Notting Hill Carnival Translated for Americans

Americans: No matter how many MCs, fashion Einsteins, or tech savants we send your way, you insist on stereotyping us all as either evil wizards or pig-chasing medieval oafs with accents like malfunctioning car stereos. Thanks to 100 years of cultural imperialism, us Brits grew up with an intimate understanding of the American national psyche. So it’s a shame that your perception of us and our country appears to be based on the bad guys from Ace Ventura films.

Now, though, it’s our turn to get patronizing. In a thousand words, we’re going to Britsplain one of our greatest cultural inventions—one that not even your New Orleans Mardi Gras or famous hot-dog eating competitions can lay a finger on: Notting Hill Carnival. The annual street festival where one of the richest, yet most divided, districts in Europe dissolves into a feral open-air house party honoring the seismic influence of Afro-Caribbean culture on London.

Here’s what you need to know, from someone who’s been going since shutter shades were cool.

SOUND SYSTEMS
There is no “main room” or headline act at Carnival. This isn’t a Taylor Swift gig where you sit waiting in your plastic chair, eating a $17 popsicle, for the honor of squinting at your idol as she dances like a horny nan three miles away. Carnival is a vast, fluid concept—where the best thing you see might be a 70-year-old bloke with one turntable, fewer teeth, and a megaphone.

Granted, some stages pull bigger audiences than others. Rampage is perhaps the most notorious, with a young, boisterous crowd. Channel One is the iconic elder statesman of the London reggae sound, while Lord Ambassador will take you so deep into the dub world of echo you won’t need any Nitrous. But Carnival is a broad church, featuring systems playing everything from Van Morrison to breakcore IDM. Wander around, find a spot, pitch up, then repeat.

TOILETS
Dubious punch, hot sauce, drugs, booze, cigs, and half a million stressed-out people crammed into a few square miles on the hottest weekend of the year. As well as being a vital celebration of multicultural unity etc etc, Carnival is also a machine precision-engineered to send you repeatedly sprinting for the “johns.” And unless you’re willing to hand over a tenner a go to some enterprising local who’s earning a year’s rent by turning their “bathroom” into a public cesspit for two days, you’re going to have to wait in line for a building site portaloo, or go al fresco.

There are hazards to this. Pee in the street, and it’s likely some overexcited copper who’s been bused in from Wales will act like you’ve just desecrated Winston Churchill’s grave, cuff you, ruin your day, steal your drugs, and slap you with a fine.

There is, however, one spot that seems to exist mysteriously beyond the law: Carnival’s famous ‘Piss Alley,’ a small thoroughfare between All Saints Road and the scioness paradise of Gaz’s Rockin’ Blues that acts as a kind of demilitarized toilet zone. Imagine ‘Hamsterdam’ but for public urination. Just don’t go in sandals (or wear any form of topless shoe to Carnival, ever).

SUBSTANCES
Carnival cops are pretty lenient on softer drugs: you’ll be fine billing up (at least more so than you would in Leicester Square on a Tuesday afternoon). Even if you don’t smoke, the combo of charred coals, warm summer air, sticky beer, and brain mangling super skunk is an evocative atmosphere to marinade in. Carnival customs make booze choices easy: Caribbean lager, Irish stout, rum punch. Save the bag of wine for the next gender reveal party in Cape Cod.

The other thing you should probably save for another time and place is the hard stuff. Doing a bump of coke on the streets of the UK right now is high-key Tommy Robinson-coded (imagine Richard Spencer but reared on a diet of turnips rather than boiled scrod, if that saves you looking him up) and thus très unchic. Given Carnival’s abundant good vibes, it shouldn’t be necessary. Shrooms might be nice, but also you don’t want to be having an existential freakout when your feet can’t touch the ground because the 150th spin of “Hold Yuh” just caused another crowd surge. And ketamine is just a no-no. This is a street party, not a Dimes Square canticle reading.

DANCING
Really, it’s a case of “just do what you can.” If you can dance, go for it. If you can’t, just nod your head and pretend you’re too lost in the music to move your legs. Crusties have been pulling that one for years, and it never did their social standing any harm.

GAZ’S ROCKIN’ BLUES
A Carnival mainstay, but one best avoided by anyone who didn’t go to school with a member of the Godolphin horse racing dynasty, or who doesn’t look like an actual horse. Seems like a good laugh from a distance? Sure, be our guest—if you don’t mind getting passive-aggressively dry-humped by a minor British aristocrat who’s too scared to go to any of the other stages.

CROWDS
Make no bones about it: some of the main thoroughfares are a claustrophobe’s worst nightmare. One wrong move and you could be cheek by jowl for the next four hours, a vuvuzela in your ear, a Jamaican flag billowing in your face, like a butterfly stuck on the Central Line.

But the beauty of Carnival is the sheer scale of it, and there are plenty of sound systems in quieter areas off the main drags. Head away from the throng towards Westbourne Park and Harrow Road, and you may stumble upon something weird and amazing. Don’t spend too long trying to hunt down lost friends, though. Once the crowd has them, it rarely gives them back.

TROUBLE
Don’t believe the right-wing scaremongers. I’m sure Andy Ngo has used footage of a few moshing teenagers to further his puny-hearted #LondonHasFallen agenda, but in reality, Carnival is safe as long as you’re not completely stupid, completely wasted, completely out of luck, or a complete prick. On the off-chance someone does demand to know what ends you’re from, just hit them with a random Nebraska zip code and run away.

AFTER PARTIES
Carnival always takes place on what we call a ‘bank holiday,’ which means it’s one of the few Sunday nights of the year when you can get wasted without worrying about getting sacked. Carnival also tends to end fairly early, so head to an afters to reunite with lost friends or chat total “garbage” with brand new ones. On the way there, chances are you’ll see loads of posh people leaning out of their windows. With a surplus of luxury intoxicants and access to a decent toilet, these parties are often better than you’d think—and the perfect opportunity to transform that slurry of espresso and curry goat stewing in your guts into a weapon of class war.

Follow @clive_mart1n on Twitter.