An hour later we're in the van, all trying to change at the same time, and I get fed up with being elbowed in the face. I decide to change in the club toilet after all, which is a bad move, since there are about three inches of water on the floor. I lock myself in a cubicle and somehow improvise a technique of changing while alternately balancing on one foot, cursing, and propping myself against the toilet seat. Finally, I emerge resplendent in a pair of burgundy flares, dark red platform shoes, a cheap off-white nylon shirt, and a gold lurex waistcoat with black star burst motifs.

Meanwhile, back in the van, Graham, the bassist, is getting into his lemon-yellow crimplene suit. Crimplene, it turns out, was not the ideal material for that friend of his mother's to make the suit from, since it’s starting to stretch and lose its shape here and there. But it doesn't look too bad yet, especially when worn with a black shirt, red tie and aviator shades. Graham, dark-haired and currently bearded, looks like a particularly effeminate Mafia Whitman.

Dave, the drummer, is putting on his favourite black-and-white striped satin shirt and baggy pants cut off just below the knee, which he wears over black tights, with hi-top basketball boots.

Mark's outfits are always the most flamboyant. After all, he's the 'front man.' Tonight he's wearing gold lamé hipster flares, a floral-print blouse and a black chiffon scarf. Graham's sister isn't here tonight, but Mark's doing his own makeup now, just like she taught him: mascara, eyeliner, a little bit of rouge. Mark likes the whistles he gets when we walk on stage. You have to get a reaction, he says. Every night, I cross my fingers and hope it's the right kind.

We're taking a bit of a chance with our clothes, but we got fed up with the band uniform we started off with: matching black-and-silver patterned sweaters and black flares. Hideous, but we had to to make an effort. As we're constantly reminded by the small-time agents and club owners who book us, a gigging band has to be smart, in places like these! You can’t just wear any scruffy old tat, like the bands in those big-time London rock clubs! So: smart is what we've tried to be. More recently, though, we’ve come under the heady influence of Glam-rock. Now the bookers can't quite decide whether we're 'smart' or not. So far, we seem to be getting away with it.

And finally ... Showtime!

Time, once again, to disarm and charm that great beast called The Audience. Time to focus all our energy into making a connection, into making something happen. We can feel it, when we're winning them over, and it feels good. Everyone, band and audience, merging into one entity. And on a really good night--and this rarely happens, but we get glimpses of it--we're flying. It's as though music has the power to neutralise the force of gravity. we're like those lunatics you see on TV who jump out of planes and link arms in free-fall. They never look as though they’re actually falling, but floating, as though time is standing still. And maybe those glimpses are what keep us going, like a drug fix taking us out of the clatter and grind of normal life.