Saturday August 26th: This comes to you from the heart of West London, in the wee hours before the Notting Hilll Carnival starts. The bottle of Negrita Rum my youngest sister brought me in Spanish duty free (Cheers!) is still covered in freezer frost and pouring all too well. Tomorrow sees the start of the biggest street party in Europe. For two days it doesn't matter whose in the country or whose in charge. Humanity will push it's way around an ever shrinking route, propelled by shuddering bass, under the unblinking gaze of police; on foot, on horseback, in cars, in vans and in helicopters. A celebration of cultural freedom monitored by the Auld Empire's Finest.
Walking through Portobello Market on the way to an off licence, I took a trip down Memory Lane. 1995, slam-dancing to Protect Ya Neck as the aroma of CS gas lingered over the crowd, while Tim Westwood screamed something everyone was too hype to understand into the mic. Good times. Sure there was the innate feeling that something may kick off, but that happens anywhere that there is any sort of drug (alcohol, especially), enclosed space and competition over women. The same thing would happen at a Buckinghamshire garden party if you introduced enough booze and packed all the attendees into what is basically a large marquee. The threat of violence then, would have meant nothing more than a fist fight, or at the very worse a knife wound. Now there's the possibility that someone could leave, having being punctured by a hot piece of metal.
Float trucks navigated down All Saints Road early on Saturday night. Wooden boards were being nailed to store fronts and speaker stacks wired up in preparation, as we urgently devoured barbecue chicken on a street corner. The electronic screech of police sirens echoes down the road, adding to the symphony as cars roll up and down Ladbroke Grove.
The pavements are filled with the young and cool; bar patrons queuing for entry into already bustling nighspots. OFCOM sanctioned radio is not an option. The pirates rule the dial over here, and by 2AM the DJ's have dispensed with the banter and speak only with their hands. The sun has cast a spell on the city, as the country dares to believe that summer has finally arrived. Women from all over the globe test drive Carnival outfits and perfect their strut in the late afternoon heat. When it rains, London can be a cruel, vindictive mistress, breaking the hearts and ridiculing the dreams of all and any who came a-prospecting on the gold paved streets. When the cloud breaks, smiles are shared with complete strangers, in silent mutual recognition that, hey, maybe things aren't all that bad...
The Sun have offered a £100,000 reward for information leading to the capture of Rhys Jones' killers, crossing the barrier between recording the news and being the news. If it helps bring the repsonsible parties to justice than it would be a good thing, right? There is nothing that engages the collective imagination of the populace better than a common cause. An evil, painted large and in primary colours. In a world of few certainties, that is an absolute truth. But that itself raises questions. Is it any less tragic than the untimely deaths visited upon youngsters up and down the country? Are their lives worth any less?
The Guardian's front page poses Gordon questions about two of the most pressing matters he. The shooting of British troops by an American jet in Afghanistan, is the latest in a interminable laundry list of calamaties that have befallen the invading forces. The other story is a study of Liverpool's teenage gangs. Kids need acceptance, regardless how crafty, moody or emo they are. Not everyone gets to find it at home, in a place of worship or at school..
Prince's exposure today is limited to a fan's complaint on The Sun's Bizzare page. The irate punter was furious that Prince had not shown up for the aftershow party at the IndigO2. Despite what you see on stage, Mr Nelson, it appears, is still human. I mean haven't you ever fancied hitting the oxygen bar and having an early night?
In true pirate radio style, the team of card playing drunks I am rolling with for the weekend have requested shout outs. They started with the obvious ones like "all Carnival crew", before a flash of introspection led to Jimmy asking that "The Man Upstairs" also gets his due...
*Westwood explosion*
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