Ian, Scally, Jonathan, Mark, Andy, Guy and I met up at Green Park to watch the march go by. Don't rain on my parade: the heavens opened just as the parade reached us. Strangely, someone told me that the same thing happened at Hyde Park - perhaps the start of the march had its own cloud following it? A clear sign from God, obviously.

We half-heartedly joined the back of the march for all of - ooh - five minutes before we realised that:1, we were marching under the "London Bisexuals" banner, and 2, it was a bit dull. We wanted something more exciting - less official. So, after a brief offie-pitstop, we went to the unofficial Mardi Gras party on Old Compton Street. Bumped into everyone we've ever known, everyone we've ever had, everyone we've never had. Yet. ["Starfucker" T-shirt, you will be mine. Don't you know who I am?] Tube from Leicester Square "This is a Cockfosters train. Due to overcrowding, it will not stop at Finsbury Park. If you are going to Mardi Gras, please alight at Arse-nal. Would the gentleman with the horn please shut up." Everybody: "We've all got the horn!"

The park was good, I think. The weather was lovely. We wandered, met, drank, laughed, danced, listened, counselled, flirted, oohed, aahed, just a little bit, chilled, pilled, a little bit more. Trade tent, Fist tent, Gay Dad, Heaven tent, Champagne tent [hello Iain], Hear'Say, Steps, Ken Livingstone, Strongbow lounging tent-thing, and hundreds of bloody text messages: "We're at the Radio 1 stage." "OK, will find u." "Have moved from Radio 1 stage. Heading to Trade tent." "OK. Will find you." "Funfair!" "Am at Trade tent. Where r u?" "Come!"

Somehow it was chucking-out time and we walked - I mean waaaalked - to some godforsaken station - Holloway Road, perhaps? Crowded tube to Brixton (we must have changed lines somewhere?) and a brief chill-out and shower at Michael's, and then on to the Fridge. The rest, as they say, is mystery.