So, we arrives at the bizarre venue - a converted theatre, with an highly elevated stage and a dancefloor that is about 40° to the horizontal, and within moments, much praise is heaped upon one's legendary barnet!
Bitches love Xymhair!
But there is only a triplicity of Pretties in the scarcely populated venue - two well hot barbabes, and Amber - a young Pretty we acquainted ourselves with.
First, we had to be subjected to The Support - a dreadful 80's Wedding Singer, an ungodly blend of Ricky Gervais, David Guest, George Michael, and assorted other horrors. 45 mins of awful awfulness.
And then on come The Band! And typically, only two people were on the slopey dancefloor. No prizes for guessing who!
Absolutely brilliant - and The Xym, being all slim and exercised thanks to Adrenalize, danced non-stop! Even whipping his jacket off for the best cover of She Sells Sanctuary I've ever heard!
So, after the gig, we stay to meet the band, as the evening becomes Club Night.
Oh, eldritch nightmare! Great Y'ha-nthlei at night! Under a gibbous moon venture out the cream of clubbing totty.
The lumbering loathsomness. The bulbous batrachian behemoths. The squat, toady terrors of amphibious abiguity. The deformed degenerate denizens of the deep. The misshapen, foul, barely human lurkers from below. The...
Well, you get the picture.
No Pretties for Xym here! Never before have I seen Stereotypical Norfolkness in the what-passes-for-scaly-webbed flesh. Why, I veritably feared for our return home, in case of waylayment by cultists bearing clubs carved with bas-relief of their fish-god, Dagon.
Much prefer The Whatacunt - where the grass is green and the Pretties are pretty.
Take.
Me.
Home!
