Looking for Love at a Rick Ross Show

A couple of nights ago I went to see Rick "Rozay" Ross at Proud2 in London. Proud2 is inside the Millennium Dome, which apparently is no longer a "a triumph of confidence over cynicism, boldness over blandness, excellence over mediocrity", as Tony Blair once put it, but rather a kind of shopping center in which the only thing for sale is bland food cynically marketed at a captive audience of people who like mediocre music. After overcoming my initial dissapointment when my friend told me it was Rick Ross we were going to see and not RikRok, the one-time Shaggy collaborator, I began to look forward to the event. I even spent the day leading up to it googling Purple Drank recipes at work and kidding myself that I was "Blowin' Money Fast" because I went for the £3 meal deal at Sainsbury's instead of Tesco's £2.50 alternative. But then a wrench flew into the works; my buddy AJ called me and said that he'd broken up with his girlfriend that afternoon, and he was "a bit emo" about it. Needless to say, a Ricky Ross show wasn't gonna be the best place for a man to cry into his £5 plastic bottle of Stella. Drake, maybe. Rozay, no. He's hardly the most sympathetic of MCs. AJ was also coming straight from work, which meant I was going to be with a (very white) man who'd just broken up with his girlfriend, in a suit, at a hip-hop show. This wasn't going to go well. Or was it? I suddenly remembered that rap concerts are always chock-a-block with beautiful babes, and the ones who aren't even going to the afterparty—let alone the hotel lobby—are probably down to clown, right? All I knew was that if my DVD of the Up in Smoke Tour was anything to go by, we could be in for a hell of a night. Freeway Ricky Ross and his hype men couldn't be the only guys getting some action. So I took a camera along to document my attempts to find my man a new GF.

(Disclaimer: The following photos aren't exactly National Geographic worthy, I have to warn you. They're more Recycle Bin than Guggenheim, but circumstances were tough. Every time I took a photo somebody would turn around and go, "Yo, who's takin' photos?" I tried, I really did, but you can't expect Testino quality from those brave people who smuggle cameras into North Korea. Unless you get a press pass for the DMZ, that is.)

Oh, so you think AJ's a bit overdressed, huh? The main problem, though, was his face. Things just weren't right. I tried to cheer him up by telling him about my idea for this blog, but it was clear that this was a frown which could only be turned upside down by shouting "I'm a boss" with several thousand other people.

"What, you mean the BodyWorld exhibit isn't here anymore? That sucks, I really wanted to see what a 50-foot-tall pancreas looked like." We got there a bit early, so we decided to go look for Mr. Ross in the vicinity. Although we didn't have a AAA pass or a weight of chronic to offer him, I was sure he would be nearby. Being the arch-capitalist and dedicated epicurean that he is, he would no doubt appreciate the shopping facilities and wide restaurant selections that the O2 has to offer.

We figured that if he was going to eat anywhere, it was probably going to be here. Rick Ross seems like one of those guys whose every breakfast looks like a death row last meal. A fan of the kind of American cuisine that can incorporate sweet, savory, red meat, white meat, fish, fruit, syrup, and gravy all on the same plate. In some ways you could say that the American penal system paved the way for Heston Blumenthal, though obviously you have to suppress thoughts like that at the O2 because it's where Plan B and his buds hang out, and there's nothing more magnetic to knives than middle-classness.

Could this be Rozay's ride? I know he's a Maybach loyalist and it looks a little bit snug for a man of his stature, but he's got the cash, and the fact it was parked inside suggested that whoever owned it was pretty ballin'. But we moved on, because no matter how much it wants to be, Formula 1 will never be anything more than some nerds going round in circles really, really fast in an attempt to forget about what massive nerds they are.

After much dilly-dallying we eventually made it to the line, which consisted of girls from the Home Counties, an array of boyfriends who all looked like Rick Ross himself, and three separate and very stringent security checkpoints. Sadly, this part of the evening will go undocumented, as most of the people in line with us were camera shy to say the least. Note to self: guys who wear do-rags in 2012 don't pose for photos.

Lady-wise, inside was a crushing disappointment. I can only assume the girls in line didn't have tickets, or wouldn't give up their gats at the door. There were a few choice honeys dotted about the place, but let's just say they weren't exactly receptive to a man with a camera trying to get them to pose with a depressed man in a suit. I think a lot of people in there thought we were either street style bloggers or narcs.

Outside bars in the UK are usually a bit shitty. They tend to be inhabited by supply teachers enjoying the six-week holiday rather than Paul Van Dyk at Pascha. But this one was alright. A porcelain cheetah is a strong look wherever you put it.

This was pretty swagged out. But without ladies, it's hard not to look like a travelling salesman in a Holiday Inn kicking back with a couple of brews and some Pay-Per-View porn after a hard day on the road. It was time to go back inside.

The upper level was a bad scene. The sheer amount of big guys getting on their tippy toes to take photos with their iPhone's kind of made it feel like the aftermath of some terrible road accident. And the lady situation remained sparse to say the least. There'd probably be more gash at the Jethro Tull reunion tour. It was time to move downstairs.

This photo is hands down the whitest a man has ever looked. More Caucasian than Zach Braff and Conor Oberst playing ukuleles at a wi-fi coffee shop in Oregon. Not since I took my dad to see AFI has a man looked more out of place at a live music event.

An hour late, and after another hour of his weed carriers introducing him and telling all the sexy ladies in the house to make some noise, Freeway Ricky Ross himself hit the stage. This was the best photo I could get of the man, but it was a hell of a show. It sounded like a cross between a Pentecostal Church at Easter and the D-Day scenes in Saving Private Ryan.

I've gotta say, I wasn't sure about this. It's a look more suited to an mid-afternoon set at the Glastonbury Festival than a Dade County Block Party, but maybe it could catch on. Think getting up on your boyfriend's shoulders is only for middle management types in the "Golden Circle"? Think again. The Rick Ross crowd are bringing some of that "Why Does It Always Rain On Me?" singalong steez to rap shows. Expect to see a Cornish flag waving next time Wacka Flocka plays London. But then it was time to go. It was a Monday night and I didn't fancy the inevitable hip-hop Hillsborough situation at Greenwich North station. I split like a Man City fan and left before the end. The audience was now so enraptured by what was happening on stage that a couple of chancers like us had no chance in the presence of greatness. It was like trying to pull when Picasso was in the room. It was endlessly depressing, so we left him to it, and caught the train home to our lonely beds.

Follow Clive on Twitter: @thugclive