Street Party SHAMBLES

The Newcombe Road party didn’t happen, so Soton youths went on a pilgrimage to find a place to get high and listen to dubstep.

Yesterday afternoon saw Southampton’s yoof attempt to celebrate the Diamond Jubilee, with Newcombe Road being the proposed site for a spot of royal skanking. Unfortunately, without a proper permit the event turned out to be something of a damp squib, despite efforts to relocate to the Common.

After hearing that there was a vague plan for a 3PM flash mob on Newcombe Road and then a full on occupation for the rest of the day, we grabbed our V for Vendetta masks, hopped in the Tabmobile and whizzed over to the Polygon to check out the situation. With a five thousand strong facebook group we thought there might be at least one or two bassheads down there, but instead we were met by seven or eight stern faced coppers who promptly told us to clear off and go to the Common.

The long arm of the law had Newcombe Road in a stranglehold

I took some time out to watch a bunch of boats nearly crash into each other on TV and headed over a bit later in the evening, hoping to find a heavy dub line capable of blasting thoughts of the nauseous BBC presenting team out of my mind.

It turned out that by 6PM Mr and Ms Plod had encircled the Common and had even called in a chopper to menacingly ‘monitor the situation’: clearly some three star activities were going down in the interior of the park. Mobs of blokes milling around drinking tinnies and shouting informative statements about police wages suggested that this was definitely the place to be – “We pay your wages, who do you think you are?” etc, etc. Heartwarming stuff!

The second thing of note I came across were these guys. At first I thought they were Dominos sponsored riot police, but then I realised that an inspired store manager had recognised the purchasing power of several hundred people with severe munchies and had deployed some walking billboards to reel ’em in.

Dominos and their thin red battle line

Following the telltale wub-wub-wub of dubious basslines we eventually made it to the centre, where there was a soundsystem, a few hundred revellers of various ages and a smattering of nervous looking PCSOs circling warily on bicycles, like sheepdogs on their first day at work. According to the constabulary there were approximately 100 people there; I’d triple that (at least).

Bare amounts of people bruv

Everyone seemed a bit angry, it was also quite cold and windy which probably made rolling joints that little bit more challenging. Fuelled by Stella and general frustration with authorities (who actually seemed to be turning a blind eye), some knuckle-headed guys started fighting, but luckily that died down pretty quickly. After an hour or so the D n’ B mix of Rule Britannia which I was holding out for still hadn’t dropped, so we went home.

For those of us who witnessed the madness of Newcombe Road last year it was a bit of an anticlimax but if you were a fifteen year old kid with your first bottle of Frosty Jacks it probably seemed like the best thing ever, so the fashionable thing to do now is to go on the facebook group and argue about whether it was actually any good or not. For me, it was only marginally more entertaining than the gawd-awful regatta and served as confirmation that Newcombe Road really was a one off.