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As stories fall through — or better stories flood in — us journo’s have found it wise to hold regular news meetings to keep on top of what gems are going to make it in the paper.
Hoorah! It’s Black History Month. Which also coincides with my one-year anniversary with the paper.
Had I not known what the Turkish flag looked like before I arrived in the country, it would have become abundantly clear within minutes of being there. The red and yellow cloth was flown gaily from every suitable orifice and there were more bronzed statues and busts of Attaturk, the Republic of Turkey’s founding father, than you could shake a kebab stick at.
I take umbrage to the word selfish. The people that know me best, know that calling me selfish mid-argument is like waving a red flag in front of a bull. My main gripe is this: because one party is not getting their way, the other party invariably becomes the self-obsessed egocentric.
Whenever I call my grandmother in the Bahamas I know at the end of the conversation she will tell me how much she loves me.
I ruined summer 1995 when I fell off my bike. After deciding that grazed knees didn’t really warrant a trip home for a kiss and a cuddle from Mum, I was fully prepared to jump back in the saddle. That was until I saw my forefinger hanging limply on my left hand and a rogue tarsal popping out to say hello. I fainted.
I haven’t been feeling very well lately. It started with a thumping heart and a light head. Then dizzy spells preceded by feelings of extreme euphoria. I started taking an unhealthy interest in US politics. I got this unshakeable urge to buy novelty items off the Internet. Pass me my smelling salts — I’ve got Obamamania.
Kids stabbing kids is not sexy but media outlets, politicians and the police could be accused of thinking differently. It makes for great news, great policies and great sound bites. It also makes it easier to gather support for increasing controversial tactics like stop-and-search. But these establishments all fail to provide solutions, real solutions, to ending street violence.
There’s a saying by a wise old man called Confucius who said if you do a job you love, you never have to work a day in your life. Warm words. But I think it’s safe to say he wasn’t a journalist. Or a nurse. Or a teacher. Or a social worker.
As I covered the elections at Alexandra Palace, what I didn’t expect is how much I would actually care, or how passionate I would actually feel about who won this election or about politics in general.
The Beatles versus Elvis. Jedi or Sith. Boxers or briefs. Marmite or not Marmite. Sometimes your only choice is to choose. And in just over a month, Londoners will be divided by the biggest showdown of all: Boris or Ken.
My attempts to pass myself off as a mysterious female sports journalist extraordinaire went down the pan. The game went the same way. It was a depressing performance on both counts.
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