Throughout history, folks have celebrated tossing the Queen out of town. Every July 4th, the United States parties on about getting rid of the Brits. There’s India. Honk Kong. Michael Friisdahl. And, exactly 50 years ago, Jamaica stopped being a colony and birthed a generation of One Love.
But it’s not like it’s been all Eat unda sheet since then. I mean, cook and curry. Whatever. Like all struggles for freedom, things go better with a toke. And no one can say the independent spirit has ever dampened. (Or even "a figet di mango to rhaatid." I definitely can’t say that.)
Take this weekend’s exhibition of Jamaican Olympic fibre. Watching his muscular legs go up and down, up and down, up and down… I was struck by the lightning rod allure of Usain Bolt. The Jamaican sprinter is 6 foot 5 inches of raw man gender, dahrlings. And I bet the Bolt feels alright strapped in medals. Or, in local parlance, giving up his big man ting (which means “grown up business” for all you foul minded readers) in the Queen’s home town.
And while on the Olympic front, what up with soccer? Our girls are feeling anything but alright. Lord knows I’ve been caught holding a ball for longer than 6 seconds, and no one’s ever kicked me out of the game. Hey, Usain! Want to play a round?
