Vive la France

A great friend of mine once said “What you’re crying about this? There are people dying in Bosnia”. I was 17 years old and another friend of mine had allegedly just thrown me down some concrete stairs. Amidst all the blood and booze pouring out of my head, and the bloody hand prints that I spread liberally around, a girl was crying.

I was her first boyfriend. And she was watching me die. I don’t remember the incident. I don’t remember the paramedics. I don’t remember telling half the hospital ward and my mother what I wanted to do to my girlfriend. And I don’t remember how she was while this was all going on. But Anthony does, because he was looking after her. Or at least comparing my drunken fall to the deadly bullets fired in a far away land.

That’s what I love about that boy. He was always prepared to say the most offensive thing in a situation, just for a laugh. He didn’t mind how it reflected on him, as long as it was funny. He would make racist jokes all the time, because he knew that no-one else in England would, even though he hated La Penn and racists in general. That’s why I was so happy when I heard that he was moving here looking for a job. But today he told me that he’s going back to Paris for a fourth interview for a job which he never thought he’d get. It’s sad that he’s leaving, but good luck to the boy.

In honour of his brief life in England, here is a joke he once made up to offend me. “What do you do if you see 5 black guys in Harlem harassing a young girl?” “Throw them a basketball”.