Scoobay!

I see you, baby...

Sunday August 27th: That's a relief. I hadn't read over last night's entry until just now. It was written after a trawl around some of All Saints Road's fine public houses. I was sincerely worried that I'd filed a load of maudlin, drunken twaddle, but there seems to be a common thread. Very faint at times but it's there.

So, I spent the afternoon at Notting Hill Carnival, wandering between sound systems. A round of applause, please for the DJ's of the Jeneration Sound who kept Powis Terrace roadblocked all day. It is a relief to finally sit down, as my feet have that dull ache, usually associated with spending the whole day two stepping and signalling the plane. And it was nice to see that Simon Says still drives a crowd of people insane when played at sufficient volume. I also learnt today that you never realise how long it's been since you've heard Oh No by Red Rat until you've been deafened by an air horn as the DJ drops it.

I, for one, will never again fall for the 'Kids Day' tag attached to Sunday at Carnival. The sheer number of grown women in attendance has made sure of that. There didn't seem to be any trouble, apart from one instance I saw of 'handbags at dawn' between two white teenagers. They drew a little crowd as they swung wildly at each other. I think even a couple of police stopped to watch.

I didn't see Dave there, though.

Just as the weather is beginning to clear, it looks like the storm clouds are beginning to brew above Gordon. The Times reports that a donation of £300,000 given to the Government by a group called Muslim Friends Of Labour will come under scrutiny. Strictly speaking, the dates would insinuate that the fault does not lie with the Prime Minister as the money was donated between March and June. He would seem to have inherited that one. Let us not forget that Blair had previous for this kind of thing. He was 'helping police with their enquiries' during the cash for honours scandal. Maybe this is another one of those things he neglected to tell Gordon. He's like a devious landlord who rents a house out to a trusting tennant without first telling them that there are a horde of vampire bats living in the attic. Maybe it slipped his mind....

Prince was at it again yesterday. Show # 11 opened with what 3121.com describes as a "rousing rendition of Planet Earth". It looks like the powers that be over there finally realised that it was impossible to keep images of the show off the internet (The camera ban was most definitely ignored on the first night) and posted official pictures of Friday's show on the frontpage. Marva King delivered her own version of The Rolling Stones Honky Tonk Woman, and once again Prince drew for The Long And Winding Road by The Beatles.

Backing singers Marva and Shelby made the after show jam their own, even finding time to cover Amy Winehouse's Love Is A Losing Game. After letting The Stones hold court in his kingdom this week, it looks like Prince may be about to reach even further into the catalogue of 150 songs he has locked and loaded...

Live from The Carnival...

R.I.P Tim Westwood's Portobello Market Stage: A National Monument.

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*