It was splish, splash, splosh down at Pride last weekend. The parade was dry, thank God; oh, how we whooped it up for the emergency gays: the gay police,  the gay ambulance peeps, the gay Dyno-Rodmen (made that one up). The ‘oldest gay in the village’ got a veritable roar while the Gay Conservatives only mustered a bewildered whimper. Down at the park, we crammed into an assortment of big tops and sang along to the usual combo of Barbra Streisand and S Club Seven. Then, I made a dash for the Music of Black origin tent and shook my funky groove thang with a Roman Centurian, which was nice. Meanwhile, outside, I could see an Ursula Andress (c. 1,000 years BC) lookie likie in a furry two-piece engaged in a spot of mud wrestling. It was crazy but fabulous – just what Pride is all about.