Eminem, the white rap artist taking the world (and the NS Fantasy Politics game) by storm, is, according to a musician friend, just "another white mediocrity stealing from black culture".

I am always quick to defend Elvis, Marshall Mathers and co from the accusation that they are somehow "wiggers" (white niggers). Apart from the the term being as offensive as "Uncle Tom" and showing the same unwillingness to share and blend cultures, I have a personal interest in the debate. I spent most of the Eighties in denial not only that I was middle class (albeit impoverished) and a bit of a swot, but worst of all that I was white.

At 16, I suddenly started saying "innit" and "wicked man", instead of "yes, I know exactly what you mean" and "mmm, it is rather good". Everyone in north-west London seemed to be doing the same. Sacha Baron Cohen, Ali G's creator, grew up nearby; and he would have understood my "posse's" desperate attempts to behave like we came from "de street" rather than "the avenue". On Thursday nights, nice girls called Sarah and Katie clustered outside McDonald's in Golders Green to have shouted conversations in mock Yardie accents.

Like most teen behaviour, a lot of this was simply rebellion, done to annoy my family - especially my grandmother. Dear Nan, she loved stray cats, sent money to campaigns that rescued dancing bears, and considered herself a foot soldier - a heroine, even - of the National Front's "war" on foreigners.

One afternoon in college, as I was looking for my homework, a bundle of Nan's leaflets fell out of my bag on to the floor of the packed refectory. While my friends rushed to help me pick them up, one or two leaflets drifted further afield and were plucked from under chairs by strangers. I stood alone, shaking with shame as the student body were introduced to the dangers of the "yellow peril" and the "Jewish conspiracy". Nan's attempts to brainwash me away from what she termed my "life as blacky man's tucker" were not usually as devious as hiding leaflets in my books. If she had something to say, she came right out and said it. To her, political correctness was the enemy of white free speech and a threat to her way of life.

So, naturally, I was nervous about introducing her to Robert. Gorgeous Robert, polite, kind, funny, six foot two, hazel eyes. And West Indian. I was touched when Nan, lips by now so thin they were invisible, set out her best cups and saucers in the posh back room for the meeting. When the doorbell rang, I nearly passed out with anxiety. Would he be hurt, disgusted, or hateful of her ignorance? As it was, the tea went very well - until after the chocolate rolls, when Nan finally dropped her carefully crafted clanger. In her naicest voice she chimed: "And Robert, what tribe are you from?" Pinter would never dare use such a long pause. I held my breath and looked at the thick pile carpet.

After an age, Robert said moderately, and with just a hint of a smile, "The Battersea tribe, I s'pose, Mrs Riley."

In the Seventies, colour and class were an issue at my mother's home, too. There was Till Death . . . on the telly - every Wednesday, I think it was. Whenever Alf Garnett would refer to "the darkies" and "the coons", our very own Scouse git would remind us: "Alf always gets his come-uppance, girls, and that's what's important, because he and his sort are scum."

With the complexity of race swirling around me, it's not surprising that my first joke, told when I was about nine, was brought on by the appearance of Enoch Powell on TV. My younger sister and I were forced to sit and "witness" what was "going on in our country".

Halfway through the Rivers of Blood speech, my sister asked: "Daddy, is he the one that invented the Scouts?" Before he could explain, I blurted: "No, he's the one that doesn't like the brownies."

I would have been told off for using the term, but everyone was laughing too hard.

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