Saturday evening: the White Mischief event at the Scala. A glorious, utterly packed gathering where for once I felt under-dressed. Lots of Victorian costumes: cleavages and corsets, top hats and high collars. One person wore a huge mirrorball on their head, another sported a mantelpiece clock as a hat. One gentleman was decked out in proper Jules Verne attire: waxed moustache, beard, frock coat, and a small riveted rocket strapped to his elegant back. And there was at least one panda costume. Not sure if pandas feature heavily in the works of Jules Verne (Around The World In Eighty Bamboo Suppers?), but as a rule I think most occasions can only be improved with a panda suit or two.

Managed to catch a few of the live acts, my favourite being the 1927 Cabaret, a whiteface performance like a kind of living silent movie, with piano accompaniment and animated projections matching the live goings-on. I also enjoyed Skinphony in the foyer, a tableau vivant of costumed ladies doing all kinds of vampiric things to each other in slow motion, not least the attaching of strings to spinal hooks for something called a ‘flesh harp’. And this was just what you saw on the way in. There was also a kind of ornate little wooden parlour set up, which was either a time machine or a kissing booth, or both.

I installed myself in the DJ cage for the Moon Room, and opened with Danny Elfman’s ‘Ice Dance’ from Edward Scissorhands (which sounded perfect and glorious – one of the bar staff even came over purely to complement me on my DJ-ing). Continued with various attempts at playing something stylish (Ute Lemper – see below) to being a shameless crowd-pleaser (Prince’s ‘Raspberry Beret’). Did the usual tactic of playing to the girls rather than the boys. Never DJ for boys. Get the girls dancing, and the boys will follow. One must only DJ to the girly side of boys.

DJ’d from 8pm till 1.30 in the morning, punctuated by the live acts and the high-kicking compere Mr Dusty Limits. Some of the acts in the room were bands with 30 minute sets, others were cabaret turns lasting 5-10 minutes. I totted up my DJ-ing time, and it came out at about three and half hours by 1.30am, by which point I was running out of both stamina and appropriate music.

I did try to find one of those in charge to ask if it was definitely all right to finish my stint at the decks and clock off, as the schedules seemed to indicate 1.30 was the room’s winding-down time. But the only organiser I could locate at this late hour appeared to be locked in a hedonistic embrace with an undisclosed other. It was one of those snogging positions where you can’t quite tell where one person ends and the other begins. I decided against interrupting such stabs at raw joy in this cynical world, and went to join my friends at the bar.

Actually, it might not have even been the organiser in question: when you see a couple heavily snogging, the urge is to look away rather than confirm identities. One thinks of the time-honoured ruse in romantic comedies: one character needing to hide their face at once:

‘Oh no – Edwards is coming! Quick, kiss me!’

In fact, this was pretty much the abiding spirit of the occasion. I’ve never seen quite so much snogging and groping at one gig, in spite of or perhaps encouraged by all the quasi-period costumes on display. Certainly, the Scala’s sweltering temperatures can only have nudged matters along such Bacchanalian paths.

Dusty Limits seemed impressed by my music collection, praising my choice of Ute Lemper’s version of ‘All That Jazz’ . Not just hers over any other singer’s either. It’s choosing her proper solo recording over the one she did as part of the Chicago revival’s London soundtrack. Oh, the sequined anorak-ness of it all.

DL: (looking at my laptop) Wow, has someone really released a pop song about Jacques Derrida?

DE: Ah yes. Scritti Politti.

As in early 80s Scritti, just before their proper pop hits. From the Rough Trade album Songs To Remember, which also features the song that gave Wet Wet Wet their name. And yes, I do live alone.

Said hello to Rhodri and Jenny, Lawrence, Charley (in blonde wig), Sarah PV, David RP, Ella and Davina, and Lucy M. Caught a black cab near the glowing new Eurostar terminal at St Pancras, with Charley and Lucy. The driver had a hint of madness about him, but no one died.