did I manage my anger, stress?

Did I do enough to be happy to turn 35? This one is out of line, nobody should be happy to turn 35 and to those who claim they are I say: MYTHO

Did I loose enough weight to fit into that dress I couldn’t afford? the one hanging in the “one day” side of the wardrobe?

Did I come close to meeting someone special? Answer is nope, unless you mean special as in crazy!

Will I make a “new year resolutions” list for 2012? NEVER

Will I look 35? Ask my surgeon in Harley street!

Will I ever meet someone lovely and kind and not totally crazy? I have more chances to meet Budha!

The point is, four years of writing has brought me so much criticism, many fans, many compliments, so many insults and a few admirers, some jealousy with a pinch of nastiness, the marks of a healthy blog I guess. I don’t know how long I am going to continue writing this blog, but if I do branch out, I will make sure to keep you updated.

Happy Birthday “Dilemmas of a single Algerian girl in London”, four already but you don’t look a day over 2.

Dz-Chick ….just like her blog, doesn’t look a day over 25!

Ps: haters: I know it’s hard but please try to contain yourselves! It’s a four year olds' birthday for Gods sake!

Philosophical week!

After an angry, busy, hated, dreaded and awaited end-of Monday, comes Tuesday, if Tuesday was a person, he would be a hypocritical character who has no purpose, a bit like a train station where nobody gets on or off at but your train still stops there, Tuesday doesn't belong to the beginning or to the end of the week, I know you're thinking that sounds like Wednesday, but Wednesday is more of a neutral character, sits in the middle of the week, pacifies between Monday and Thursday, you can't really get angry at Wednesday, he comes across as a nice placid dude, I imagine him holding out his hands, palms facing up and shoulders hunched in a friendly stance that disarms you and you find yourself saying (or maybe it's just me) 'ehhhh Wednesday, you're alllllllriiiighhtt'

Thursday is like a cool chick, everybody loves a Thursday, she wears a skirt above the knee and has a lot of charisma, is playful and inviting, she tells you to “come out to play” and you would often oblige, she is relentless and leaves nothing for poor Friday who thinks he’s everybody’s best friend but in actual fact, he’s the dregs of the week, Thursday has sucked out the energy out of everybody and with “I can’t wait for Friday to be over” spends his day reminding people how cool he is because he’s bringing the weekend, but nobody cares, they’re all hangover and waiting for him to go away, besides Saturday has already stolen his thunder.

Saturday being the star of the show is like an angel, a dark angel. Who knows where he’ll take you or how much money will he suck out of you!

We all love Saturday with his many faces, relaxing, inviting, smiling then teasing and pleasurable…best friend for ever! Until you end up in a cell or in a dark alley with a stranger wondering how you got there or with a £300 bar bill.

Saturday is toxic but he is so superior, we’re star struck and feel obliged to please him and do as he says, he puts pressure on you but nobody ever resents him for it, you're devoted to him, so much so that you eat into Sunday and pretend it’s still Saturday…

Poor old Sunday, Sunday is the old fart, not in the least as fun; reminds people of their obligations and of Monday and Tuesday, like a parent, nurtures your wounds and hangovers, irons your shirts and makes you roast, he glances at the clock a lot, dreading the end, he doesn’t want to go and after a while you don’t want him to go either, you want him to stay until you're fully recovered and the Roast is eaten and digested.

It’s midnight, Sunday is on his way, he warns you of Angry, demanding Monday and says take care see you in seven days, so you curse Sunday because he brings back Monday.

Dz-chick.....in the mood for cool Thursday!