There was a time these jerk chicken cookers owned the hood before the hedge funders hedged in. And then glory be, on my way home, I realized that the people who were to later mount the floats were using my street as a changing room to get ready for when they’ll hump to music so loud your kidneys vibrate. The rails in front of the fuck off houses were covered in feathered headdresses like birds of paradise had just swooped in and taken over. There were pop-up make up stands where both sexes had jewels pasted on wherever flesh showed. I felt how inferior we white people are in our sad little pale bodies while these luscious, smooth-skinned Jamaican descendants put us to shame. Even fat girls looked sensational; here’s the bitch - none of them sag, none of them have wrinkles, even if they’re 90 they can shake their ass while we just solidify and our bones crumble.
I ended up helping put on gigantic peacock headdresses and bejewelled bikinis like some minion to the feathered Gods. We white people suddenly literally pale into insignificance standing next to them, those who are about to have the time of their lives. I wish I could get on the float with them but I’d be flung off when they realize I have no beat. Their lives are probably so hard and we are probably responsible for making it so hard, taking over their neighbourhood. But on this one day, they rule.