That’s me doing dead prez’s Hip-Hop at Southern Hospitality’s Hip Hop Karaoke at the Camden Crawl yesterday. Don’t I look happy? The arm belongs to my dear old friend Dipod, who was good enough to hold the words up for me, as I didn’t know them all. I know most of them. Pretty much 92% of stic.man’s verse, anyway. About 60% of M1′s. I wonder why that is? Anyway, I have respolved to learn the whole thing, 100%, so I can do it at parties, cos it is superior swag.
Speaking which, the mighty DJ Rob Pursey dropped Wonton Soup straight after my performance, and it kicked the fuck off. And when the whole thing was over, at the criminally early hour of 6pm, he dropped 4 Lex Luger productions in the space of about 2 and a half minutes, and my GOD if that isn’t the most hardcore workout I have ever come across. Serious. I thought I was gonna have a seisure. Waka Flocka must be fit.
By the way, if you don’t have a clue what I’m on about, Lex Luger is a producer who makes mental apocalyptic beats on Fruity Loops that all sound like the X-Men theme.
He’s so awesome.
About 6 hours later I was getting trolled by some funny posh kid in London Fields, who come over to ask for a cigarette in exchange for an invitation to an “excellent party” he and some of his chums were having upstiars. I didn’t have a cigarette, but worse, I had not watched any television yesterday.
He was all like, “how could you not have watched it? It was the greatest moment in our country’s modern history!”
Oh, I was laughing like a donkey. Haw haw!
“Aren’t you proud?” he cried. “Don’t you care who represents you?”
“Don’t no weird inbred lizard people represent me, brother!” I told him. “I represent me!” He did a very good aghast face. He kept it going for ages.
“He’s your KING! She’s your QUEEN!” he wailed.
Oh how I LOLed. “I have no KING, you funny boy!” I said, through the pain of my aching ribs. “I have no QUEEN! I bow to no man or woman or vegetable! Why would I want to do something crazy like that? I’d put my back out!”
“Dude, he’s so trolling you,” said my new Northern friend, who’d upset the boy already by telling him he’d gone fishing all day yesterday.
“I don’t know what you mean,” the posh boy sniffed, sadly.
“Damn G, you’re gonna tell me you voted Tory next. You’re gonna tell me you read The Times,” I said, through tears of laughter.
“Yes I did! And yes I do read The Times!” he exclaimed, sorrowfully. Then he turned on his heels and stropped off upstairs to his excellent party.
All in all, it was a lovely day.