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The Bizarre Ball is an annual party for readers of that magazine who consider themselves beyond the mundane confines of sexual and societal norms. We went, primarily to make snide remarks about everyone.

This was the band that played that weren't The Futureheads and, in a Bizarre Ball setting, they made a lot more sense than The Futureheads (who booked The Futureheads?). Still, imagine the best band ever, The Rolling Beatles or The Velvet Wu Tangs or someone, and then imagine the exact opposite of that band, and you're nowhere near as shitty as this band. Plus, dressing up as the baddie from the seventh most popular film of all time doesn't make you a cannibalistic libertine, it makes you these people.

Countess Bathory used to bathe in the blood of the obsequious chumps around her. This chick is the same, except, because of health and safety, she has to decant the blood into plastic glasses before she can cover herself in it onstage.

The whole sit on my face fetish only works in moderation. I'd imagine if someone regularly lowered themselves onto a plastic dildo mounted on your chin and fucked it, you'd end up looking like this guy.

"I decided to subvert Barbie because I get so sick of society's unrealistic bullshit beauty standards being forced on womankind. The under-representation of so called 'ugly' women is one of this generation's biggest crimes. That's why I love Suicide Girls, because I think that ALL WOMEN are beautiful. Ya know, unless they're fat or ugly or black."

Exhausted from shitting all over the bourgeois face of normalcy and shaving so many layers of Craig David beard into his face, Lord Rockharderthanyou returns himself to the land of infinite dream.

This guy was wandering around the Scala jumping into a billion people's photos. I always figured these parties were designed to get shy people who learned about sex on Second Life laid, but even in this crowd I can't imagine he had much luck. He's too sincere about it. Everyone wants to pat him on the back, but no one wants to fuck him.

Alternatively, these dickhead n00bs with no interest in the trans-mundane and only a cursory knowledge of My Chemical Romance videos have clearly come to trawl this venue for breasts. I'm sure they enjoyed the same bewildering success that they'll be having at V Festival, wearing shorts and Guinness hats, come summer.

Are the sheeple ready to have their reality satirized until they're ripping each other apart in the streets of Kings Cross?! Welcome to reality 2.0.

Why does the world fail people like this so badly that they end up paying to be in the same room as morons who dress up as characters from Spawn, get drunk, and give long winded speeches about why Asia Argento is the only artist to truly understand the power of taboo?

Lonely outside, lonely inside.

Ironically, Captain Holocaust behind these two Care Bears here was the only scary person in the building. He was so scary, we had to sneak this picture of him. He's like the one they kicked out of Neu! because he used to sew babies to dogs and chase them into maternity wards.

The thing about burlesque is that it's all about the erotic within. If you don't find this Siren mesmerising, you're a troglodyte who doesn't understand the psychology of sex, and whoever the guy was who bit off that missing nipple tassle feels very sorry for you.

I'll have the master and margarita pizza, please. (ZOINK!)

As we all knew it would be, the whole thing was a fruit salad of misery and regrettable arousal designed for Asia Argento fans, people from such miserable European countries that they backpack in the UK, those with active Second Lives, and moonlighting Australians who miss The Church.

After a while loads of people were making out, so I guess from their perspective it was mission accomplished. Well done them.