Carnival 2014. A child's view.

A guest blog by Morgana the Sultana of Boo (aged 15 months).

Buggeration (my first swear word ever) that was bonkers.

Two days of being prisoners in our own home watching very silly drunk people piss in the garden while calling daddy a racist and trying to punch him because he asked them not to piss in the garden.

A pisser.

Hmmmm don't think I want to play out there again.

There were lots of people selling beer and rum to make people want to piss everywhere but not one stall selling nappies…. Wise up grown-ups, wear a nappy, end those horrors of needing to find somewhere to piss. Mind you today was so rainy that no-one would notice that you had pissed in your pants. It is scrummily warm down there when you piss yourself too.

Mummy got cabin fever and climbed up the wall. If I could talk I would have suggested she cleaned off the cobwebs while she was up there.

The sound systems were just loud. I could do the same job with a biscuit tin and a wooden spoon if I were given a million Watts of amplification.

Daddy said that the rain was a godsend as he managed to score two cases of beer at cost price during the afternoon… He needs to drink a few of them before he is obliged to go out and clear the garden of the detritus (new word) of carnival before the street cleaners arrive.

Tomorrow I am going ice skating on the oil slick left behind by the jerk chicken stalls. Any excuse to wear my tutu.

As I write this I can hear the plaintive peep of a bladdered whistle blower as he or she crawls drunkenly through the shit that is left on our doorsteps. Shit that I personally think they should have kept to themselves.

Thousands die at Carnival.

A guest blog from A Chicken.

Tens of thousands of my people have been held in captivity in disgusting concentration camps only to be mercilessly killed and then thrown onto open fires alongside innocent sheep dressed as goats in order to meet the craving for salmonella poisoning of a million carnival goers who congregate annually to watch a few thousand of their own kind dressed up as exotic chickens getting pissed out of their minds before crawling home through the detritus of the massacre.

The air is thick with the smoke from the charnel fires, the area is bombarded with the boom boom boom of sound systems. Vegetarians passively ingest my people via the smoke and the vegans must be dying a million inner deaths.

And they call us the Jerk!

The great irony is that my people, when thrown onto the fires, come face to face with sweetcorn, rice n peas; all foods that they were denied during their cruel short lives in favour of food pellets made from animal by-products. Even the pigs grunt goes into chicken feed.

Mangrove steel band in All Saints Road.

Setting up the pans in preparation for the Mangrove steel band pre carnival rehearsal in all Saints Road W11 from 7.30 until midnight.

For those who find the carnival too much this is a great little street party.

Notting Hill carnival 2014. Boom boom boom an ting.

boom boom boom boom an ting.

the tits are not pecking at the feeder
the larks not ascending on the wing
the pigeons not cooing in the cedar
the jackdaws not stealing all the bling

the birds have left
the air's bereft
of everything avarian
in favour of
jerk chicken and
soul food rastafarian

the robins, once quite common
and the wrens once four a penny
and the sweet black bird all will not be heard
theres no room for the few 'mongst the many

the birds have left
the town's bereft
of everything on wing
to be replaced by
boom boom boom
boom boom boom boom
boom boom boom boom

an ting

Step ladder, spade, hoe and shovel.

This is our ladder. It isn't mine, it belongs to the muse but I look after it now… I guess it is my step-ladder.

Beside it are my hoe, spade and shovel. I am a plain speaking man: I call my hoe Darlene, my spade a spade and the shovel is full of shit.

The rake is a cad and a bounder and the less said about that the better.

Shakespeares carparks. Much ado about nothing and the fucking up of Stratford upon Avon.

I was born in stratford upon Avon. Until 1972 I lived not too far away. I haven't been back since then…. Until today.

Stratford has been turned into one giant car park fed by a one way system. They have demolished the interesting architecture to make way for the car parks, they have eradicated the little old market town to make way for the car parks so that bus loads and car loads of tourists can be shipped in to look around the towns various car parks… There is Anne Hathaway's car park which is a quaint half timbered affair and the Royal Shakespeare Theatre car park which can be quite dramatic on occasions.

The town is now full of signage for car parks wherever you look, the roads are full of tourists reading the signs. There is nothing to see in Stratford upon Avon but car parks and people trying to park.

Everything that can be done wrong with tourism can be summed up in that , once lovely, little town.

That shithole I'm ashamed to call my birthplace.

It occurs to me that if Shakespeare could see the town now he would immediately set about re-writing 'Much ado about nothing'.

Sasquatch sighting explained.

The reason why the Sasquatch, or bigfoot has never been sighted is due to its excellent camouflage skills. I was lucky enough to catch sight of a young one who had not fully honed her skills.

Israel… God's chosen scum.

There are no words to describe the evil that exists in Israel.

This is not about Judaism but about the arrogance of man.

I am truly sickened by what these butchers are doing, sanctioned and financed by America and allowed by us because any criticism is seen as anti-semitism but criticism of Israel is not anti-semite it is pro-humanity.

