So there I was in Sydney, anyway. And one of the reasons I was there then, was for Mardi Gras. One of the biggest gay festivals in the world - probably the biggest, in fact, and acclaimed as a helluva party. But on trying to get tickets for the party itself, I found that it'd cost about AU$180 - 60 quid - unless I could find a local with tickets to spare, which I couldn't. Still, wasn't too worried - the party is just one small part of a month long celebration - plays, film festivals, artshows, clubbing events; there's something different on most nights for the month before Mardi Gras, which culminates in the parade, which is followed that evening by the Party, and numerous other parties in every gay pub and club in Sydney. So figured I'd settle for a wander around every place I could get into for free-ish.
Oxford street was getting pretty full from about 4pm. Every milk crate in the city was in use for people to stand on - some entrepeneurs had managed to amass stacks of (free) crates and were selling them off for $5 a pop. I squeezed myself onto the ledge of a high grassy area, and was happily looking over their heads anyway - until some bright sparks came along with 50 crates and proceeded to build a mini-stage, stacked 3 crates high. So I had to stand on tiptoe like everyone else. And it was three hours of waiting in anticipation with tens of thousands of others squeezed behind the barriers - a long wait, enlivened by occasional flocks of drag queens breaking out to strut their stuff, to applause from the impatient .. and one rather confused old lady being escorted up the road by a policeman to great acclaim from the bored crowds, to which she gave a cheerful, somewhat regal, wave.
The parade finally began at 7, led off by Dykes on Bikes as is traditional - hundreds of choppers and harleys dominated, with leather clothing or absence thereof, with a sprinkling of high powered sportsbikes and giant trikes, plus a single Vespa 50cc scooter, looking rather small and pathetic by comparison, but getting its own round of applause anyway. And then 3 hours of every possible subsection of the community, on floats or just dancing along on foot. There was a large (ir)religious contingent, doing stuff like a catholic themed St Muscle Mary float where all the dancers were dressed as bare-assed bishops - you could see the appeal; lots of luxurious colours and rococco gold, all very camp. But there were some real religious groups - gay Quakers, Methodists, even real gay Catholics, who presumably had found something appealing about burning in hell for eternity. Ethnic subgroups - lots of Asians, of course; and almost no Aborigines (which holds true for almost all aspects of Austrlian life. The only ones you see around is a smattering of alcoholics on the street; you just do not see any aborigines doing basic stuff like shopping or working - which makes it all the easier for attitudes to remain anti. I have read that there's a vast subsection living a totally separate life out in the outback somewhere, and it's only the ones that are outcasts from their own culture who wind up alcoholic on the streets. The general attitude towards them seemed to be that they're all lazy alkies scrounging off the taxpayers money - though rarely put quite so clearly. I met some Irish people in Sydney who said pretty much those exact words, that if you had any working for you, you'd have to keep a close eye on them or they'd be off drinking the money away. Which reminded me of what English people used to say about Irish people. Vive la difference. Australians are frank in their attitudes; I met several who, on hearing that I was Irish, would immediately say "Ah, I'll bet you like to drink then". This was made more frustrating by the fact that I always had a pint in my hand when they said that - thereby rendering the comment self-obvious and irrefutable in a highly irritating manner. But I digress...). And subgroups of every sort. Tradespeople, in a Bob the Builder theme, irritating theme tune and all. The Vulva Owners Association. The S&M contingent, who hadn't needed to put extra effort into their clothes design - just basic metal spikes, black rubber, leather, pvc, and the usual garb. Masses of drag queens, nobly walking the full length in crippling heels. Parents and friends of lesbians and gays - looking rather nervous. Gay parents, with lots of wailing babies. Unions of various sorts. Safe sex and Aids groups. Lots of sporting groups. Various choral and dramatic groups. More stuff than I can remember one month later, but enough to provide 3 hours of non stop spectacle. I was chatting with a couple of Irish girls - both very straight, and very new to non-Irish life. After watching the S&M crew getting it on hot and heavy, one of them cleared her throat and said: "It's very different to Patrick's Day parades, isn't it?". Bless her cotton socks, it is.
