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DUGANAFI GAENANA FALAEH with Femi Peters Jr. (Chelsea)
Thursday, 06 January 2011 14:37
In this edition of Duganafi Gaenana Falaeh, Mr. Peters talks of weird loyalty in football,
‘Jafaican,’ lauds TFL bus drivers, unashamedly lying to the law, new year, same old habit for a feline, ‘gay’ language from a football manager and a government minister, gives Sir Elton John a pass and...Hahatai.Sleeping with the enemy
I’m not big on movies; I’ve only seen the inside of a cinema twice in eight years. Give me a crime fiction thriller novel any day. That said, I did enjoy that Julia Roberts flick Sleeping with the Enemy she did years back. I wouldn’t be surprised if the script was written by James Patterson.
I’m a loyal Chelsea fan, everyone who knows me know this. I’m not just a fan but an official one meaning my contact details are at SW6.My dream job, if you must know, is to edit the Chelsea FC magazine. Still, the length other fans of other clubs go to show their loyalty is, to say the least, head spinning.
I met an Everton fan who won’t talk to his father in law as he supports Liverpool. He proudly peels up his sleeves to reveal his club crest tattooed on his arms.
Would he sleep with a non Everton fan, I asked and he looked at me like I had just grown a third eye on my fore head.
‘No’, he said albeit too sharply. ‘Real Evertonians go out with real Evertonians.’
Whatever that meant.
I use to go out with an Arsenal fan that has an ‘Arsenal fan lives here’ plague nailed on her front door. Thus, anytime I cross that door, I know I’m in enemy territory. Because of our different loyalties, we agreed not to discuss football when our teams are playing. Once, we were at her mother’s watching Chelsea take on Arsenal. It was heading for a draw till tormentor-in –chief Didier Drogba poked one in. There was I, in my Chelsea top surrounded by grim-faced Arsenal fans. Any jubilation from me could have resulted in a serious beating so I swallowed my glee and acted normal.
I went out with a demented Manchester United fan that, weeks into the relationship, made it clear any off springs we have would have to bear United-related names. Was I aghast! I’m chuffed to bits that we didn’t last the distance as that saved me from filling out Eric Cantona Peters on my would be son’s birth certificate.
My current partner has no club loyalty thus will never know how a missed penalty, a miscued sitter can broke one’s heart years on. That Terry penalty miss in Moscow still hurts. That Kanu hat trick in 1999 still rankles.
What no football fan understands is, after a loss, to be told ‘it is only football.’ In 2007, Chelsea lost to Liverpool in the Champions League semi final and I ignored all calls on my mobile all night and well into the next day. When my partner could finally get me and learnt why I blanked her calls, she made the mistake of stating it was only football. I think I spent close to ten minutes giving her a terse lecture on ‘what not to say about football.’
At least I’ve not let my club affiliation determines who I go out with. I will leave that with real Evertonians.
Street talk
A couple of columns ago, I discussed Gamblish. Today, I’m going to dilate on ‘Jafaican,’ which is short for Jamaica African, the language spoken by the youths of London. Like Gamblish, it involves twisting certain English words to mean something entirely different.
Evening Standard columnist Lindsay Johns did a spread on the topic and it made for a thought provoking, eye opening read.
He wrote how young Londoners would be speaking Jafaican among their parents or teachers who won’t have a clue what is being
spoken.Something I could relate to.
‘When dealing with adults or public life, slang is not acceptable and shouldn’t be encouraged. For those circumstances, we need the Queen’s English,’ Ray Lewis, CEO of Eastside Academy pointed out.
Again, something I could relate to.
During my early days in London, I would be coming from work on the train with my co workers and these guys were speaking a language I couldn’t put a finger to. It had English words, alright, but they were using it in sentences that don’t fit one bit. They would hold a whole conversation in this ‘language’ and all I could was nod and laugh when they do, not knowing a word.
When I got back home, I asked my teenage nephew what ‘sick’ meant, as I remember it was a particular word they used all the time.
‘It meant good,’ he told me, concentrating on his Playstation.
Ah, now I get it. Ronaldinho is a good player and hasn’t done anything repulsive!
I had to learn this new language as it was the only I could join in conversations after work. With my nephew as my tutor, I was bettered in ‘Jafaican.’ It felt good to know what one is saying. It was akin to having my ears unblocked.
