Rude Boyz

I finally made myself go, and it was rather fun. Someone, somewhere is probably writing a thesis on how G-A-Y is stupid but Rude Boyz is ironic. I dunno, but when amateur strippers are introduced as "having a JJB Sports card, and his pants are from Brixton market"... well, something's going on.

Anyway, booze was cheap, the music was loud, and I didn't smoke. And at midnight, an entire other half of the club opened up and it was... sleazy.

Sadly, the French can mix a nightclub and sauna rather well (ah, dear Le Depot, with your tie-fighters outside and your scary cyborg strippers inside). At some point, though, the English cut corners and introduce queuing.

Queuing is our veneer of civilisation which we apply to anything. It separates us from those mucky foreigners with their odd food and strange hand gestures.

So, even in the seedy, anything-goes backrooms of Rude Boyz there's queuing. People trudge obediently round as though they're waiting for a coat check rather than a "cruise cabin". The cruise cabins were a magnificent example of English corner- cutting. Just as we modelled Butlins on a Swiss ski resort, but with formica instead of log pine, so someone decided that throwing together a set of cardboard cupboards counts as "Amsterdam-style cruise cabins".

Hilariously, one bulged and then split open, like a little orgy pod full of surprised sweaty men with baseball caps.

Managed not to have sex. Although someone did thrust an erect penis at me and mutter "suck!" without glancing at me. Which probably has a minimalist charm.

It was all thrilling and just a little bit horrible. But, at one point, I did meet a nice guy called John. From Romford. "You deserve to be here!" I yelled, my head giddy from £1 vodka and nicorette. "Yeah!" he said. "I work here. I'll meet you on the dancefloor in five minutes."

He never did, actually. But by that time, they were handing out free glases of... hmm... actually, tasted a bit like lube... but... hummm... I remember in a magnificent gesture deciding to tell people they were very pretty before I left. Oh, yes, I was that drunk. So drunk, in fact, that the taxi driver and I chatted like old friends all the way home.