So on for a long night pubbing and clubbing. People were merry and chatty everywhere you went, and be damned if I can remember a single person I met, but I have a broad blurry picture of a very good time overall. Not as wild as the party itself - which by all accounts, consists largely of getting very high on various chemicals and having sex on the dancefloor - but good cheerful fun. By comparison with London Mardi Gras - the parade is far better, and the supporting crowd a lot more mixed than in London; but the party afterwards is far too exclusive. The London Mardi Gras has a relatively small parade, but the festival in Finsbury Park is more of a day long event for the community - less mixed with the straight crowd since you pay to enter, but broader in range than the Sydney party. By comparison with New Orleans Mardi Gras - well, New Orleans is mostly more sanitised, fun for all the family, American work; the gay aspect is only a small subsection of it all. But the advantage of N'Orleans is that the parades are truly spectacular - not following any theme at all; just krews on floats trying to outdo each other in splendour, and they have the tradition of beading to uphold - each float's krew throws gifts of various types of beads to the crowd, which gives active interest to the spectacle. This generous idea gets twisted down Burboun Street, where the crowd gets drunker and wilder and there are no floats, just thousands of people on the balconies with beads - which now are only given in return for a display of flesh or passion. And the passion sure rose high when late at night, the fundamentalist Christian group came along bearing signs saying "All drunkards druggies faggots unbelievers will burn in hell" - as you can imagine, that was pretty much the whole crowd damned, and it was not appreciated, so everyone started seriously flaunting their vices; remaining clothes came off on the balconies and thousands were treated to live lesbian sex shows - which successfully diverted attention from the damning signs.
Anyway. Mardi Gras is always interesting, whereever you are.
So, given that I wasn't doing much else, and the crowd in the hotel were not particularly outgoing, I went to lots of pubs and clubs to meet people. Plenty of long nights out, getting home at dawn after dancing my feet off. It was pleasant, being in a place long enough to meet the same people several times. There was a London couple who'd just started a year in Australia, Lorraine and Soo - Soo was a nurse but investigating every avenue out of it; last I saw of her, she was checking out becoming a fireperson. Lorraine was studying sound engineering - as a full time student, she had all of 10 hours a week of lectures to attend - bloody students. In my day, we had 26 hours a week, for chrissakes; and were the envy of the RTC students, who had to contend with 35 hours a week - why do Australians get off so lightly? And Aine, an Irish girl who was working as a financial controller for years there (favourite trick if someone annoying rang her: make their pay conditional on spelling her name right. They always lost. O-N-Y-A was a popular attempt... Fun Things To Do with the Irish Language.). Met up with them all for one final Big Night Out before heading to the USA; they had to wimp out at midnight as usual, pleading work the next day - but I was already well lit, and on for what had become a personal tradition before a long flight - stay out the full preceding night, so you can sleep on the plane (without particularly intending it, I'd done this before flying from Brisbane to Christchurch, and from Auckland to Cairns - so thought I'd continue from Sydney to LA. It does work, but on mature reflection, you don't necessarily feel any better for having slept a bit on the plane). So I started chatting with the guy next to me in Stonewall, who seemed a little tense. He said he was an ex-murderer, of his father, for big reason, who'd just been let out of a long stretch in prison, and was finding it very difficult indeed to adjust to life outside - hence the tension. He was interesting - not a bad guy, overall, I think, but coming from a really bad place. He tended to react quite violently to even the most minor provocation - which, as he suggested himself, came from being in prison and never able to let any weakness show. I suggested that the person who isn't much affected by others is probably one who'd get more respect. He said he'd think about it. It turned out he was straight, too - can't remember why he said he'd gone to a gay bar; hope it wasn't for the usual reason a violent straight bloke might go there - and he made a pass at me, and I gave my usual no thanks, and then he said something along the lines of: I bet if you kissed a real man like me, you couldn't resist. So, like a true bimbo, I did. But I could still resist, no second thought required.. I'm still not sure who counts as winning in that kind of situation. I ended up snogging a man and a murderer: he ended up without what he wanted. Anyway, we'd talked about half the night away by then, and now he wanted to kill some lad he'd sent with money to get drugs who hadn't returned, and who had started walking out the door. I offered to chase after the lad instead (being reasonably sure the lad would get beaten to a pulp if they started conversing), and I told the lad he'd really better come back in.. so he did, and apologised to yermanno because he'd spent the money and had none left and hadn't been able to get drugs for him after all - and yermanno said he didn't give a shit, just bring him the money - so the lad managed to get the money, with a small secret contribution from myself, and yermanno decided that was it for the evening, and left. So I ended up chatting with the lad for the remainder of the morning - he was a nice enough guy, though likely to get himself into plenty further such situations, and he introduced me to a further crowd or ten. Met one guy, an aboriginal, and this was the very first aborigine I'd met to chat to in the course of some 10 weeks of meeting people all around Australia. He was decent: mostly working in Sydney, but with strong roots in his tribe that he returned to often as he could. For myself, I was feeling good, happy, as you sometimes get after a long night of drinking and chatting and feeling you've been vaguely helpful to some people. He decided he liked me, and he gave me a traditional blessing in the language of his tribe, there in the dark pub, with the morning sun shining outside - said it was the first time he'd used his language to a white since he'd cursed someone in that pub several months previously - and I went out to meet Aine for lunch and collect my bags and go; and I realised that I felt blessed; that everything I could see around me seemed to have an extra layer of distinctness, and maybe it was just being beyond tiredness, or the drink I'd taken (though I'd changed to redbull hours previously) - but I did feel remarkably joyous and buoyant for a long time after.