"We're What Rough Beast !", a howl from the shabby guitar amp and the singer in the black ruffled shirt looks round. Distracted, he forgets the introduction and nods them into the first track.

     At the bar a skinny-arsed kid, all floppy fringe and fake ID, is ordering drinks with a slimming pill gibber.

     'One lager. A pint. Vodka. And Black, No ice. And a. And a. Bitter..."

     The Vampire players are having three conversations at once.

     "I'm not telling you which clan, says a large woman with eyes dark as conkers.

     "You can't do that, it ain't in the rules", bemoans a kid with a nose ring and red neck dribbles.

     "Are we shepherds or are we wolves?" questions a guy in a Souxie and the Banshees tee-shirt.

     In a dark corner the pagans are arguing. They have been attempting to reconcile traditional festivals with the Eighteenth Century calendar revisions. And which matters more, the date or the celebration? It's a strange fact that there are more sects than there are individual pagans, with people changing their opinions during their own lives.

     In the bloke's bogs a most important discussion is taking place.

     'Kropotkin."

     "Bakunin!"

     "Gandhi".

     "Gandhi? Proudhen!!" "Emma Goldman!!!" "Godwin!!!!"

     "Godwin?"

     "Godwin - and Mary Wollstonecraft".

     "And Shelley ".

     Scowls turn to smiles and hands that had recently been fists slap backs, though unwashed.

     Back with the band, they have been joined by a be-dreaded traveler. He chins a violin and the busker joins them in 'Sheila-na-Jig'. They've jammed all afternoon. Time to see if it works.

     At the entrance the beer-bellied bouncer, ('Sweet Pete') is looking aghast as a tramp with a bloody forehead falls against the door.

     "'Corp', what the hell has happened to you?"

     "Some kids mugged me", the old guy mutters.

     "Well sit down", Pete hefts over his chair and makes the old soldier sit down. "Kaz, get us half a larger-"

      "I'm all right, all right."

     "-scrounge some ciggies and grab some paper- towels from the bogs."

     The petite girl in a black Velvet jacket and Cleopatra eyes disappears to fetch the essentials.

     Two elder-rocker types in search of late beer discuss the bass player.

     "-still, she said she preferred blokes with small willies. So it's better for her to be happy with him than unhappy with me."

     The braggard laughs unconvincing.

     To one side a review is attempted to be written for a distant fanzine. "The band were excel-" the hand is jogged by an enthusiastic dancer. "The band were bril-" jogged again by the flailing corybantic. "The band were crap." Finished, he gulps the remains of a drink, thrusts the envelope back into a fringed suede jacket pocket and joins the heaving mass.

     Inside the ladies lav's a flood of tears are making a girl from Safeway's checkout mascara run.

     "What is it Em? What is it?"

     The denizens of this room, as with the Club itself fall largely into two camps. Small with raven crimped hair or statuesque with Henna. Though there are exceptions. A blond in PVC finishes her crimson lips and leans while the others discover Em is pregnant.

     "But Goth's don't get up the stick", she sobs. "That's for punks on glue or skin's on speed or hippies on dope. Not me".

     "Whose is it?" her friend probes, black lace gloved hands on Em's shoulders.

     "Terry's". More mascara runs, spreading spider legs across her cheeks.

     "Aren't you the lucky one." Henry snipes. He is in here adjusting his stockings and trying to blag some face powder.

     "What am I to do?"

     "Terry's a good bloke, he'll see you right". Though they expect that to mean he'll drive her to a clinic.

     "What's the problem?" Now Catherine has entered in chocolate cat suit and Celtic cross pendant. She runs the Club. Her brother is the landlord. Tonight she wonders if it's worth it?

     "I'm pregnant. Goths don't get pregnant". "Well perhaps they should", returns Catherine. Even Henry stops putting on more make up. "Half the guys out there daren't smile for fear of splitting the foundation. At least Terry's got a proper job at that garage. Not mooning around between college and some half- arsed design course. Jen'll make you some great baby clothes, won't you?'

     "Er, suppose". Jen's brave enough to wear her own creations.

     "And the band'll do a benefit. If I tell them".

     Em dried her eyes, washed and dried her face. Borrowed make-up, including Henry Eon's Plum lip-stick, and went to tell her boyfriend.

     Goths aren't considered much in the joi de vivre department. For a few minutes though that night, the world could be seen to wear the mad grin of a skull when Terry told Em they'd get a flat.