Yet again, writing directly into blogger, without a safety net at getting on for three in the morning with sweat drying on every inch of me. Yet again, don't expect much sense.

Which is fine by me? Not to your liking - well, why exactly are you reading this blog? You should have realised by now that you're not going to get any huge analysis of videogame culture.

(Note to self: Make sure you don't write a huge analysis of videogame culture in the next couple of weeks.)

Anyway: The club tonight was Purr. Purr is, as regular readers of this journal will know, the bi-weekly club night which has been my primary place for consumption of pop culture in its natural habitat for the last few years. Promoter Tim is a devoted ageing fanzine-kid, and gets bands that most people are completely and utterly unaware of and somehow gets them to Moles. Often, it is terrible. Occasionally, I leave with a desperate urge to write about what I've just seen.

(Examples: Pink Grease. Meanwhile Back In Communist Russia)

There was another one of those tonight in the form of Fake Ideal (Quick lazy journo comparison: Think Queens of the Stone Age fronted by Joe Strummer), but this post isn't about them. This is about the other thing which Purr occasionally excels at.

A dancefloor.

I've talked about Club Resurrection last week, at the same Venue. Purr isn't like that at all. Resurrection is an ultra-populist party venue. Purr, conversely, often lets its pretensions get in the way. It doesn't do the obvious. In fact, when it does the obvious, it almost always falls flat on its face and looks a bit stupid.

Sometimes pretension isn't pretending at all.

So, occasionally you're thrown into a hell of basic garage rock and Japanese girls screaming about their hymens. And it's a bit rubbish, and you go home.

But it takes chances. And enough to make it worth believing in, the chances pull off.

Tonight was - and I mean the word in its most literal sense - magical.

It's the sort of evening which explain why I feel a terrible urge to immortalise the club and its inhabitants in fiction. In fact, I have already. It's referenced in Cassandra, as it's Johnny Casino's main stomping ground. In real life, it used to be too. Bobby Chaos' hangover comes from there. In the bar, you'll find a flyer. The fiction on the site is set there.

But it's not enough, because it's not about it. I will do more.

Choosing examples wouldn't get half of it - take the progression from Beyonce's "Crazy In love", to Nenah Cherry's Buffalo Stance, to the White Stripes call-to-incest "Fell In Love With A Girl" to a frankly frightening "My Sharona". That says nothing to you. But it meant everything, then.

It's in the details - the slow seduction between the two teenage kids, the girl dodging him for an hour, before finally submitting totally. The tall, slightly frightening blonde either stalking prey or flirting. Perhaps both. The two New-York-Trash girls - one with a fringe that could slice steel with the Kohl eyes, the other all strawberry blonde curls and doe-eyes - move round the club as a pair joined at the hip. Jude's Indie-girl par excellance, pose-as-life. Damien being a living bounce. Chrissy scabbing cigarettes from Dave Taurus, as he stomps around shouting about how they should play Tiffany. Steve Pierce at the bar, sneering at the indie kids in the best possible way and drinking shots. The two Indian kids, white shirted, dancing for literally the whole night, setting a pace that everyone tries to keep up with. Walker not dancing, except when he clearly does. And so on.

All of that happening. And I'm aware of it, all at once, as the beat hammers through me like God's own heartbeat.

Like I'm doing now, Purr flies without a safety-net. When it succeeds, it ascends to the Godhead and takes us with it. It has the capacity of being a Club as a spiritual Assenscion device, a tower of babel made entirely of CDs. It's beautiful.

One last example: The Three Tenors played Bath tonight. In tribute, as what we think is the final song, they drop Nessun Dorma. And there's a laugh. And people sing, badly. And someone climbs on a table to be dragged onto the dance-floor by a number of friends, in a dying-swan type manouvere. It's the most human thing I've seen all week.

We think it's over.

At which point, the berlin-wall-of-sound of Bowie's "'Heroes'" fills the room. And the entire cast of the evening take one last dance, with an equal mix of joy and solemnity - yet again, words that are usually reserved for true religion. And my senses expand and I detach, aware of every detail in the room and feel with absolute certainity that we really are doomed lovers in Germany, waiting for the Deathsquads. And everyone's so brave and perfect, and we should be proud to live inside our skins.

We could be heroes? Why not. We've earned it.