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Notting Hill Nonsense – what is point?
There isn’t one really. I’ve lived in Notting Hill for 25 years, and every so often, something so amuses, engages or enrages me that I feel the need to wite about it. Then it’s up to you; you can read it, or click away.
Get in touch
It's always a pleasure to hear from you, so drop me a line.
Recipes
I love to cook and some of my original recipes are here
Previously on Notting Hill Nonsense
Have a look at some of the older pieces on this site. They're here.
Join the email alert service to find out when this site is updated. Sign up here.
Please put ‘alert’ in the subject box.
Notting Hill Nonsense – what is point?
There isn’t one really. I’ve lived in Notting Hill for 25 years, and every so often, something so amuses, engages or enrages me that I feel the need to wite about it. Then it’s up to you; you can read it, or click away.
Get in touch
It's always a pleasure to hear from you, so drop me a line.
Recipes
I love to cook and some of my original recipes are here
Previously on Notting Hill Nonsense
Have a look at some of the older pieces on this site. They're here.
As usual, my perfectly formed nuclear family escaped the Notting Hill Carnival, this year by going to Dorset to stay with friends. With unbelievable luck, we caught the best weather of the year, and went to the seaside every day.
Escape the Carnival? He must be a miserable sod, I here you say. Well, I loved the first 10 Carnivals I went to – but then the appeal of the event began to pall. Perhaps my increasing age had something to do with that.
I was once even featured, with picture, in The Voice newspaper, which is aimed at black people, as someone who loved the Carnival. Admittedly, that was mainly because the journalist was an old friend of mine, Dotun Adebayo.
The Carnival has certainly changed over the years from its origins as a homespun local affair. It’s no longer a community event for the people of Notting Hill, but an international event that happens to take place in our neighbourhood.
When I lived in a flat on Ladbroke grove, directly on the route of the Carnival procession, I had a small balcony with an excellent view of the parade. Every year, I would throw a Carnival party when 30 or forty people would cram into my tiny one bedroom apartment.
The last one I had was, I think, in 1990. It was a bit of a disaster. For some reason, I’d invited an ex-girlfriend. She came with her new boyfriend. His ex-girlfriend came along too, whether at his invitation, I do not know.
In any case, my ex-girlfriend’s boyfriend and his ex- girlfriend locked themselves in the loo together. I don’t know what they were getting up to. But when my ex-girlfriend realised they were in there together, she quickly formed a firm opinion about what was likely to be happening. So, she started banging on the door and screaming at them.
Unsurprisingly, an almighty row was the result, which did nothing to add to the general jollity of the party.
Then, at the end of the Carnival, there were ugly scenes on the street outside. Gangs of youths started ‘steaming’. This horrible sport involves a gang of up to 50 youths targeting one unfortunate individual for robbery and beating, and chasing them up the road in a hideous parody of a conga.
The police seemed powerless; I saw one group of seven or eight cops watch a steaming incident right under their noses. They took a look at the 30 or 40 kids chasing some poor fellow up Ladbroke Grove, and they obviously didn’t fancy the odds.
Then the riot police appeared, their skills presumably honed by the recent, and particularly violent, national miners’ strike.
They formed into a line the width of the street and advanced, beating their shields with their riot sticks as they did, clearing everyone, the innocent and the guilty, out of the way.
They were even shining hand-held spotlights on to my balcony and shouting at us to get inside. Just as that was happening, a girl standing next to me, an acquaintance rather than a friend, picked up an empty wine bottle and threw back her arm to hurl it at the police below. I need hardly explain what the reaction of the cops would have been.
Instinctively, I grabbed her and wrestled her to the ground before she could throw the missile. She was beside herself with anger. That, I thought, was the final blow in ensuring that this was the least enjoyable party I’d ever had.
But worse was to come. The next day, I learned that one of my guests had been mugged and beaten on the way home, near my flat, not once, but twice. The first time they took his wallet; the second time, they took his wedding ring and his shoes.
I never had another Carnival party.