The other day, I was (as one so often is) on the door at the latter stages of a central Brighton soul and Motown event with a mixed-race lesbian bouncer. She leerily told me tales of her days running sapphic club nights, and how the punters only really started to pile in when she imported a couple of London-based girl-on-girl dancers whose speciality was a floorshow involving lit candles. Our conversation was interrupted at one point by her own girlfriend ringing her on her mobile and her answering, to my stifled amusement, with the classic: “I’ve told you about calling me at work.”
[I think this counted as another one of those situations designed to make a Guardian reader’s brain explode.]

Some time before closing time (1:00 am), the now tired-and-emotional attendees started trickling out. One forty/fiftysomething man and his partner (female) walked past us. He turned back, put his arm around my shoulders, and began:
“Tell me something, right? I don’t like black music, right?”
[bouncer and Pooter exchange glances] then continued:
“But [pointing at his missus] she made me come to this. And it was bloody good. Bloody brilliant. It was like Blues Brothers music. I thought it was going to be all, like, Barry White. Is there any more of this stuff I should listen to?”