Observational blogging from the lead of the mardi gras parade.
The thing about mardi gras is that anything goes. Just when you think you've seen it all and nothing could possibly catch your eye...
There's always someone with a bigger, better and louder bike than yours:
Or, there's always someone with a better dressed bike than yours:
Or, just when you think you've seen your favourite outfit:
You see one that just takes the cake (no, not the guy on the right trying to get himself into the photo):
You find yourself a bit intimidated by being marshalled to a meeting point next to the hardcore B&D types:
But then someone breaks the ice by telling one of the rubber girls standing up high on the flat-bed truck that from the ground, we can see her tampon string poking out of her fishnets...
It did feel a little odd that people were standing 5 deep alongside the marshalling area, taking a bajillion photos of us all just standing around, or queuing for one of the five portaloos they'd allocated for about 2000 people (some organisational genius there):
And we were a bit bummed that the chicks next to us got on the front page of the paper, but we didn't:
But all that doesn't matter when there's 300,000 odd people going mental for you to rev the tits of your bike... happy to oblige! So much so that poor Nordberg (that's my bike's name) just about overheated.
Looking up to see every balcony packed with people (in a few cases, all nude), kids hanging from street signs and every last person with a smile on their face.
You don't get that too often.
All those suckas who reckon mardi gras is dead can stay the feck at home. Turns out we had good time without you.