Aah so I have just returned from the chicken bone strewn circle of hell also known as the Notting Hill Carnival.
I suppose it was okaaay, I mean, I used to think I was the whitest girl alive and so looked about as 'in place' at Carnival as Cher would on a pilgramage to Mecca, but that was before I went to Carnival with A and E who take being 'whitey' to a loud shrieky level not seen since Julia Stiles in Save the Last Dance. (or maybe those Step Up films but I haven't seen them) But Y to the T anyway.
Although I drew the line at drinking rose from a cup and bogling to reggae in the middle of Porterbello Road with several other rah-sterfarian* friends of A, after a while (and several drinks) it felt less like a poultry stinking pressure cooker of barely repressed anarchy and violence and more like a noisy dirty festival in the middle of London.
After a while (and some more drinks) we had a dance and a drum n bass stage, which is where I got a pondering on precisely how bizarre drum n bass dancing is. I mean, I think I have thought this before - and by thought I mean druggily ranted at someone in the toilet queue at Fabric - but never have I put finger to keyboard about it.
But yeah, so for one, dancing to DnB you basically dance by yourself. This in itself is quite weird if you think of the great grand history of Dance, which is basically an inclusive group activity. But in DnB you barely touch, unless your gun fingers (pow! pow!) accidentally go on the opposite trajectory as the person next to you's eyeball socket.
Secondly, you don't really move from the same spot. Unless you are a bit of a fancy dick with your leg work or are off your face and flail about like a psychotic spider, you generally bop about from foot to foot as if you are standing on rather hot sand.
Thirdly, one of the most common moves is to slump your shoulders forwards and sway from either them if you are male, or from your waist if you are female. This is not terrible attractive, again, unusual for a Dance, traditionally a roundabout way of attracting people.
Remember those plastic anthropomorphic flowers you could buy that danced when you played them music? I imagine from the stage we must have all looked like that, albeit bedecked in Jamaica whistles, soaked in Red Stripe and with poor posture.
But anyway, Carnival. It's over for another year and maybe in 2009, unlike the last two years, I won't be saddled with a friend who is all 'omg but I've never beeeeen and you have to go to Carnivaaaaal'.
Honestly, I'm such a whore for London knowledge based flattery - tell me you've never been to Brick Lane and we'll be sitting there having overpriced shitty curry made with 40% water injected chicken breast before you can say 'oh cool was this like, where that book was set?'
*rah like 'awful privately educated braying Henrys and Camillas who gad about Carnival in their multicoloured Ray Bans going 'oh yah, I rahly love that Leathal Bizzle, his shit is like, totally street? yeah?' I just thought of that phrase and although it undoubtly exists already, I am quite proud of myself.