Three Steps to rock heaven at Sniff The Glove

The bouncer at Islington Academy eyes my party with a barely disguised revulsion. I can tell that every one of his instincts, honed throughout an entire career in the nightclub security industry, is telling him to turn us away. "Sniff The Glove?" he chokes finally as though the words are stuck in his throat.

"Yes, please!" I nod happily, turning side-ways to squeeze past him. I have very big shoulder pads on and it's making it hard to get around, in and out of doors. "Ooh! Mind my hair!" my friend Kat squawks at a smoker hanging around the entrance, "I could go up just like that!"

Choking in a cloud of her own styling products, she is a vision in spandex while my friend Caroline completes our trio in a spray-on denim and leg-warmers combo.

I can see why the bouncer is appalled; my outfit is so bright that you need to wear shades to look directly at me. And none of us can walk in our towering stilettos, which gives us a sloppy, drunken appearance as we stumble up the stairs. But in our minds we are rock goddesses, mistresses of the four mighty instruments of cock rock: the guitar, bass, drums and that keyboardy synthesiser thingy.

Not that any of us really know what cock rock is — we just like saying it, and so, it seems, do the organisers of Sniff The Glove, the night we are all here for. "Full-on cock rock gear gets discount admission!" the listings shout (taking the entrance fee down from £5 to £4). "I love cock (rock)!" the free T-shirts scream. And if you think I've said cock rock a lot, you'll be in for a treat when you get here because the vulgar jokes don't stop.

Described by the organisers as "all your rock wet dreams under one roof ", Sniff The Glove is a pounding, pulsating celebration of Eighties rock, Wayne's World style. There are slashed jeans, leather wristbands and lots of boys with long hair. "It's like a Star Trek convention on crack," our photographer notes wryly, and while admittedly this night may not attract the most beautiful people, it definitely attracts the most fun.

Long before the club gets really busy, everyone is already on the dancefloor having the time of their lives. There is no self-conscious bopping around a handbag; these people are going for it, pogo-ing, spinning, jumping and head-banging their way around the room.

The promoters of the night — the same gang that brought us Club de Fromage and Feeling Gloomy, a popular night playing miserable, torch-waving anthems and celebrating all that is dark and, well, gloomy — have taken on two new characters for this event. Dave "Wildman" Pickles orchestrates the madness from his decks on the stage, spinning the likes of Aerosmith, Queen, Def Leppard, Deep Purple and Guns N' Roses, linking the songs with a never-ending stream of bum-clenchingly awful jokes.

His sidekick, affectionately nicknamed "Pube", says nothing all night, relying instead on his ability to look good playing air guitar in a wig.

"That guy's quite hot," Caroline observes — and she's right. Resplendent in his crown of cascading ringlets he looks like a cross between Slash and Lenny Kravitz.