Head case (3/3)

We venture upstairs. "Oooh, is that your old bag?" lisps the campest man in the country, wearing a perfectly starched officer's uniform and carrying a riding crop. Someone slaps Shug's bum as he walks past. A rubber-encased girl wearing a gas mask says something, but she sounds like Kenny off South Park and we can't understand her. An Italian wearing leather trousers and a load of belts tied around his chest stops us. "Yoo arrrre bey-oo-ti-foool!" he yells at Shug. "Yoo arrre the most bey-oo-ti-foool I 'ave seen all naaaaht!" I think it's time we got back to the dressing room. Our point is proved. Suitcases with legs are weird whether you're fucked, straight or enjoy having clothes pegs stuck on your cobblers. Pouring with sweat - he can lose five pounds in 20 minutes in the suitcase - Shug extricates himself. He tells dark tales of lesser mortals who have ripped "the suitcase gag" off.

"There's this fella going round Ibiza in a suitcase pretending to be me," he snarls. "The twat climbed onto a diving board and someone pushed him in. So he's sinking in the water wondering, 'How the fuck do I get out of here?' Cunt," he spits. You get the impression that Shug sees this swimming pool calamity as fitting retribution for nicking his idea. We don't know how he's feeling, but we're knackered. Mangled. Past the point of no return. "Where are you going?" asks Shug as we prepare to leave. "Are you going home?" Yeah. Aren't you? "Nah," he smiles, getting changed into his own fetish gear. "I'm going back into the club to have a party. You're a bunch of bloody lightweights." His name is Shug. He is mental. And he rules.