Adam bounds in all green-beanied and “Booyakashah!” then come Sheandoagh-Jemma-Alex-Devina-Frank-Danny and Fliss. With Mike already on the couch waxing airy it’s a full house tonight. We sit huddled in the usual pre-night-out jitterstate, talk of gas plumbers, birthdays, holidays, one ear tuned to the ticketa-bookata stereo sounds. The rain throws racketing vengeance on the roof but we shrink safely into each other, ready for the onslaught.

Later we tumble past surly bouncerspeak – “Get-in-line-I-SAID-get-in-line-get-in-LINE” – and huddle inside, shaking off the cold night and shuffling our bit-too-flimsy dancing feet. DJ Daemos marks our entrance with a flick of the wrist, a signal to the banger-boys to nod faster as they swig their bottled-beer-none-of-that-girly-shit drinks.

I wander alone, feeling the bass climb sneakily up my spine to knock at my cortex. Little groups are chatting, shoving, jigging knees in private corners, appearing suddenly under trawling blue circles of light. Daemos is lit in red like some demonic figure, a spirited conductor, whipping the air with his arms. It is warm and steamy and the sound is high, thrumming, the gossip-sound of the crowd a cacophony of frog-speak in a noisy swamp, seagulls fighting over chips to the sound of stomach-shaking music.

For some reason the songs sound plaintive, expectant. I sit sipping warm white goon, feel suddenly sad I wonder where all the others have gone … “Whaddya writing?” A white face looms, wheezing vodka-soaked breath from caked lips. Daemos sets free a demented Dr Who themed stormer as she adjusts her dress, sets her knickers free. I explain, she nods, leaves satisfied. I turn to watch a pair of skinny-jeaned legs thrashing around as their owner finds his rhythm to the bada-bada-bada in his head.

Later I am drinking vodkacranberrysoda and dancing this is great I love it love it as Concept takes to the stage. Disappointingly the female MC leaves the stage, takes away the rhyming and soft melodic crooning that layered a peaceful groove over an otherwise frantic backdrop. Faced with the unenviable task of opening for Marky, Concept makes a valiant charge into the consciousness. Within minutes I feel like some dirty Swedish masseuse with eyes for the dark side has started pummeling up and down my spine. I dance squashed at the front of the crowd for an age, clammy skin sliding off strangers, elbows knocking, feet whirring.

Before DJ Marky starts I sneak off upstairs, sweat-soaked, seeking a break. I look down on a room full of people with soulful gazes fixed firmly on the stage, looking like a miniature army of believers marching to command. And when Marky arrives on stage with MC Stamina the crowd erupts like enthusiastic evangelists. It would be impossible to offer a blow-by-blow account of their stonking four-hour set; I can but offer a mere glimpse. What makes this music so appealing is the homage Marky pays to traditional Brazilian beats, taking the listener on an aural adventure to jungled lands. Close your eyes and mmm hmm you are lying on some squeaky-sanded beach on the coastline, swatting mosquitoes and drinking mojitos thinking oh yeah mou-chachas, sing me your sweet sad songs but open them to find yourself in sweaty ol’ Monkey Bar, Perth, Australia. I prefer the fantasy and dance eyes closed to the memories of hazy sunsets, melting tropical drinks, beachside epiphanies …

Time bleeds, disappears, lost in a mess of hyperfast beats that nod to the booty-shakers’ efforts. The duo saves their biggest crowd-pleaser LK until well into the set. The whole room sings ecstatically along to Stamina’s melodic lyrics and we have a collective ‘moment’, a happy pulse through the room. Rotation shifts the sound into silky suave territory, which slows me. I remember I am thirsty. Downstairs, I pause outside the toilets, where the sounds emanating from both rooms clash and grind against each other, too much for my poor ears. Inside, I slurp from the tap, lick my lips, lean against the cold drippy porcelain wall, close my eyes, ... for fuck’s sake I have no idea what to write this time… drifting …

” ... but he never told me, even after I asked, and so I said…”

                        (Chorus) ”... Hopelessly devoted to yoooooou …”

                                    “He is such a shit, I can’t believe what a shithead he is!”

“God, I’m trashed.” Eyes opened, I watch the girl in front of me anxiously examine her reflection as someone in the cubicle behind us retches violently for the fourth time. The girl looks at me. “I made a terrible mistake earlier,” she says earnestly, then stops. “But anyway, who gives a shit?” She smiles tightly. “As long as my bits are all covered, things will be ok.” Then she has gone, shimmering out the door and into the crowd as I lean back against the wall, suddenly tired.

It is four, or five, Marky has finished and Diamond D has taken to the stage, trying to use his formidable vinyl collection as a battery charger. Walking through the masses has suddenly become easier and the music doesn’t seem so loud. I drift upstairs, find my friends chattering against the back wall, watch as the stragglers around me kiss or argue or laser wide-eyed stares around the room. I borrow a pen from the barman, which I promise to return but do not, swallow the last of my drink, crunch the ice, pull on my coat. Leaning over, I look out of the window, watching the escaping gusts of coloured smoke puff gently over the damp, dark streets.