Fat cockneys, Notting Hill Carnival and a car journey of epic proportions.

Almost a week on from the 'horrific return to the dark ages of football violence,' as many sports hacks seemed eager to herald in their morally indignant press reports and hyperbole ridden columns and the whole tawdry affair has been pretty much forgotten. West Ham vs. Millwall we were told has always been a fraught fixture. Two rivals from the grim backwaters of East London, a history of fan on fan fisticuffs and a largely working class fanbase were supposedly the perfect preconceived conditions for the 'handbags at dawn' situation Sky News put on continual loop for most of Tuesday night. As some wiser journalists pointed out however, it was probably the questionable fictionalisation of hooliganism in terrible films starring Danny Dyer and Elijah 'I'm The Hobbit' Wood that led to the rather sad sight of teenage lads dressed in fake Stone Island running on the pitch, followed by fifty year old blobs of screaming flesh slightly resembling ordinary human beings but camouflaged by unbelievably bad West Ham tattoos on their gout inflamed legs. In the world of Nick Love's Football Factory this fixture is the ultimate titanic battle, the off field equivalent of Barca vs. Real; supposedly the two London teams with the hardest, most embittered followers all ready to get 'propa nawty' and throw bottles at one another whilst hiding behind a line of policeman. Sadly all they achieved were a couple of panicky Daily Mail headlines and a retired fireman in a serious condition after being stabbed by some chump, probably from the 'badlands' of suburban Essex. Though saying all that if this kind of posturing and conformity to ancient cliche helps scare off a few of the corporate flids who are rapidly sucking the life out of football then at least one good thing can come from the whole convoluted episode.

So this being a Bank Holiday weekend and all it was only natural that Notting Hill Carnival was hit, what with me being a Londoner short on cash with a passion for Jerk Chicken and loud Dub Reggae and less than favorable view of the Met. True to form it didn't disappoint, in fact it was an absolutely wicked day out with the highlight being the Sancho Panza stage which was playing distinctly Balearic beats. As the sound systems were shut down by 7:30 I was persuaded to venture to a house party nearby, and seeing a group of Nathan Barley esque twats heading into a ten story Notting Hill town house I supposed we had found our spot. Much walking up and down stairs ensued, recognising not a single other guest we began to question whether or not we were in the right location at all. Certainly pretty much everybody looked like a media graduate with a pad off the Fulham Road and our confusion was further exacerbated when a random guy tapped my friend on the shoulder and uttered the words 'Easy man good to see you here.' This from someone none of us had ever met. After an amusing episode involving a rather ravishing young girl spending ages in the toilet and us trying to guess whether it was a 'No. 2' or '2 lines' that were keeping her busy we decided to try and track down the right party. When said girl appeared to have locked herself in the toilet we concluded that it must have been Ketamine not Coke. So eventually we found the right party but we had a funny story to tell. Only in Notting Hill can one find a house large enough and with suitable levels of samey people to spend half an hour trawling through bedrooms and kitchens trying to find your mates.

Mind you I had an excuse for my questionable judgment. The day before I had traveled to Manchester and back for the Arsenal game with two fifty year old United fans driving the car. It was a day for deep introspection and personal reflection as I quickly discovered that coming close to pensionable age and continuing a vitriolic love affair with your football club does not make you a 'cool cat.' Equally playing Kasabian and The Prodigy at ear splitting levels whilst doing a double handed 'air' drum roll at the wheel of a 90mph car at one in the morning, does not lend fellow passengers a sense of safe security. There comes a time in every man's life when he just has to say no and give up on the joys of youth: the music, the football, the drink and the drugs and reconcile himself with growing old gracefully in the company of his dog and a wife who looks increasingly like a bag of spanners. These lads had yet to make that move. But they had some good first hand stories of United Euro aways; when men were men and football related violence was violent and United pulled off a lucky win against the 'Goona' fuckwits. So it wasn't all bad. Still it was like having a mirror put up to one's face and being warned: 'Keep going down this path son and by the time you're my age you'll be regaling some poor lad with tales of buying a roll over hotdog at Chelsea away in 2005 all to the sound of N-Dubz in the background.' Perish the thought! Till next time.