So there I am, returning to the Sydney Jones library with a clear case of Stockholm syndrome after having already spent the entire day there. I went home for dinner, obviously – one great lesson the Italians taught me, there’s always time for a pasta break – but back to the grind I go. I blame my personal tutor, who also happens to be the head of the Italian department and resident slave driver. I’m not even sure I can speak the damn language.
Having belted it out to Adele in the car journey here (and being laughed at by a guy in a Volkswagen Beetle at the traffic lights – really dude? In that car?), I cough as I walk through the wet leaves that gloss the pavement.
It’s a Monday-bloody-evening. Monday-bloody-evenings are for chocolate-bloody-biscuits and David Attenborough (no bloody for David, the lad). Not Sydney-bloody-Jones. And then it hits me.
Literally. Right in the face. A nearby tree launches a three –branched (weeey) on my head and face and manages to entangle itself in my hair. “Arrrgh…shit-what-th-bastard-” is all I can manage I struggle with my leafy foe, he isn’t letting go without a fight (or a clump of my hair). My glasses fall to the floor and i’s game over. I have lost my sight. I flail my arms around in an attempt to disentangle myself but only manage to get smacked in the face. My bag starts slipping from my shoulder – I’m so glad it’s dark and no-one is around – and I feel a sharp scratch against my neck. Good god, I’m going to lose my head to a Horsechestnut!
Finally I break free. My hair is in a sorry state and my dignity lies in tatters at my feet. I locate my glasses and push them back up my nose. I take a deep breath to recover from my near-decapitation and pause for thought. I fumble for my follicles – still intact, but only just.
I’ve had enough, I can’t live like this. Never again will I look at that tree in the same way; never again will I feel safe when the wind blows. My options are few – and I get really bad hat hair. The everyday danger posed by coniferous criminals must be nipped in the bud – Henry VIII styley.
It’s off with the hair.
- Yo, Em-zy Emz, you thinkin’ yo’ fly,
You got mad language skillz, spanish speakin’ ’till you die
I’m hearin’ all that yo’ sayin’, like, my, oh my
Wit’ mah fiddle an’ my folk playin’…
What rhymes with my?
- Hahaha that is the single most wonderful rap I’ve ever imagined.
- We should rap duet.
- Finish my rap, duet buddle.
- In fact, let’s have a duel. Right now.
- C’mon, yo.
- Bitch, please.
- You must have a mental disease.
- Ohhhhhh, yo’ pretty li’l white girl, you talkin’ mighty big,
You sayin’ I got problems, when you rhyming like a pig,
Yo’ skills be drivin’ me to drink, gonna have to take a swig,
Yo’ powers come to nothin’, they depressin’ me to shiy-dt
- Ooooooooh, yo’ be talkin’ like you rule the world, you ain’ nothin’ but a little girl
Yo’ be sayin’ all this punk ass shit but yo’ head iz full of curls’
Like goldilocks in the hood, all the porridge will make yo’ wanna hurl
- You clearly won that one.
- Wh-what, wh-what, what did you say!?
Accusin’ me o’ fairy tales, and dissin my toupee?
We arguin’ so bitter, girl, but I got a hunch
This shit gon’ carry on when I’m-a-buyin’ yo’ lunch
Fairy tales, never fail,
You rippin’ off them kiddy tales that taught us Jill gets hurt
Yo, I cut my hair short, keep yo’ info up to date
‘Cos if yo’ stuff ain’t to the point, you just inspirin’ hate
- BITCHES be doubtin’ my rappin’ skillz?
get yo’ ass ready for some rhymin’ thrillz.
fairy tales or not, yo’ got me doin’ drillz
i’m like a fish on dry land, there ain’t no reason for my gillz
like Charles Darwin,
the speed of my rhymin gettin’ worse is alarmin’
so let’s leave this here before I call out prince charmin’!
- I just got taken for a ride. Damn,
- I.. damn.
- Told you I had an inner black woman.
- By the way, we’re making this a thing. This has become a thing now.
- You don’t get any choice
- You need someone to keep talking english at you when you’re in spain, anyway, or you’ll just forget it all.
- It might as well be in the form of rap.
- That is a very good point. All the Spanish and Italian might push out the English.
- We cannot let that happen.
- Don’t worry. I’ll personally take on that responsibility.
- Because, you know, that’s how language works. Totally.
- All the way. I’m actually going to post that on my blog. Right now. You don’t get a say in this.
…and that’s basically how it went down.
Starring: John Derbyshire and Emily Eccles. The whitest people you will ever meet.