Con-ga! or, Top O' The Mornin'!

Last Saturday was St Patrick’s Day.  And what do we all think of on St Patrick’s Day?

Why, the Portobello Conga festival, of course!  And my apologies to the Irish among you, but it beat the heck out of drinking green beer.

Sorry, Seamus.  You just can't compete.

 The whole town was dressed up.

Squee!  Cuteness overload!

Busloads of conga troupes arrived.

No, they didn't paint that bus for the festival...

The buses always look like that.

As at any good outdoor party, street-meat was the order of the day.

Mnohm nohm nohm.

The party began with a boat tour around the harbour.

Then the troupes danced their way from the dock to the town square.

(And if you can’t appreciate the delicious illumination of human nature as illustrated by a woman flipping off her friend while marching in a parade, I just don’t want to know you.)

Even the cops couldn’t resist taking pictures.

Even the police need to get their conga on.

Sure, everyone got a little distracted now and again.

We interrupt this parade for an urgent text message.

Can’t.  Sit.  Still!

But they all pulled it together.  Each troupe got to strut their stuff on stage, and they were fantastic.

I wish we knew more about the symbolism of their outfits; the fertility symbols were pretty easy to figure out, but the dolls hanging from everyone’s clothing made me curious.  There were also a couple of men dressed as construction workers - orange pinnies, hard hats – and that really has me stumped, since the rest of the men onstage appeared to be kings or devils.  Where does the dressed-for-safety builder fit into this mythology?  On a similar note, I saw one of the off-duty kings step on part of a broken bottle.  He stopped, reached into his decorated bag, and pulled out a large black telephone receiver which he used to knock the offending glass off his Croc.  And while I applaud this creative repurposing of a now-useless device, I ask you: do you carry old-timey phone parts in your purse?  Because I don’t.  These fashion trends are passing me by.

Used as the manufacturer intended.

Eventually the rain came, and it was time to go home, happy and full.

When even the queens are hiding under superhero blankets, the party’s over.

Best.  St Patrick’s.  Ever.