First time I'd been to this - a celebration of how spledidly horrid it is being gay - a collection of grubby camp and disco misfits, it was a place to have fun, but not to pull.
Around me were mock funerals with undertakers wearing strap-ons, thimbles of sherry, modern art "happenings" and, the biggest Gay Shame of all, a diet coke with a twist of vodka was £4.50.
So, I drank beer for the first time in years. I'd forgotten what beer does to you, and how beer drunk isn't the same as vodka drunk. I bumped into someone who also hadn't drunk beer for a while. We stood, reeling, and glaring vaguely. "I'm about half an hour from wanting a fight," he said. Someone trod on my foot and I agreed with him.
At some point in the evening I had a rare moment of tact. I ducked into the loos to avoid a journalist who once offered me a blow job in return for a good review. Darian was puzzled, and I explained. I very nearly included the man's name, but for some reason didn't. Turned out to be a good thing, as his boyfriend was standing next to me at the urinal.
I walked home from the Elephant and Castle. It helped.