Tall tales: great ride

One of the last things I expected to see when answering the door at 7pm on a Friday night was a man dressed in a New Orleans Mardi Gras costume - complete with slightly terrifying voodoo face paint - hollering loudly

After a brief moment of consideration I decided that the correct answer was probably 'yes', so I warily slid into the pimped-out taxi to be taken by Baron Jazz to a surprise location for 'a totally unforgettable night, man!'

This unorthodox start to the weekend came courtesy of the nightlife gurus at Southern Comfort. They have trawled through London's hottest happenings, and each night in December will choose a lucky winner from their Facebook page to be taken in the 'Mystery Machine' to a different event, the catch being that you don't know where you're going until you get there. The parties can be anything from the ever popular Secret Cinema, to a surprise gig.

Getting a taxi with a complete stranger, albeit one who somehow knows your name, has the potential to be an uncomfortable experience. Luckily I have always paid heed to the warning words of my mother, and had already enlisted my three most strapping male friends to act as chaperones for The Baron's surreal journey into the unknown. They were so entranced by his southern twang and New Orleans dance moves, impressive even in the confines of a taxi, that within minutes the bromance was blossoming.

I'm not great with secrets; I'm the kind of girl who will spend the first few days of December turning the house upside down looking for my presents, and the rest of the month sulking that I know what I'm getting. I tried cajoling, begging and even eyelash fluttering, but nothing would persuade the Baron to reveal the mystery party that was waiting for us at the end of the long and traffic-jammed journey north.

I grudgingly accepted that there was nothing for it but to surrender to Baron Jazz's enthusiasm for the clandestine, and don some of his fetching mardi-gras beads that decorated every surface of the taxi. Southern Comfort had thoughtfully furnished us with half a bottle which, unsurprisingly, didn't last long.

In just four, or perhaps five, shots time the party was just getting started, when suddenly we were turfed out the car and handed three crisp £20 notes to continue the night, alone. In a flash, Baron Jazz and the taxi were gone and we were left at the mystery location. But the Baron must have rubbed off on me, because I have no intention of revealing his secrets, except to say a) there was a warehouse and b) pole dancing. The Baron was right; it was anything but forgettable.

(facebook.com/southerncomfortuk)