Turned out that pink hair was kind of what everyone was wearing. At one point I was sat on one of the sofas (well, luxuriating, really) and could see four people with pink hair (flat, particolour and mixed tone) without even turning my head. Fashion gaffes aside, it was a pretty wild night. Loud, full, howling sound (from a piano and drums! How?) and some kind of fantastic performance (no, not especially cabaret-ish, except, perhaps the song Mister Mister) from both the dolls. Unfortunately, sluggish from the sofas, I ended up in the boyfriend pen, stealing glances of the performers between a forest of men expressing their individuality through vast coats and unnecessarily big hair. Two groping couples (one straight, one gay) of vastly differing heights did their best to provide a little visual stimulation, but when the dewberry-stinking wall of fashion crusty in front of me lit up a cigar, I gave up fighting the misanthropy. OK, that's it. I was prepared to be tolerant but fuck it. Roll on the smoking ban.
He also manifested a perfect sense for when I raised my camera, swaying to block it. Hence the chicken.