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My names J and i'm a gangster rap-a-hollic.

I'm sorry, i thought I'd got past this.

I know, I know, I'm better then this.

Jiggy beats, gangster classics, a strong desire for a HUGE iced chain that spells my name, with flashing LED's. Cars that move more vertically then horizontally. Gold suits. My own Lime green jewel encrusted yaught called Da LEXICON. Considering the benefits of a cane.

The thing is I'm worse then ever: rhyming sentences, increasingly complicated handshakes, pouring liquor for my homies with hay fever. Calling everyone a combination of BiG/Dawg/playa/starr/G. In ways that don't make sense.

I blame talk of BOOM BOXES, Low riders, and Road Block.

It's easy to slip back into an addiction. It starts with small slides.

First you start wearing your cap at more and more obtuse angles. Then you start ditching the trendy underground rap for something more banging, then you want it more dumb, then you dig out the XXXL t-shirts, play tracks with more gun shots, and more base, more oscillating synths, then, before you know, it you're crip walking in Waitrose to NWA.

Then I dug out one of the first rap albums I owned: 'Bone thugs 'n' Harmony's E1999', produced by NWA's (now deceased) Easy-E, (I had to get my mum to buy it for me) and I looked at the cover.

Now, when I was a kid I used to write rhymes in my white Nike Jordans by the road bridge, wanting to be Krazy Bone.

He's the dude on the far right:

Here's me in Toronto:

Help me.

Before I start wearing my grill.