White as a Bone

by Alex J Allen

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I'm not ghetto, or gangsta. At all. I mean, if they ranked the country on that basis alone, I'd come way down the list behind Judy Dench, Simon Amstell and Anne Robinson. In 2005, I heard the expression 'sup homes' on the O.C and decided, against my better judgement, to start using it in a really ironic sense. Unfortunately, I'd actually interpreted the line as 'sup Holmes'. That's right, I actually thought that urban culture was paying homage to a popular, mystery solving, 19th century detective. Somewhere, 12i343938383882999 pages deep on an MSN conversation database somewhere, there's probably a file that exists documenting a conversation where I actually wrote that. There's probably some fat IT technician, doughnut in one hand, copy of Stuff magazine in the other, who watched me write it and laughed. The worst thing, is that I've said it in conversations, too. Sure, nobody could tell, simple phonetics saved me on those occasions, but it still happened! That is the best way I can explain how white I am (in cultural terms, in a physical sense I'm really more of an olivey colour, truth be told).

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And it isn't just that. Sometimes I like to intentionally make myself late for work, and then put Huey Lewis and the News' 'The Power of Love' on on my iPod at full volume to bring a bit of excitement to my walk. In theory, I like the concept of iPods. They let you listen to music you would never normally feel was socially acceptable over a speaker format through the privacy of your headphones. I say 'in theory', because that only really rings true if you stick to the EU listening guidelines. If, like me, you think that the EU listening limit sounds like listening to someone else playing your favourite song next door on their radio and you turn it right up, it's a whole different ball game! I was walking to work, Huey Lewis and the News pounding in both ears, not really aware that anyone who cared enough to listen could hear my song choice making the headphones completely redundant. As I was walking I passed a postman, who, after making out my song choice, shook his head with an expression of sadness and pity. Don't you judge me! Rain, wind or shine, you wear shorts to work!

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I've given up even attempting to dance at any sort of hip hop / r 'n' b night, and narrowed my behaviour down to two basic options. One, stand nonchalantly at the bar with a pint. This creates the facade that I could dance, should I want to. I could have some serious moves, but like martial arts, they are moves I have learnt so I may never need to use them. Two, just stick to a dance move I like to call 'the step from side to side'. It's inoffensive, it's instantly forgettable. It won't win you any plaudits but at least you won't look like a massive twat either. In my particular predicament, that's the best I can really hope for. Of course, under cover of darkness and influence of alcohol, these rules can fall by the wayside. You can end up out of your depth, tagged on Facebook and made a mockery of by your friends. These are just some of the pitfalls of what I call, being white as a bone.