I walk up the same way I do every time only this time it’s different. It’s Friday and as they say, here’s where the weekend begins. I’ve got money in my pocket and my man Rays' inside with a bottle of bub and we’re about to get sloppy wid it. It’s wall-to-wall babes and I’m definitely up for pushing up against some of that poom. Get to the front door, little bouncer throws me a look. White dude, five three, though in his lifts he’s managing to front five seven. Sorry dude you can’t come in, he goes Why’s that? I say, knowing full well the script he’s about to lynch me with. Thinking, I did my ten years of this n*** no-entry-bull**** already. Can’t a black man get a break. Guy looks me up and down. Checks out my Ralph Lauren shirt, Checks out my Cecil Gee jacket. Guys got a dilemma. Can’t tell me I can’t come in coz I’ve got an afro. Can’t tell me I can’t come in coz I’ve got a broad nose. Can’t tell me I can’t come in coz my lips are too thick. Can’t tell me my skins too tanned for the venue. Guy looks down at my legs. Tells me I can’t come in coz I’m wearing…. Wait for it…Baggy jeans. Yeah that’s what I said, your denims toooooo wide, he goes. Come back when you don’t billow so much my brother. Meaning? I say. Staring back into his Terminator eyes, like we both know that this is just another form of ‘West End’ disco bull****. Meaning, I’m thinking: he’s an MTV watching, MnM music buying, basketball lovin’, black sister ******’, blunt smoking, NottingHill Carnival attending, Bob Marley listening, Terminator bouncer, who won’t let me in the club, coz I’m wearing...11 inch width. Levis made ‘em, supermodels promoted ‘em, I bought ‘em, All the stores in Oxford Street-London sell ‘em, all the rich white kids wear ‘em...baggy jeans? I point at the row of white boys standing by the bar. And what? I ask. Are those fellers wearing? There’s a pretty white dude standing there scooping out the horizon, wearing a blue bandana, looking like he’s doing a Calvin Klein ad for ‘Gang Bangers’ cologne. The bouncer looks back at me. Sorry my brother that’s just the way it is. I don’t make the rules I just enforce em’. Well enforce this, I say, holding up my middle finger. Funny, I think. How a pair of jeans on a white dude are just a pair on jeans, but on a black dude those baggy denim 11 inch legs become just another reminder that, however rich and famous my peeps become, short of a revolution, you still won’t find me in da club.