The night opened, appropriately enough, with a drumroll. A really, really long drumroll as I waited at King's Cross for 10 minutes for a train*, and a very enthusiastic man with some bongos played drums, either as a form of highly unsuccessful busking or extremely effective sadism. I suspect the latter, judging from the blissful expression on his face.
Then I met up with S&M (hur hur hur! I am five) and got pleasantly lost in EC2. When we finally found the club, it turned out to be a very unassuming little door, with the tiniest non-illuminated sign known to man, and not yet open. We killed time by going looking for cash machines, discovering that Old Street station is extremely close to my office, that cash machines are surprisingly hard to find in the city of bankers, and that donuts purchased on impulse at petrol stations at 10pm are actually even more delicious than ordinary ones.
We then met up with T&J outside the club, to discover that somebody had tossed a cigarette butt into a construction site skip right next to the club. Since the skip was full of paper and cardboard, it was soon blazing merrily and threatening to take the rest of the building with it. So as we continued to queue ten feet away, the fire department showed up and extinguished the blaze as already quite inebriated patrons blew kisses and posed for phonecam pics in front of the fire engine, in a thoroughly surreal manner. This is all before we even got in the door.
The venue is called Plastic People. It's underground, clean and well-appointed, extremely dark and absolutely full to the brim of people taking drugs. The toilets were an unused urinal next to a long, long queue of twos and threes of people waiting for the cubicle and talking loudly about how they were about to do coke. As J said, it wasn't so much like they were taking drugs in your toilet, as you going to the toilet in their drug den. I'd have felt apologetic, had they not all been total wankers.
The music was absolutely excellent, however: nothing I'd heard before, and all the greater for that. If that DJ ever plays again at a venue say, three or four times the size, I will be so there.
NB to non-Londoners: this is considered a shockingly long time between trains on the underground. Anything over four minutes on the arrivals board prompts moans of frustration from your average commuter.