Further to childish racism stories..
It's far too complicated to explain why my little brother isn't actually my brother, so let's just say he is. I'm not a big fan of, nor particularly good with kids, but seeing as he only came into my life at the age of five and was a sweet, quiet lad, I was always happy to help out in school holidays etc.

One such instance of helping out involved me taking Brother and another lad out in town to keep them entertained until the parents had finished doing the things they had to do. Callum, the other kid, was the child of a family friend, two years younger than Brother. They'd been somewhat forced into friendship and it was pretty difficult to keep them both sweet at the same time, so in my infinite wisdom I took them to a museum*.

All was going well until Callum spotted a large black woman bending over some sort of exhibit to get a close look. He tugged my skirt, and pointed at her. Expecting some awful, shrill comment about her size or her skin, I tried to distract him and shuffle him along. But no. Callum stood fast. He had seen something, and he was going to comment on it. I couldn't budge him.

(loudly) 'Herrings.'
'Shhh, let's go find Brother.'
'Herrings, that lady...'
(slightly desperate) 'Come on, let's get some sweets.'
(very loudly, whilst I cringe) 'BUT THAT LADY'S GOT THE SAME SHOES AS MY MUM!'

I felt like a right fattist racist bastard after that.


*in my defence, it was the Bradford Museum of Photography Film and Television, which is a bit more down with the yoof.
(herrings, Wed 23 Apr 2008, 1:31, Reply)