The stewards in charge of the Tehran meeting hall reckoned the headcount was about 25,000, while the president's warm-up man optimistically put it near a million. But give or take a few hundred thousand sweating, bandana-wrapped foreheads, one thing was certain at Monday's campaign rally for President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad – when it comes to showmanship, Iran's leader is a hard act to beat.
The rally, one of the last before Friday's presidential election, combined the fever of a religious gathering, the jostling crowds of a rock gig moshpit, and the carefully choreographed build-up of a World Wrestling Federation grudge match.
Leaving absolutely nothing to chance, though, supporters sacrificed two sheep outside the hall's entrance, creating pools of blood to be stepped over as huge crowds arrived from all over the Iranian capital and beyond.
All the presidents' men - and it was mainly men, save for a few thousand women clad in black chadors - were then shoehorned into a hall roughly half the size of London's O2 Arena, and roughly a quarter of the size needed to avoid fatal crushing scenarios.
With the summer temperature outside already a sunny 30C, the sweat was dripping off the walls within minutes.
Rather like promoters for the Rolling Stones or the late James Brown, however, the president's aides like to keep his fans waiting to get them eager.
So for the next hour and a half, a string of warm up-acts were brought on, ranging from patriotic Iranian film makers to Reza Zadeh, Iran's Olympic weightlifter, a passionate Ahmadinejad supporter.
"We are here for the speech of Ahmadinejad, and so God is going to come and help us," yelled one speaker, with razzmatazz worthy of TV darts presenter Sid Waddell.
The crowd, some waving the yellow Kalashnikov-embossed flag of the Lebanese militant group Hizbollah, roared their approval.
As it turned out, however, neither the Almighty nor the president made a show.
First, a voice over the tannoy announced that Mr Ahmadinejad's motorcade was having trouble getting in through the crowd outside. Then, as the message was repeated half an hour later, more seasoned members of the Iranian media began rolling their eyes: Mr Ahmadinejad probably wasn't planning on turning up at all. Rather like the punk rock group the Sex Pistols, or the singer Pete Doherty, it is not unusual, apparently, for the president to plan a gig but then fail to show. It all adds to the mystique of the man, and in general his supporters don't mind as long as they get a chance for a good knees-up.
But as the crowds began streaming out of the hall again, supporters who hadn't been able to squeeze inside told a different story.
The president had indeed turned up, they said, but only to say hello to those in the overspill area, before shooting off again in his motorcade.
"He came and went about forty minutes ago, and we saw him," said a chador-clad old lady, proudly brandishing a mobile phone with footage of a procession of several cars swamped by people.
The rally, one of the last before Friday's presidential election, combined the fever of a religious gathering, the jostling crowds of a rock gig moshpit, and the carefully choreographed build-up of a World Wrestling Federation grudge match.
Leaving absolutely nothing to chance, though, supporters sacrificed two sheep outside the hall's entrance, creating pools of blood to be stepped over as huge crowds arrived from all over the Iranian capital and beyond.
All the presidents' men - and it was mainly men, save for a few thousand women clad in black chadors - were then shoehorned into a hall roughly half the size of London's O2 Arena, and roughly a quarter of the size needed to avoid fatal crushing scenarios.
With the summer temperature outside already a sunny 30C, the sweat was dripping off the walls within minutes.
Rather like promoters for the Rolling Stones or the late James Brown, however, the president's aides like to keep his fans waiting to get them eager.
So for the next hour and a half, a string of warm up-acts were brought on, ranging from patriotic Iranian film makers to Reza Zadeh, Iran's Olympic weightlifter, a passionate Ahmadinejad supporter.
"We are here for the speech of Ahmadinejad, and so God is going to come and help us," yelled one speaker, with razzmatazz worthy of TV darts presenter Sid Waddell.
The crowd, some waving the yellow Kalashnikov-embossed flag of the Lebanese militant group Hizbollah, roared their approval.
As it turned out, however, neither the Almighty nor the president made a show.
First, a voice over the tannoy announced that Mr Ahmadinejad's motorcade was having trouble getting in through the crowd outside. Then, as the message was repeated half an hour later, more seasoned members of the Iranian media began rolling their eyes: Mr Ahmadinejad probably wasn't planning on turning up at all. Rather like the punk rock group the Sex Pistols, or the singer Pete Doherty, it is not unusual, apparently, for the president to plan a gig but then fail to show. It all adds to the mystique of the man, and in general his supporters don't mind as long as they get a chance for a good knees-up.
But as the crowds began streaming out of the hall again, supporters who hadn't been able to squeeze inside told a different story.
The president had indeed turned up, they said, but only to say hello to those in the overspill area, before shooting off again in his motorcade.
"He came and went about forty minutes ago, and we saw him," said a chador-clad old lady, proudly brandishing a mobile phone with footage of a procession of several cars swamped by people.
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