It's Just Not Fair (or Why Are Our Fetes Worse Than Death?)

I have a soft spot for local summer fairs. I adore the attempts to reproduce an air of English country tradition in the inner city, the momentary suspension of the hostilities of urban living, the slight air of charming crapiness about things cobbled together by volunteers.

So far this year I have visited the fetes in Vauxhall Park, Albert Square and Lambeth Palace. I am of course looking forward to annual jamboree which is the Lambeth Country Show this weekend (18/19 July) where the urban and the twee collide in ways that should result in one big FAIL - watching owls to the sound of bad blaring rap music, anyone? And I can't wait to see whether this year's vegetable sculptures will eclipse last year's high profile winner . Only at the Lambeth Country Show.

All of which is a preamble to telling you that my contentment with summer fairs crumbled last weekend when I went to the Kennington Summer Fete in the obscenely lovely Cleaver Square.

They've got it so wrong: no floury chocolate cakes from the Little Sisters of the Poor here with a mashed Baptist tea in a polystyrene cup here. No, if you want a snack it's half a lobster, if you please.

And you should have seen the quality of their bric-a-brac!


Only a mysterious demonstration of stick-waving gave a hint of the nonplussing activity which should be at the heart of a true summer fair.

But it was like stepping into another dimension. One of the stalls was selling limited edition prints. They still had a smack-the-rat but I'm sure that the rat will have been based on some exquisite rare Tibetan breed.

And the sun shone.

And the ever-smiling Mayor of Lambeth was there.


I hate Kennington. I may have to move there.