ABSTRACT
Black sheep of the post-rave diaspora, jungle is banished to a small public park called Horniman's Pleasance on the outskirts of the carnival zone. Adverts on pirate radio had raved breathlessly about the park's twenty-five thousand capacity, but the event hasn't quite lived up to the hype. In fact, only twenty-five people have turned up. A few try to dance, in a desultory fashion; most stand around looking confused. After half an hour, my posse's patience runs out, and we head back to the center of the carnival, where the pumping house and garage systems have packed the side streets off Portobello Road. A believer, I can't reconcile the awesome vitality of the music seething out of the pirate airwaves with this seeming proof that jungle just ain't runnin'.
