If David Lynch and Tim Burton got together and decided to open a nightclub and then Lars Von Trier vomited in it, this would be it. Inside it is all filthy black walls, mirrors and chrome seating. It’s kind of like the Jazz Cafe in Camden. That simile only stretches so far. Not so many famous musicians play here. None infact. I only mean by the comparison that it’s the sort of place that if you saw it in daylight would have you running screaming for the exit. It is a place meant only for darkness and drunkness.

Our friend Megan, who introduced me to ecstatic dance has brought us here and is now introducing the whole club to erotic dance. I’m not involved in this one. Ecstatic is my limit. Interestingly the erotic produces the ecstatic in the huddle of Balinese men salivating at the side of the dancefloor. Who’d have thought it?

On stage there is a band of 6 men. They are playing so earnestly that there is no room for piss taking, despite the fact their choice of song is limited to Earth Wind and Fire and Ricky Martin Hits. Five are Balinese, average height 5’5. The sixth man on the stage is my husband. He is towering over the others. And he is singing Bon Jovi. I can see his every move through the gaps in my fingers. And yes I did just see him punch the air.

I take stock. There are two erotically dancing girls (dancing together), a pile of salivating local men and my husband singing (and punching the air). Give him his due he can sing. And he appreciates irony.

I look around for the one-armed man.