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View Last years pride (1999) was probably the most succesful to date, there was something for everyone, even the parade was brilliantly organised and the party afterwards in the grounds of the civic offices went extremely well. This year looks to be even better again with events stretching over the course of 12 days. Events Look out for Other Cities early next month along with our new look site.
Review of Pride 1999 by Russ Clarke Pride
(In The Name of God, What’s Happening?) DUBLIN,
Ireland. June 26th Prologue
– Have I Ever Been Overdressed? It’s
1:00pm and I’m sitting in a cab on my way to the city centre for
Dublin Pride 1999. The cab driver, with the innate pessimism of his trade, has
gloomily informed me that the weather forecast has indicated heavy
showers of rain for the afternoon (his exact phrase was “It’ll be
rainin’ like a cow pissin’ on a flat rock.
Mark my words, yews will be drownded”).
Oh shit. Oh shitty
shit shit. I have come to
the Pride March wearing jeans and a tee-shirt.
It’s a good tee-shirt, too.
Money was spent on it. I
hope it’s waterproof. I
briefly contemplate heading home to pick up my coat but decide against
it. Frankly, it’s a
horrible thing. It makes me
look like a paedophile or (much, much worse), a journalist.
Maybe I can pick up a cheap umbrella or a cheaper trick with his
own umbrella. 1:15pm
and my cab deposits me in Dame Street, having relieved me of a large
amount of cash. I’ve an
hour to kill before the march starts in Parnell Square.
I haven’t eaten since lunchtime yesterday but I assure myself
that the twelve pints of Guinness and three voddies and orange juice
consumed the night before have nourished me sufficiently up until now.
Nonetheless, a bit of nosebag mightn’t go astray and may,
indeed, fortify myself for the rigours ahead. I
decide to call my friend, Jason who tells me that he can’t come on the
march as he has to get his hair cut.
I shriek and holler and whine at him until he agrees to come to
the post-march party in Wood Quay Act
I – I Will Follow (You’ve Got an Umbrella) When
it comes to decisions, I don’t, Decide,
I mean. I let what the
French call les evénéments take them for me.
The results may be unpredictable but they are rarely less than
interesting. So it was
that, when I spotted a cute boy sporting a Belfast Pride tee-shirt and
carrying an umbrella heading into a burger bar, I followed him (pausing
only to wonder in awe at the Northern Irish love of marches – I mean,
Belfast to Dublin? That’s
over 100 miles, for heaven’s sake. Later, it transpires that a large contingent came from
Belfast by train. Frankly,
I feel a little disillusioned). Trying
to catch his eye, I smile winningly at him and give him a conspiratorial
wink. Actually, when I
catch sight of myself in the mirror, I realise I look like Hugh Grant on
Prozac, grinning and twitching like some insanely cheerful Tourette’s
sufferer. Of course, I have forgotten to put on my Pride Ribbon so the
poor guy has no idea why I am exhibiting terminal St. Vitus’s Dance in
his direction. By
the time I’ve got my minced offal and hoof, he’s disappeared and I
don’t see him for the rest of the day.
He’s probably run screaming back to the station.
I take it as an omen.
I gulp my portion of CJD-infected carrion and suck lustily on my
milkshake, hoping against hope that’s it’s not all I get to suck
this day. At least, should
Dame Fortune smile on me, I’ll have had some practice. Act
II – How Many Miles Must A Man Walk Alone? 1:50pm
and I’m outside the gates to the Garden of Remembrance, Parnell
Square. Jesus – where is
everyone? Instead of the
teeming hordes I had expected, there are less than 50 people standing
about, including a drumming band (who, despite their great sense of
rhythm, I can never quite see the point of). Inside the Garden, I see about the same number.
I decide to take a stroll around to where the floats are
assembling. Hmm – this
looks a bit more promising. There
are dykes on bikes, a truck with a cowboy motif (cowboys, bales of
straw, Shirley Temple-Bar dressed as a squaw, Miss Panti as an
unfeasibly long-legged Annie Oakley and assorted bordello-dwellers), an
ambulance (which gets put to use before the march even starts) and
various other floats whose significance escapes me.
There are also banners, lots of banners.
There’s even a Welsh dragon.
And there are people – marchers, I mean. Feeling
somewhat relieved, I return to the Gates.
Joy of Joys! Lots of
people have arrived in the meantime.
The area around the gates is beginning to look festive.
Best of all, there is a stall serving punch.
Free, alcoholic punch. Provided,
thank the Goddess! by a
lesbian, of course, without whom we would all starve or die for want of
organization. Fortified by
the punch, whistles are being blown with glee and those tourists in
their tour buses who stand and wave are rewarded with great resounding
shouts of joy. I bump into
Eamonn and quickly lose him again in the crowd.
Friends are greeting friends with extravagant screams.
To anyone who has never attended a Pride March and wonders what
all the fuss is about, it is this sense of community and fun.
You don’t know what you’re missing.
Even the local constabulary look pleased to be here. Shortly
before we start off, a butch man, wearing combats and a moustache (I
mean, how 70s can you get?) is led into an ambulance, pale and with a
large amount of blood on his face. I’m not sure if he’s in shock or
suffering from acute embarrassment at being the first casualty.
I decide to read the safety leaflet handed to me by a steward
earlier, despite the fact that I have a pretty good idea how to walk
already. It advises me to
let the person beside me know if I have any medical conditions that
might require urgent attention. I resist the urge to tell him of my possibly terminal dislike
of Judy Garland, for fear he might have me committed on the spot.
