To Infinity, for the club White Heat. The venue is in Old Burlington Street, a short walk from Piccadilly Circus. An unusual location for a nightclub, surrounded as it is by Mayfair offices, foreign embassies, and the homes of the impossibly wealthy.

On my way out, I hear the roar of a large vehicle passing by the house. It is a gritting van. There's been much talk of a big freeze approaching, and as this time last year much of North London was left in gridlock due to icy roads, this year the councils are determined to make everyone know they're doing their bit, even though the climate is relatively mild, with not a snowflake in sight. An abundance of pink grit crunches underfoot as I make my way to and from the tube stations.

In Piccadilly, everyone is wearing their new winter coats and scarves. The sense of expectation in the air is palpable. It might as well be Christmas Eve. When it comes down to it, Londoners do rather like a little bit of snow, and feel cheated if an entire winter passes without any. Aside the gritting vans on Regents Street are more municipal trucks, this time with miniature cranes. They are taking down the last remnants of the Christmas lights. On January 28th.

After a brief "confusion" over the guest list, I greet the person who has invited me here, Miss Mira Manga. She was once the singer of a Reading punk-pop band called Disco Pistol and is now promoting bands at this club. She buys me a drink, which helps me calm down after my guest list "problem". Always a good idea. People should buy me drinks more often, you know. I'm not entirely joking! It's all very well them approaching me, saying "I like your look", but if they really want to appreciate my efforts in maintaining my appearance against the ravages of time, the restrictions of living on benefits, the pressures of fashion, and the London weather, the best way they could show it is by buying me a drink. I'm so poor at the moment, and chances are they're richer than I am. The sweetest words a human being can utter to another are not "I love you", but "What are you having?"

I suppose I could score the art of nightclubbing on a budget with a points system. If I have to pay my way in and pay for all my own drinks, zero points. If I am on a discount list, where I still have to pay something, one point. Getting in for free: one more point. Free cloakroom treatment: quite rare, so three points. Being bought a drink, or given a free drink voucher, not nearly common enough for me, so two points per drink.

Tonight was a discount list affair, after some argument, plus a welcome drink from Ms Manga. I had to pay for the cloakroom. So, a three points evening. Not bad, and it means I can go out again this week. Thursday beckons with C33X at the Spitalfields Arts Cafe, then Riviera F up the road in Shoreditch an hour later, then onto Kash Point in Soho.

Back to tonight. I arrive too late for the first band, Hypo Psycho. Oh yes. Apparently they are extremely young men with those fashionable hedgehog haircuts, who play ska music, and are managed by the same people as Busted. Busted are a chart pop band, I am reliably informed. You heard it here last.

Then, a group called Corporation Blend. I know, I know. More sinfully young boys, one in eyeliner and skinny tie, playing Stooges-esque rock that's so painfully loud, I start to wonder if I'm just getting old, or going deaf, or both. Thankfully, I see a few young girls in the audience with their fingers in their ears. Music like this is far more enjoyable to make than to listen to. Someone should gently alert bands of this ilk to this fact. But they wouldn't be able to hear the advice.

Finally, the act I've come to see, Simon Bookish. Mr Bookish is the stage persona of a charming young man called Leo. His live performance consists of just himself, a microphone, and a laptop belting out frantic electronic melodies. Resplendant in black judo trousers with red belt, black pinstripe shirt with red striped tie, a diamante brooch in the shape of a bunch of grapes, and a hand-sewn polka-dot 15th century clown's gown, he throws himself about the stage, and often into the audience, with such zeal that it's both thoroughly exhausting and invigorating just watching him. One man with the energy of a 74-piece dance troupe. One song appears to be called "Terry Riley Disco". Mr Bookish never disappoints.

Offstage, Leo tells me he dreamed about me today. While falling asleep at work. Ms Manga also mentions this to me:

Ms M: (slightly astonished at my lack of reaction) What do you think about that?
Me: Oh, I get told this a lot. It's never sexual. I think it may be the occupational hazard of having a cartoonishly distinctive look. Or, rather, an occupational perk. I'm also very easy to draw.

I also meet Isobel, a girl I first met while on tour with Orlando in Manchester, and am introduced to Lisa, who recommends I switch to Mac lipgloss, and tries some out on me there and then. I'm happy to oblige.

The club plays all kinds of impressively tasteful music, from Bowie to The Fall to The Postal Service to Tindersticks to My Bloody Valentine. The DJ who spins the latter, a track off the early 90s album "Loveless", must, I muse, be barely out of his teens. I saw MBV when they toured to promote that album. I feel terribly ancient.

In fact, most of the clientele at White Heat are extremely young, and more to the point, extremely not buying me a drink. I've used up my own meagre drinks budget for the night, so I saunter off home.

Standing on Tottenham Court Road, snow starts to fall after all. It's really very beautiful, and Richard Curtis could put the scene in one of his popular films.

But then Real, Unfair, Cruel Life crashes into the frame. A bearded man collars me:

Man: Excuse me. I'm not a beggar, but… I've just got to get to Leyton. I only need TEN pee. Just TEN pee.
Me: Here you are, then. (produces the coin)
Man: …. or a pound. Just a pound.
Me: You said ten pee! I don't have a pound!
Man: (walks off)

There's gratitude for you. Really, London beggars must learn a little consistency in their appeals. What can the unions be thinking of? I'm a London beggar myself, and all I ask is just one drink.

Or another.

At about 1 AM, I get off the night bus in Highgate and walk up Southwood Avenue. Everything is lightly dusted in snow, and it's still falling. I hope the bearded man managed to get to Leyton all right. Or at least, somewhere warm. I feel someone is going to turn London upside down and shake it at any moment, sending gossamer fops like me flying around Big Ben, and serve me right.

Taylor Parkes sees me from his window and calls me in. We sip Earl Grey and watch the live broadcast of "I'm A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here". For readers outside the UK, this is an immensely popular TV programme where a group of celebrities are stranded in the Australian jungle. This year's party includes Johnny Rotten and Lord Brockett.

The screen features constant text messages from viewers.
One is "LORD B. UR SO FIT. LOVE STEVE X."