Twelfth sketch/Dan Keenan: Jeffrey Donaldson smiled a contented half-smile as he stepped it out along Shaftesbury Square.
More or less in step behind the Millar Memorial band as it led the massive procession, he soaked up the recognition.
Immaculately suited, sober and self-contained, he epitomised the Orange Order's favoured face.
The dark suits marched bowler-hatted behind the stately band, resplendent in bright collarettes and matching cuffs, some with swords drawn and clasped in white-gloved hands.
Jeffrey allowed himself nodding glances at the throng - he's a politician, they are the voters and it's been a good year so far. In contrast to the lead lodge's self-restraint, the onlookers were letting it all hang out. And what was hanging out was flab mostly - and a lot of it pierced and/or tattooed.
The mood was brash and boozy though in no way belligerent. Scary as hell if you didn't know to overlook the UVF memorial banners, the denunciations of "Dublin interference", the militarism and the numbers who were simply out of their heads with lager at 10.30 a.m.
"Liven up for f...'s sake," roared one Orangeman at the crowd during a lull. He seemed only half joking. Overhead, a British army helicopter droned a constant reminder of the hint of menace surrounding Ardoyne and the potential for trouble.
Banners extolling the Orange take on Irish history flicked in the breeze. One east Belfast lodge carried an image of Elizabeth I crowned the cause of "England's Greatness". Another banner portrayed an upended Titanic, perhaps a curious illustration of Belfast's once mighty industrial muscle.
Legions of proud bands proceeded, many of them neat and meticulous, all strutting perfectly. Behind them in step came the current generation of Defenders, Sons of Conquerors, Ulster's Finest and True Blues.
Small boys with simple sashes ambled nonchalantly behind fathers adorned with symbols of Orange honour.
Women's lodges tottered past on high heels - matching handbags on left shoulders.
Minivans and black taxis carried the infirm and the ancient. Bonnets and boots were festooned with loyalist and Scottish regalia. Old sunken-cheeked faces peered out from behind tinted glass.
Other bands, many of them heavy on the percussion, pounded past.
Some dressed garishly in electric blue uniforms, others in loud purple with significant orange plumes dangling from their berets. Scottish bands piped and whistled to the approval of the thousands.
One large woman, gleefully uninhibited and wearing a skimpy top with Wanna Play? just about legible on her Himalayan bosom, burst on to the road and lifted a swirling drummer's kilt. The discovery of substantial black underpants prompted a chorus of guffaws.
Baton-twirlers, alas scarcer than in days of old, performed magnificently.
Shaven-headed and sweating unhealthily, they cavorted before the drummers. Batons blurred like propellers before being tossed mightily into the air to great whoops of acclaim.
One, dressed only in soccer shorts and costly Nike trainers, swaggered shamelessly for the girls. King William tattoos plastered his hard body alongside key battle dates from the glorious past - 1690 and all that. Let's hope he doesn't change his mind in later life.
Despite the moderation of Jeffrey Donaldson, the reverend gentlemen and the temperance lodges, it was a day for excess.
Seismic thumps from massive drums, piercing flute renditions of The Sash and beer-swilling by the crateload - it was a grand day to be a Prod and Proud.