Really, we’re starting to think that this is sub-par entertainment and certainly it lacks class. We look at each other. When will this pathetic excuse for a support act sing its swansong and make room for the main party piece? The girls are unimpressed. We’ve paid money for this. We down the shots. We get cream moustaches; isn’t that the point? We stare at them while we lick them off. And sure enough it all becomes a bit too much for the two fancy mice, because finally they excuse themselves and scurry away. Before they leave they say, ‘Are you ready for the soft touch of the World’s Best Mixologist? Cocktails for the ladies!’

SINGLE CREAM

Ruth

Now

What got into me?

The first thing I see is my wristwatch. At 2:53 in the morning I am holding tight on to the plastic bar fixed to the wall of the disabled toilet. This isn’t the toilets in the club, which have blue neon lights and sticky surfaces – so that people can’t do drugs in them, although I never know what exactly happens to drugs under blue lights – but the toilet out back, the one only staff use.