Congratulations Other British Rapper!

As you stand outside the bar smoking, your eyes will scan the crowd for faces, faces you recognize, faces that recognize you. No spark will appear in their eyes, no momentary double take, head twist, stall in mid-stride as they wonder “did I really just…?”, beckoned back momentarily by curiosity, at the same time too concerned that they might be wrong, or worse right, to actually ask.

You won’t mind too much, but it will be a little disappointing. I mean, you didn’t become a famous rapper so you could stand on a street and be totally ignored. But it turns out that if you’re not Dizzee Rascall or one of that ugly guy from The Streets, no one really gives a shit about you. So you’ll stand on the corner and puff and scowl at passers-by, who will, in turn, wonder why you’re dressed like a low-level Russian gangster.

But after about thirty minutes and two and a half cigarettes, something incredible will happen. A young woman will walk by and then call you by your name. Not your birth name: your stage name. She’ll say it right to your face, her own cigarette clutched between forefinger and middle finger, smile forming on her lips.

“Yah, s’me,” you’ll tell her in your best British rapper voice.

“I love your hip hops!” she’ll brogue at you, which is what British and Irish people normally do after meeting a famous rapper. You’ll nod at her, which is the appropriate response from a British rapper to one of his fans who just declared their love for said British rapper.

She’ll start fawning over you, asking you if all of the “birds” (American translation: bitches)in your songs are real, and if you actually get into fights when you sell the drugs, the way you pretend you do in your songs. You’ll tell her that yes, some of the birds are real but no, not all of them, and that mostly while selling drugs you just play Playstation with your Pakistani roommate, who also sells drugs but is considerably better at it than you.

She’ll be captivated by your real hip-hop stories, and by the look of her hands you’ll be looking at an HJ and a half if you play your cards right. You’ll be at half-mast just thinking of her palms (we think that’s the right word there) on your tallywacker (we’re positive that one’s right). But, of course, since you’re a British rapper, shit can’t go right for you.

She won’t have been talking to you for more than five minutes when the guy from The Streets will walk by. He’ll be funny looking, as always, and surrounded by a racially diverse collective of British miscreants. As he moves by her head will just swivel, turning before it even sees him, as if she can feel his presence, even as he glides behind her, silently.

She’ll walk after him, smile on her face, leaving you there, cigarette dangling between your lips. You’ll be incredibly upset for the first five minutes, but after a little spell you’ll realize that this is just the sort of source material you need to become the kind of incredibly successful rapper you’ve always dreamed of being. You’ll pull out your notebook and begin composing your latest British rapper: “Cockblocked by The Ugly Guy From the Streets Outside the Pub Again.” It will be a smash hit.

Congratulations Other British Rapper!