But there was a problem. Knowing Jafaican was one thing, knowing who to unleash it to was another. And that’s the part I learnt the hard way. Towards my final year in college, I wrote an ode for one of my lecturers...sprinkled with a bit of Jafaican. It went like this: ‘his name is Mal Reding/ he doesn’t live in Reading/he is sick, he is slick/ he’s lecturer of the week/Mal Reding, Mal Reding!’
He read it and winced and cringed. Yes, he did both.
‘Sick?’ he muttered.
‘Yeah, you know, it means you safe,’ I explained, further slipping away from proper English.
‘Safe?’ my poor lecturer looked like he was asked to make a speech in Greek to save his life.
‘It means you are okay and good,’ I said, wondering why he was turning scarlet.
‘I see,’ he said and walked off. I tell you, I spent weeks thinking he was going to fail me for describing him as sick.
I got a level three in Radio Journalism, which showed he never took to heart my ‘sick’ poem.
Years on, I know who to talk ‘Jafaican to: friends and any young Londoner.
Sometimes, I feel like befuddling my church reverend and say, ‘yo, that sermon was on point. Swear down, it was tight and sick. You went in!’
I think that might be the last day I be a part of the congregation...
TFL drivers are the real deal!
There is no commuting Londoner who has anything good to say about Transport for London. The body thinks nothing of annually hiking to the gods travel prices, running trains that don’t run on time, buses in need of a good wash and whose heaters are on full blast in summer and, oh yeah, refusing to refund my travel time when I lost my Oyster card. TFL are so backwards in coming forwards it would have been hilarious if standing for an hour plus waiting in the feet-numbing cold for a bus when the timetable clearly indicates ‘buses every ten minutes’ is something to cackle at. If I helm the body, I could do a cracking job but Boris Johnson might beg to differ.
I may have time for TFL like I have time for people who think it is okay to talk X Factor with me but I doff my hat to its drivers.
Well, three of them, to be precise.
One called me back when I left my phone on the bus, told me what bus depot to pick it up from and who to ask for.
Touché!
Another let me rode for free when I got on and there was no money on my Oyster card.
Double touché!
Another not only waited whilst I ran up to catch the bus, he pointed out I had dropped my phone. I looked back and sure enough, lying on the pavement, was my phone. The driver waited for me as I dashed back to get it.
Triple touché!
These little gigantic gestures kinder restore one’s faith in humanity.
When a clenched fist passes for a handshake...
Nothing strange in seeing youths the world over (well, those I have seen in Jollof and England) acknowledge each other by touching fists rather than shake hands. I do it all the time, daily in fact. But that’s not what I’m on about here. I’m talking about lying blatantly to the law and getting away with it.
Victory for Joe public!
Let me explain.
There’s a particular pal of mine I always play fight with. That’s how we get our buzz, I guess. One minute we would be having a serious conversation, he would clench a fist and punch me in the belly and I would extend my hand, offering a handshake. With his palm in mine, I would lock and squeeze and watch him squirm and try to tip toe out of his shoes, expletives rolling from his lips.
All in the name of play fight.
The other day, we were out in the street and he was ribbing me about Chelsea’s winless streak. I grabbed his lapel, clenched my left fist and half slanted my upper body so I start the route of my fist to his face from the back of my head.
Anybody who saw us would know we were play fighting as there is no way you bring your face close to your opponent, one hand holding his lapel and the other in Australia for real. I have read enough Jack Reacher thrillers to know that in a real scratch off, you don’t leave yourself open like that. Your opponent would simply head butt your brains out of the back of your head, knee you in the groin and that’s you out for the count.
So there I was, my forehead on that of my pal’s and my left fist high in the sky when I heard, ‘excuse me?’
I turned and standing with his legs slightly apart and thumbs hooked in his belt loops was a policeman!
Now, I can’t tell him we were play fighting as the way he was positioned told me he must have been there long enough to hear me tell my pal he should have packed an extra face when he left his place as, in a minute, he would have to bin the one he is wearing.
I could have made a dash for it and, judging from his pudgy frame, I would have out run him. Then again, flying down the pavement with a police officer in tow in an area I frequent daily is not a good idea.
Thus, I did what most people do when they are in awkward situations-I lied.
‘I was trying to shake his hand!’ I said, unclenching my fist, releasing my pal’s lapel and extending a hand shake which he accepted.
‘See?’ I said with a straight face to the law enforcer, who, with a bemusing smile on his face, walked off, shaking his head.
I was never this relieved before. An ambitious policeman would have put the cuffs on me for fighting in public and I would have a record. Just like that.
Sounds absurd but it looks like a lie is not a bad thing at times. Still, for good measure, I’ve cut off play fighting in public.
