During a particularly bad patch some time ago I was chatting to my oldest friend Arliss Porter. I had known him since taking my A-levels and we were as matched as any man I’ve ever called brother. We thought the same movies were good and hated the same music. Neither of us fitted into the mainstream portrayal of Black Manhood. We liked guitar music, didn’t drink, looked terrible in baggy trousers and made lewd jokes about Nietzche and Descartes.