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I love the way the Brits have their Gay Pride Parade on the same day the Yanks have their Independence Day. Classic. So I decided that it’s a little boring to just “join in the festivities” in jeans (although this is highly unlikely) and a t-shirt. It is Gay Pride after all, and there is no minority group more flamboyant. In fact I think my terminology here is wrong and “minority” might not be called for. Pride after all encourages, bisexual, transgender, gay, straight and whatever the hell else you are to join in and party. Ironic that it’s the gays that don’t discriminate when straight people want to join in.
And then Sarah Brown pitched up at Trafalgar Square later. Hmmm.
So back to my costume dilemma. A few days prior I had gone shopping down good ol’ Oxford Street and picked myself up a pair of black tights that, if I ever happen to be on Sea Point main road wearing them, I might become a millionaire. They’re completely shredded down the sides and I will admit, take a good deal of guts, even for me, to wear. And after I slapped on some signature red lipstick I was good to go meet Lou in Baker Street, where the march began.
Oh yes please.
Now I don’t really know what I was expecting, but I was so focused on my costume that I think the fact that we would be MARCHING all the way to Trafalgar Square totally slipped my mind. So after passing the dodgy SANYO sign on Picadilly Circus (which is the biggest anti-climax ever) having consumed two bottles of Vodka, I’m not too sure how many Red Bulls and a can or five of some dodgy English beer, I was holding a corner of a rainbow flag and pouting into every single camera lens, who naturally, were more focused on my tights than anything else. However all this drinking naturally makes you want to pee and halfway through the parade I was envisioning going quickly under the flag, where no one would see. I didn’t, thank god, but had to climb over the barricade (not an easy feat but luckily I was assisted by Warren) run into Nandos past the que of waiting customers and into the bathroom to relieve myself. This was a mission in itself trust me. And equally as fast as I had run in, I had to run out and then spot Warren in the procession to help me over again. The photos of this escapade are legendary, now that my nose has recovered from its ordeal.
Something retarded like 500 000 people were in the procession (which included floats, buses placard holders and so forth) and double the amount gathered on the sidelines to watch, then culminating in Trafalgar Square for a presentation that we didn’t stick around for. Our destination of choice was Soho, where Warren realised he had lost his shirt and had to sit in a restaurant half naked, there was a little bit of drama like there always is when people get drunk in the sun, and where I made a handful of good friends outside a club called G-A-Y. Original.
This dude was my favourite. Sorry. This lady was my favourite.
I am now off to picnic in the park. Oh and the new LMG is out. I suppose it’s probably been out for a while, but I am slightly out of touch with these things at the moment as you can imagine.
