Shoreditch-juku, Tokyo, Japan

These days Shoreditch inparties are virtually impregnable to those of a non-drainpipe trouser wearing persuasion if you don't either:

(a) have a fluent command of japanese;
(b) live in a loft squat with the dj; or
(c) arrive wearing a lampshade and spats.

Being g>a>y certainly doesn't cut it as I recently discovered on a trip to an unnamed and since closed Saturday locale, called Family, oops. As it happened, my japanese-speaking entourage did in fact squat with the dj 'ditch style; yet, as i followed their queue-jumping trail into the club, I was abruptly pushed back by a reeling drag queen whose breath bore the unmistakeable whiff of tranny-grade cider, "You're just trying to push in, look at you, you can't be with them". Only my muffled cries of help in schoolboy japanese were picked up by the gracious Naoko who ensured a swift entry to the sea of striped tops and identikit haircuts.