Darian dragged me to Kashpoint, and I forgot to look up the theme before I went.
"It's 'Flesh'," said Darian, stirring his drink.
"Oh," I said. I was wearing a t-shirt with a kitten on. Hopefully.
"I'm off to change into my leather jockstrap," he announced, leaving me alone in Islington's The Green. At the bar five pretty waiters struggled to serve one customer.
Kashpoint was the normal fabulous mixture of people who'd spent A Lot of Time Dressing Up, women in ballgowns, and twinks who'd tried a little too hard to wear very little.
On stage, people in Burkhas were performing old English folk songs.
Then the Mad Vag Lady turned up.
Once upon a time there was a porn star called Aiden. Aiden had a lot of fun but didn't enjoy it much, so wrote books about it, and then some poems.
He's now decided to write some pop songs, and luckily, he's still miserable, so he's written lots of them. They were to be sung by the Mad Vag Lady, who took to the stage in a slit white smock covered with (fake?) menstrual fluid. She proceeded to sing the songs, grab her crotch, and cartwheel.
All the songs were about wanting to have a lot of unhappy sex, please. They were basically "Barbie Girl", but a bit slower, partly in French and sung by a female Marvin the Paranoid Android.
Pleasantly, Aiden had turned up to see his stuff performed, and, like a proud parent was stood at the front, filming the Mad Vag Lady, and even giving encouraging little nods and hand gestures (now twirl! now cartwheel! now grab your bits! well done, dear!).
Then the CD skipped and Aiden got very cross and went home to write some more unhappy things.
Then an American came on to perform rap while wearing a 12 foot strap-on penis, and Darian flitted about, irritatingly sober, explaining carefully to me about how he didn't dare try and chat up a man who'd turned up in only a thong, cricket pads and green paint as his boyfriend was also there, wearing only a tennis racket.
At three am the world started to tilt, slowly, and so I walked home giggling.