The perfect look for Carnival, really, as the event is basically part guerrilla war, part Tivoli Gardens yard party and part London Fashion Week show. Unless he was an actual soldier who’s ended up on one hell of a detour back to Sandhurst.
A cape, on the other hand, is a step too far. Unless you’re Grace Jones, Dani Filth or Rick Astley, you’ll just end up looking like a horny teenage street magician or somebody who’s been evacuated from Toni & Guy midway through a haircut due to a fire drill.
These garage doors had been taking a hammering all day, and by this point, the pervading scent was one of an abandoned swimming pool slept in by vagrants. I’m sorry if there’s a lot of piss in this article, but there’s a lot of piss at Carnival. And there’s a lot of piss because there’s a lot of beer and not many toilets.
See what I mean? Even the girls were getting in on the act. Eight plastic cups of watery Carnival punch will strip the ladylike veneer from even the daintiest of damsels; you get off at Ladbroke Grove as a Jane Austen character, you come back as Charlotte Church on New Year’s Eve, no exceptions.
Weirdly, a big group of people had decided to stand right near the piss garages huffing laughing gas. I don’t know why you’d wanna stand near an open-air toilet deeply breathing in and out for ages. I guess the stench just marked it out for them as a place of lawlessness.