The stereotype doesn’t match the stereo type

On the London Underground there were two black guys stood not too far away from me, both dressed virtually identically and both with shaved heads.

They weren’t travelling together, yet they had both hit the stereotype perfectly on the head with their choice of attire, hairstyle (or lack of) and the fact they were both sporting red Dr.Dre Beats headphones.

They were both casually bopping their heads to whatever they were listening to.

RnB or Hip Hop probably.

Is that a bit presumptive?

(Well, stereotypes exist for a reason).

We all got off the train and headed for the lift (elevator) to the surface, packed in tighter than a takeaway carton at a buffet.

The headphone twins both adopted the stereotypical swagger of someone with one leg shorter than the other, holding up their jeans with one hand and showing us too much underwear.

Like all lifts (elevators), it was deathly silent as we ascended, despite there being approximately 25 people in there.  It was at this point I realised I could hear music coming from one of our ‘gangstas’.

In the silence I could make out what he was listening to.

Shirley Bassey.

will the fuck

Fantasy Vs. Reality – Part 2

Guys swaggering along with their jeans hanging low, below their asses.  You know the look i’m talking about right?

Fantasy:  Everyone thinks they’re proper ‘gangsta’.  Everyone shows them respec’ cos dey is, like, street blud; you get me?  People feel jealous pride for their urban flava and know that they are not to be messed with.  These are dangerous peoples man, dangerous peoples! (kisses teeth)

Reality:  Everyone thinks they look like a bunch of pricks who desperately need to pull their jeans up.  We can all see their pants, and therefore their asses….which makes them look like a toddler, complete with a full nappy.  Their choices of pants usually leave a lot to be desired.  You recokon you’re ghetto?  Well the Spongebob pants are suggesting otherwise! 

We all laugh at them because they have to walk with wide strides to stop their jeans actually falling down to their skinny, knobbly knees….or they have to walk along holding them up with one hand, which is daft considering they’re already wearing a belt.

And if they ever have to run (for a bus, to cross the road, away from their parole officer), it’s like watchin a penguin in high heels running across a glacier covered in banana skins.

You get me?