Rihanna's number one for the 7th week in the UK and it's STILL RAINING all over the land. There's a direct correlation between the two, I'm convinced of it! Seven weeks of Umbrella and seven weeks of it pissing down. Please, Rihanna. I love the song, but please, just put the brolly down and sing about something else. How about driving cars or something?
Gawd! Alright already! Ella, ella, eh, eh, eh.
But none of this unrelenting rain could dampen the spirits of everyone at Gay Pride in London on Saturday. What a marvellous day it was. Where else could you have thousands of queers mincing about in the pouring rain and making the most of it by just enjoying themselves? The March/Parade through the terrorist-strewn streets of sodden London went off without a hitch (the only hiccup being when some homophobe asked why Oxford Street was blocked off and then harumphing at the mere mention of the word 'gay').
Our very own 'Rihanna'
Highlights included the Fetish Society, a ten-strong team of leather clad queens pulling a Ben Hur type chariot with a cigar-smoking Caligula waving a fist to the, largely, puzzled crowd, (we passed the abandoned contraption an hour later on Regent Street upended with one wheel off). And the Pink Youth Society giving everyone fresh hope that this fresh meat would not only keep the flag flying but keep it flying high with their brilliant slogan scrawled across the float saying: 'GAY ICONS OF THE FUTURE'- followed closely by this auld queen remembering The Legacy!
"Ooh. My aching icons!"
Soho was literally awash with feathers, fake tan and fucking umbrellas. Soho Square bounced around like a bag of pills and the bars had huge crowds circling the doorways, a brolly in one hand and a drink in the other, but everyone wore a smile. We stood outside until we couldn't take anymore drenching and went inside a packed loft in the Yard Bar, which took precisely ten minutes to turn into a steam room. Imagine!
Trafalgar Square was out of the question. Darren, Jimmy et al could do it without us. But two friends who made it down there (I think they hitched a lift on a passing canoe) said they had a great view... from the dry, civilised bar of the National Portrait Gallery complete with a bottle of Champagne.
Geri Halliwell turned up like a bad penny. Again.
For a trip around what was a fabulous day, go here to The Zapping, who quite rightly points out that friends and being comfortable summed up the day, and here to Tricky who found that the same 'sod it' attitude was the order of the day.