A deep sonorous gong reverberates. “Ah So!” Cue Alan, our host, bowing politely, in a red rubber Chinese smock emblazoned with dragons, a little Chinese titfer atop his smiling boat race, Is this evocative enough of the mystic East? Or are we closer to Leyton Orient?

Well, Images, a smart, snazzy venue, is smack in the heart of the East End and Club Smack is a very heartening night out for anyone who fancies a dance, a bit of a laugh and ample opportunities to play. There’s cheap drinks, great bar staff, unobtrusive security and hot hostess Miranda bustling about, keeping the banter going and making everyone feel welcome.

Divine DJ Danielle opened with some great house mixes of Anime themes such as Cowboy Bebop plus a Peter Gunn mash up that was groovier than Austen Powers. The floor filled. Some very beautiful young girls danced more or less naked, their fishnet body stockings bringing out the best in Mother Nature’s handiwork. Tantric Kerry, a fetching blonde, complimented me for my short black and red leather kilt and sporran, really compliments for Kadett, the amazing Dutch craftsperson, (check her out at BeautifulandDamned.co.uk - lewd, luxurious leatherwear.)

Speaking of Sino-Scottish cultural exchange, George Melly once witnessed a drunken Scotsman telling a harmless Chinese waiter to “Fuck off! You inscrutable cunt!” Be that as it may, I was getting a bit inscrutable myself as the evening wore on. And I wasn’t the only one. Was I really asked to dance in the cage? The lady who asked me was unaware that Heather Mills McCartney, in unidexter mode, dances more gracefully than me.

It was a good turnout. As well as some chic and chatty out of town couples, several people flew in from the continent, and further afield, including a Finnish sub-fish which ended up in our catch. I’ve had quite a few near death experiences in my time, when I’ve got my little chemistry experiments wrong, but nothing compares to listening to a huge Finnish geezer making small talk in English at 7.am. I’m not Catholic but I am now familiar with the concept of purgatory.

Outside, the endless deluge was closer to a Typhoon I once experienced in Hong Kong, almost flooding the smokers out of the back yard. It was here that a T-girl with shapely legs sheathed in fine stockings confessed to being called Derek. As she was ‘of a certain age’ and slightly refined does this make her a ‘T-lady’? (Hot and strong, love.) Should it be illegal for attractive trannies to call themselves ‘Derek’? Perhaps our new Mayor will stop faffing about and apply himself to this burning issue.

Near dawn I had a lovely play with Sub Jeanie, while her groom to be went off to talk his customary bollocks elsewhere. And I only had to repel knob-in-hand boarders twice. As far as I know swingers aren’t supposed to behave like this, either. I’d love to see the book of etiquette which states ‘There are two strangers alone in a dungeon, one of whom is on a St Andrew’s Cross, thrusting her pert bottom put to be gently smacked, stroked and fingered. Her legs are wide apart, she is groaning and moaning, eyes screwed tightly shut, head slowly undulating. A shaven-headed gargoyle is whispering encouragement in her ear while teasing and tweaking reddened flesh, rubbing an ever-moistening cleft with his other hand. A gentleman intrudes. What should he do? Well, it’s obvious, innit? He gets his knob out, gives it a shake to assist a floppy half erection and does a quick prance around in tribute to the Great God Pan, in the hope of rubbing up against whatever female flesh remains unshielded. ’

Still, more people came in and discreetly left, so I can’t complain. (“Which will make a fucking change.”) A most excellent evening.

Try it yourself. Club-smack.com at Images 483 Hackney Road London E2 9DE