Worse than I could have possibly envisaged. At 7pm on a Thursday, Nylon was heaving. Having negotiated the malodorous throng downstairs, we retreated to the VIP area, where plaid-clad Square Milers were converging. We sought solace in the flavoured vodkas while, all around, raptorial revellers with more girth than dignity gyrated to a tortuous soundtrack (U2, Sting, non-ironic Michael Jackson and Steps). Like a bastard hybrid of School Disco and All Bar One, by 9pm the crowd was loosening ties and pole-dancing around fish tanks.