United Kingdom | by Daniel Fahey | 14 February 2008

February – it’s a depressing month. Its not quite spring, the weather sits somewhere between cold and damp, and Valentines Day reminds all single people that love is out there, they just haven’t found it.

The nightclub Cargo, snugly hidden in London’s trendy Shoreditch, has a queue stretching around the corner, a result of the carnival procession which has since juddered to a halt. Some have already pre-empted the beads and masks, while others look like they’ve just stepped out of the office.

Funk floods out of the doors as those who have already had their fill of Mardi Gras action stumble out into the night. The club is running like Superman’s phone box: plain clothed civilians enters the club. Masked, bead-adorned Phantom of the Opera extras leave.

Inside, the disused railway tunnel interior is awash with the kind of bright colours Matisse could have only dreamed of. The purples, golds, reds and greens decorate the walls and ceilings as beads hang from lights and lamps.

Sweaty clubbers are grinding to the sounds of the Hot 8 Brass Band who are already storming the dance floor with more brass than Big Ben.  The band, who are from New Orleans, mix funk, soul and reggae, kicking off the carnival in an unadulterated American fashion.

Girls in masquerade groove around the venue covered by an array of masks that range from the brightly coloured and the fluffy, to disguises plague doctors would’ve used and burns victims’ healing masks.

Unabombers take to the decks to spin some storming tracks that quickly turns the soiree into a party. Bob Marley and The Gossip get an airing between the flurry of Breaks and funky basslines during the set as other revellers’ mild thievery begins to become more apparent.

Hidden by the DJ's funk and soul, the face-painted scamps and masked burglars pull the beads from the walls and lights with one girl trying to steal the authentic Vegetarian Creole that seems to be free anyway.

UNKLE’s James Lavelle is last on the ones and twos, ready to take the carnival into the small hours. The shaking basslines become deeper, rolling through revellers' chests as beeps and blips replace vocals and horns.

A bongo soaked version of 'Sympathy For The Devil' by The Rolling Stones that’s driven by a throbbing bass gets a loud cheer but the music slowly merges into one for the over-indulged rather than a full party set.

The longer Lavelle stays on the decks the squelcher the sounds that groove from the speakers, until its time to hit the streets to start a carnival of our own. Because once you’ve got a taste for the Mardi Gras, she’s the only date we’ll want his Valentines Day.