You never know where a bored-to-the-back teeth cop would surface from and read you your rights...
New Year, Same old Disney
A column ago, I told how Disney, our house cat, goes for self in all she does. Well, it is a new year and her resolution must be to continue putting her interests first.
I was stretched out on the sofa in the front room reading a Lynda La Plante novel finding time to sip my tea every now and then. Disney was at the far end, pretending to sleep or sleeping.
Anyway, I was just about to turn a page when a loud bang sounded from the garden. I admit I jumped, half spilling my tea. Now a dog would have been on its feet to investigate the source of the noise. Not Disney. The only investigating she does is the cat food in her bowl. In this situation, Disney does what Disney does best: look after her interests first. She bolted from the front room with such lightening speed I was convinced she wasn’t sleeping in the first place at all. That’s the fastest I have ever seen her move.
The cause of the bang? A football kicked over from the garden next door knocked over the barbeque stove.
Not that Disney would know. I found her crouching in the space between the bed and the wall.
Ahem!
There is nothing more hilarious that seemingly straight men talking gay without realising it.
A Liverpool supporting friend of mine lamented there is nothing to be done about the Reds sloppy run but to get behind the manager.
‘If Roy Hodgson takes you all, I doubt he will be still be with us,’ I told him, keeping a blank face. He couldn’t get where I was homing in from but when he did; he had a good laugh about it.
In 2003, after watching Chelsea thrashed Newcastle 5-0 at Stamford Bridge, a Toon fan lamented that had Shearer played, the score line would have been different.
‘I love Shearer,’ he said, as we waited in the queue to get into Fulham Broadway. ‘I would marry him.’
‘Are you telling us your captain is gay?’ Jayne Herring, my Chelsea pal asked innocently and all within earshot laughed.
Vince Cable, the business secretary who is a Lib Dem, stated in an interview that ‘it is exhausting being in bed with the Conservatives.’
Under fire Chelsea manager, Carlo Ancelotti, insisted he has got the support of Roman Abramovich despite a poor slump in form.
‘I swear I have never felt his breath on my back,’ he said.
Ahem to them both.
Go, Sir Elton!
At the age of 63, an age when pipe and slippers beckon, Sir Elton opted to enter fatherhood.
It left me speechless. I was pleased for him one minute and then I got concerned the next. Would Elton live to see Zachary Jackson Levon Furnish-John’s graduation, be around to change nappies, play kick about in the park on a Sunday morning and blah blah blah? I concluded he was nothing but a selfish and callous millionaire who gets what he wants and don’t give a flick of a wrist who gets hurt.
Then I read of Indian farmer Ramajit Raghav who became a father at... 94 year old.
I was stunned.
94 is an age where you forget your own name, have to be wheeled about and ease on yourself like a baby. Not Raghav. The fact that he can engage in adult activieties at that age is utterly remarkable.
What is he on?
He drinks three litres of milk a day, eats half a kilo of almonds and half a kilo ghee (clarified butter) and insists he will look the same a decade from now.
I must say I love his confidence.
If a 94 year old can be a dad, Sir Elton can be a surrogate father at 64.
I may have to try Raghav’s diet so if I live to see his age...
Hahatai...
You have to be versed in Wollof to get this joke. A pal of mine told me how a Sierra Leonean teacher called Mr. Massakoi was a bunch of kids study teacher. These kids, with a wryer sense of humour than mine, would address their teacher as ‘Mr,’ followed by the last three letters of his name...
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Comments
Don't forget some attyre and choff for me
Difficult to say that...must put me teeth back in the glass.
Ummmn....Sir Femi...sounds gooooooood !!!
I bow to your ambition. \
Keep up the talk from home...your insight amazes me.
Enjoy the books.
@Mo: thanks for reading even if u find it teeth aching dull. God bless
He was starved of a fathers love...but went on to become Britains most successful singer song writer amassing millions of pounds. he has always remained in England and has paid all his considerable taxes...thereby contributing significantly to the welfare of the nation...hence he was made a Knight.
Sir Elton..continues to donate millions into the community welfare of Hiv/Aids victims. He was a great friend of Princess Diana...They shared many good deeds for the poor.
He is the worlds most famous "Gay" and has singlehandedly brought some considerable dignity to this lifestyle.
My favourite song...is Sacrfice.
A story of human deceitfullness and its impact on its innocent victim.
The world is full of innocent victims.
Mo...there is more to life than Yahya Jammeh...
I would make Elton the next "queen" of England....and give Femi..an Oscar.
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