Minutes before we move, the heavens open.
However, the rain doesn’t last long and my tee-shirt hasn’t
dissolved, so I satisfy myself with a few imprecations and oaths
levelled against my cab driver. Act
III – And They’re Off! With
a great roar, klaxons blaring, whistles blowing, we move round the
square and down towards O’Connell Street.
The noise is incredible. I
decide to move towards the front of the march – I don’t want my
hearing permanently damaged, otherwise I might never hear those most
magical of words again, “It’s my round”. We’re
joined by a rather large gentleman wearing (I kid you not) a pair of
leather chaps and nothing else. From
the front, he’s not exactly as ugly as bucket full of arses but from
the rear… His bum looks like a bowl of porridge in need of a shave.
Still, it’s too early to be cranky so I give him a smile of
encouragement and move swiftly away. When
we get to O’Connell Bridge, I take a look back up the street.
It’s truly awe-inspiring.
There are flags. There
are dancers. There are two chickens and the Welsh dragon. There are
angels. There is even a
glorious yellow butterfly on rollerblades.
And, oh Jesus, the noise. It
never lets up. This is my
fourth Pride march but I have never seen such glee on the faces of the
spectators. Maybe it’s
always been there before and I’ve just never noticed it.
Everywhere I look, there are people taking photographs and people
waving. They seem genuinely
pleased to see us. There
are friends rushing over to embrace marchers.
I’m blowing my whistle so hard, I can see spots before my eyes.
I’m whooping and hollering so much, my throat is raw.
I’m jigging dementedly behind the cowboy truck (anyone who has
seen my attempts at dancing in The George will know the effect only too
well), I’m having difficulty walking. As what little natural coordination I possess deserts me, I
end up with a lump in my throat and my eyes streaming. It’s not the emotion that’s getting to me (I’m far too
cynical for that), I’ve just inhaled my whistle.
Thank Christ for the ribbon.
I manage to extricate it and it still works.
French kissing will probably be like swallowing thumb tacks for a
while but there’s no lasting damage. All
too soon, the march is over and we’re gathering in the Wood Quay
Amphitheatre for the party. I
meet up with Jason (sans hair) and some friends of his (Hi Keith
– you still owe me some ciggies!) and we sit back to enjoy the show.
Shirley, Panti and Penny are as wonderful as ever (Shirley even
manages to hold off the threatening rain with a mighty bellow of “Back
Off” directed at the heavens). However,
after Porridge Arse gives an impromptu performance (I thought for one
horrible moment he was going to crap but no, he merely lowered his
testicles en pleine vue), Jason and I decide to head for The
George. Soon,
we’re seated comfortably at the bar, reminiscing about last year’s
Pride (actually, Jason is reminiscing, I’m reduced to spluttering “I
didn’t, did I?” every couple of minutes).
We manage to get past 5pm without falling over, which is a
distinct improvement on last year. I’m doing well chatting up a guy who’s over from London
until he informs me (a) he’s going back to London in the morning and
(b) he’s been living with a guy over there for 12 years.
BITCH! We meet A
Leading Barrister and offer her free advice on how to dispose of her
boyfriend’s underwear. Jason
suggests petrol, I suggest shooting them.
I tell her that the best way to keep him in order is to announce
once a week that she is sleeping in the spare room with a vibrator and
that she isn’t coming out until he apologises. I think from the look
on her face she appreciates the advice but I’m not sure – I’ve
never been looked at like that by a barrister before. We
meet a lesbian called Eileen who tells me that, if I don’t get a shag
on Pride night, I won’t get a shag for the rest of the year.
Thanks a bunch, Cassandra. She’s
heading to the Tivoli for the Pride Ride but I’ve already had my fill
of walking for one day. Besides,
Jason has succeeded in missing his boyfriend’s calls on his mobile and
doesn’t have his new number to call him back.
But I’m quite happy to stay in The George.
There’s a truly festive atmosphere there, I have a seat and I
have the distinct impression that I’m becoming incoherent.
Fortunately, everyone around me is at the exact same stage of
inebriation so it doesn’t matter for once. Epilogue
– The Voyage Home
The
rest of the night passed in a blur of goodwill and good alcohol, good
fun and plenty of hugs. I
don’t remember laughing so much in a long time.
Eventually, I stumbled out into George’s Street and into Pony
Cabs, babbling incoherently. Luckily,
Joe knows me well enough to be able to tell the cab driver to take me to
Lucan and so, burbling and hiccupping, I was driven home.
It was the work of but a moment to strip, bound (ok, stagger)
into bed and commence my justly-famous impersonation of a newly-deceased
pope (eyes shut, mouth open and a fetching trail of drool anchoring my
face firmly to the pillow). When I awoke in the morning, I was a wreck. My ears were ringing. My eyes weren’t so much bloodshot as blood-soaked. My hair stood vertical, like a maiden aunt who has just had the verb “to rim” explained to her. My voice would make Lee Marvin sound like Caruso. I didn’t have a tongue anymore – I had a king size mattress. Someone was playing the Anvil Chorus on my brain. And my virginal dangly bits remained resolutely virginal and dangly. But I was still as happy as a sandboy. And I can’t wait until next year! Your View We would like to hear your thoughts on Pride 2000, please send them to reviews@gay-ireland.com
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