Oh, and did you know that Barack Obama is backed primarily by Zionists…

It is well past the time to stop feeling guilt about the holocaust and time to stop the genocide in Gaza.

Kitten found safe and well in Gaza.

The Russians may be shooting down airliners and the US backed Israeli's bombing women and children but the world can sit back and relax in the knowledge that a kitten has been found alive in the debris of a bombed out Gaza house.

The owner of the cat, who would not give his name, said: 'My entire family was wiped out in the blast but this little fellows safety makes it somehow worthwhile'.

An emergency UN meeting has been called in order to celebrate the safety of the kitten who has been name Jesus by the regimental rabbi of the 3rd Bethlehem Butchers who found the animal stating that the little fellow seems to be able to perform miracles.


Editors note: Sadly little jesus was killed in the stampede of journalists rushing to cover the story.

Israel targeting the Kingdom of Heaven ?

I am getting reports that Israeli rockets are targeting areas of the kingdom of heaven in order to eradicate the Palestinian women and children it has sent there. Are they mad?

David, who sells falafels down the road and therefore knows as much about the situation as anyone tells me that Jesus promised them the kingdom of heaven but for reasons of disbelief they turned it down, however they now want it and will do what they like with it and there is certainly no space for Palestinians in the Kingdom of Heaven.

According to other sources American pro Zionists are funding a stairway to heaven as a means of moving the heavy artillery up there.

Jimmy Page declined to comment.

Jesus's 'Book of Miracles' found.

A well preserved fragment of parchment unearthed in Palestine appears to be the journal of Jesus of Nazareth. From the parts that have now been deciphered it appears that Jesus kept a record of his daily activities including details of his 'miracles'.

One excerpt reads: Sermon on the mount.  good turnout at the rally today, 50 thousand at a guess, not too many hecklers. Got a bit hairy at lunch time though… Mary came to me and said there was going to be a riot if we didn't feed them all and all we have is a few fish and some bread. I said don't fret Mary, I know these people, they are all sitting on picnic baskets but don't want to bring them out in case they are asked to share with others. Once they see food going round they will all suddenly discover their own stashes and tuck in. I bet we have loads left over at the end.  I was proved right as usual and another 'miracle' was born.

Another: Turned water into wine today… Visited a local merchant who was expecting us,  I asked for wine for myself and the crew, the guy said: 'Sorry. Times is hard, all I have is water.'  I know my merchants well and suspected that he had filled his wine jar with water in anticipation of our request for refreshments and put the wine in the water jar.  So I says, quick as a flash, I'll turn your water into wine and before he could stop me I poured a glass from the water jar… Sure enough it was wine. Another 'miracle' done and dusted…

The curious incident of the bread in the park.

This is a pile of 'designer' bread dumped today in the corner of the little park on Tavistock Road. It raises a number of questions:-

Boo's reviews No.2. The Red Lemon.

An occasional guest review type thing. Written by a child who knows about stuff.

It is hard to find a pub to review within walking distance, I'm only one and can't walk that far and the elements seem to be conspiring against pubs these days, especially around here.

If the poet pushes me the first 200 Metres I can consider the Red Lemon to be within walking distance. I'll review that then.

I've been drinking in the Red Lemon all my life, I've been drinking in the Red Lemon since it opened. I like a drink… My tipple used to be milk but I've moved on to water now but I invariably take my own to the pub. The poet and the muse drink pub drinks and they say that the Lemon sells draught beers and stuff at very reasonable prices unlike other pretentious places in the neighbourhood.

The staff a friendly and invariably wave back when I wave, they sometimes pick me up which is comforting when you fall over in the pub. I fall over a lot right now but I'm getting steadier.

There are sometimes parrots in the Red Lemon.

I didn't know what a parrot was until I went there so I can honestly say that the place is educational.

The decor is stripped down Victorian, painted grey throughout but not austere. There is sufficient soft material in the place (banquettes and blinds) to stop the place being the echo chamber that so many trendy pubs become.It is my opinion that high ceilinged Victorian rooms demand big blowsy velvet drapes and stuff to absorb all the echoes from the punters therein. Pubs and breasts are very similar, they should be soft and warm and inviting. Ask any man or baby.

The food is good and sensibly priced according to the poet and the muse, they take me there for lunch sometimes. I invariably get a piece of bread which is both good to eat and good to throw. I have yet to be scolded for throwing bread so must surmise that bread throwing infants are welcome.

On saturday mornings when I drag the poet to the pub there are often other children there with their dads in tow. The place has newspapers for the grown ups to read while us kids are people watching, beguiling grumpy people into smiling, gummily pulping inappropriate stuff and things like that.

All in all the Red Lemon is a good, family friendly local pub with far better than average food and sensible prices. It is rarer than hens teeth in this part of London.

The Red Lemon is on the corner of All Saints Road and Tavistock road. W11.