Who really knows how much crime goes on at the Notting Hill Carnival?

I hope you enjoyed the Notting Hill Carnival and made it back home in one piece, maybe with a becoming scar of some sort — gunshot wound to the gut, stab wound in the throat, that sort of thing. Or perhaps just short of a few quid from your wallet, and maybe your wallet itself. Something, anyway, to display your commitment to this celebration of diversity; to show you are down with the kids on the street.

It is Britain’s most iconic festival, immediately signified by a number of iconic, not to say stereotypical, images: uncomfortable honky police officer, his hat slightly askew, held in the lascivious embrace of a fat black mama who is clearly intent on ‘getting jiggy’. Leader of the Conservative opposition dressed like a moron pretending that hangin’ with the brothers is how he really likes to spend his weekends. Senior copper from the Met, yellow braid on shoulders, telling the media that this year’s carnival was extremely peaceable and that most people had a really lovely time.