conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a description for a story titled The Dirty South about Brixton, Dennis, South with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Twenty-five years after his Jamaican-born parents lived through the terrible Brixton riots, Dennis Huggins is essentially a middle-class English teenager. He lives with his parents; his father is a librarian, and his mother is an office worker, and they want Dennis to become a university professor. But Brixtons street life and the lure of easy money turn Dennis to dealing marijuana with his wild friend, Noel, and bad times seem preordained. the author lived the life he describes in this engaging novel, and his portrait of Brixton captures a community in the throes of change as new immigrant groups and new societal forces create new stresses (e.g., converts to Islam functioning as criminal gangs and running protection and extortion rackets). For American readers, this portrait may be a little jarring; the authors Brixton sounds far more functional than Chicagos South and West Sides or L.A.s South Central. American readers will also have to puzzle out some of the Brixton street slang, but The Dirty South is well worth the effort. --Thomas Gaughan
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: --Thomas Gaughan. He lives with his parents; his father is a librarian, and his mother is an office worker, and they want Dennis to become a university professor. But Brixtons street life and the lure of easy money turn Dennis to dealing marijuana with his wild friend, Noel, and bad times seem preordained. the author lived the life he describes in this engaging novel, and his portrait of Brixton captures a community in the throes of change as new immigrant groups and new societal forces create new stresses (e.g., converts to Islam functioning as criminal gangs and running protection and extortion rackets). For American readers, this portrait may be a little jarring; the authors Brixton sounds far more functional than Chicagos South and West Sides or L.A.s South Central. American readers will also have to puzzle out some of the Brixton street slang, but The Dirty South is well worth the effort.Twenty-five years after his Jamaican-born parents lived through the terrible Brixton riots, Dennis Huggins is essentially a middle-class English teenager.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this story.. End with the sentence ' The Camberwell end of Coldharbour Lane where so-called Muslim gangs cruise and jack any shottas and run protection rackets.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Dirty South
  My name is Dennis Huggins and I was born in 1983. Right now we are, as my granny would say, in the year of our Most High 2006. I'm in Pentonville Prison in North London. They say there are more black men behind bars and in mental institutions than there is in universities in England but I reckon it was a white man who researched that shit.
  The English tutor said I should write my tale and she offered her help. But burn her help, I don't need it. Patronising bitch. 'Cos I am black she didn't think I could write too good, didn't think I had an academic brain. When she finishes her shifts she probably wants to tell her white friends and family how she's helping poor, ghettoised black brothers with their English. Burn her! The only way she can help me is leaving me alone so I can get on with my tale.
  So I'm gonna write an honest account of what's really gone on in my life, the mistakes I've made, chances I had and why I ended up in this grimy place. I just hope that my mother doesn't read it.
  Before all you know-it-all pussies start thinking that this is the story of some young black guy who didn't know his paps and lived in a Brixton ghetto – you're wrong. Yeah, I lived in Brixton, or Bricky as we call it. But in a nice street. Leander Road, just behind Tulse Hill estate. Bricky does have decent streets but with all that fuckery stereotyping and media shit, you well-booted living in Berkshire and wherever wouldn't know that... Actors, bankers, librarians, secretaries, doctors all live in my road. Even gay people or chi chi men as we call them on the road. So I ain't the product of a grimy sink ghetto. Nor the product of a single mother family...
  Sure, Bricky does have its ghettos. Tulse Hill estate where a trailer load of eastern European people and white trash families live. At night you see their whores stepping for trade on Upper Tulse Hill Road. Myatts Fields estate where all the crack houses used to be; fuck knows where they all are now since the Fed clamp-down. Angel Town where every second brother seems to be packed with a gun. Stockwell, where the rude boys show off their guns in the local youth club and Vauxhall where the Portuguese shottas sell the best hash in London while dodging the moves of the chi chi men who prowl and hang around in those ends. The Camberwell end of Coldharbour Lane where so-called Muslim gangs cruise and jack any shottas and run protection rackets.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me four more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The door opened and Akeisha was wearing black leather trousers, black leather jacket and a pair of brown cowboy boots. She was topped off by this cream-coloured Panama-style hat that she tilted at an angle to make it almost cover her left eye. She looked better than any R&B chick on MTV Base, Crystal Palace winning the cup final, and me driving through Palm Beach in a top of the range Mercedes sports.
  God! I felt such a fake. Myrna spoke very well. Even better than my mum when she puts on her proper English voice when she's chatting business on the phone or talking to white people. It'll be cool to see Myrna and Mum trying to out-English each other if they ever meet.
  My nervous tension had left me thirsty as a celeb on a chat show but in these situations I didn't want to be any bother to anybody.
  Those minutes when I was parking my butt on that black leather sofa are probably the most nervous of my life. There I was sitting opposite Myrna who was occasionally glancing and smiling at me. Any bad remark or wrong word here and my promising romance with Akeisha would be fucked like a chav orphan girl on a casting couch. I thought Myrna was expecting me to start a conversation but I couldn't think of anything to say. She seemed too sophisticated for me to deal with and I wondered what she did for a living. After ten minutes of me feeling this strange heat in my head, Akeisha appeared. No-one had looked so wokable since Lisa 'Left Eye' Lopes did her sexy thing in the 'Unpretty' video.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.. End with the sentence ' 'Don't you wanna see the long trains?''.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Davinia looked at me and placed her left hand on my right wrist in an act of reassurance... 'I will, Dennis.'
  At St Pancras train station, a boy was eating a red apple while he was waiting patiently with his grandmother. They both stood outside a shop that was at the base of the stairs leading up to the platforms. Akeisha was buying magazines, drinks and nibbles for her journey and upon her left wrist was her wooden bangle. She stepped out of the shop, struggling to carry the items she had just bought while pulling her cabin case.
  Akeisha didn't answer her mother. Instead she kneeled down to meet Curtis's eyes. He was now six years old. She zipped up his jacket and stroked his cheeks... 'You behave for Granny and Granpa while I'm away for the weekend, OK. Be good for them.'
  Standing again, Akeisha smiled away her mother's glare. 'It's gonna be alright, Mum. Trust me on this. Dennis is a decent guy. It was the environment that shaped him how he was. Now he's out of that environment he can be what he really wants to be.'
  Walking up the stairs with purpose, Akeisha laughed when she noticed Curtis jumping up the steps, trying to keep up. He had left his grandmother still standing at the base. 'Come on, Granny,' he urged. 'Don't you wanna see the long trains?'