At the weekend Katie and I went to Birmingham Pride Festival. We've been doing this every weekend for the last few years. We could say that it's because we have some gay friends and family and it's a way of showing solidarity with the cause. Of course, the fact that it's a good day out and you get to drink beer in the sunshine might have something to do with it.
The sun shone, the drag queens were outrageous, the crowds were happy and, well, gay. The market stalls were, in the main, doing a roaring trade. Slogan T-shirts - for the boys, "I'm not gay, but my boyfriend is" and for the girls, "Yes we are. No you can't watch."
But there was one stall that was quiet. I think they'd made a tactical error. It looked lovely, it really did. All stripped pine and antique-y fittings. Another time, another place, and it'd be beating off the customers with sticks.
But it was, perhaps, too much to expect a hot chocolate stall to go down well in the middle of a gay festival during the May Bank Holiday.
For starters, it was into the high twenties, temperature-wise. And you've got to be pretty dedicated to want hot chocolate - marshmallows or not - when you're building up a sweat. Even though some of the potential clientele were wearing not-very-much-at-all, there were never going to be many takers.
Then there's the demographic. Brother no. 2 and his partner were up from the weekend from Brighton to see how other cities do Pride. And he was beside himself. He actually took a picture of the hot chocolate stall. "They'll never believe this back home," he muttered. "WKD Blue, Red Bull perhaps. Vodka would be a cert. But hot chocolate? With this crowd?"
They're here. They drink beer. Get used to it.