Leicester Square at Christmas is quite the sight. The usual pools of vomit have been replaced by the more glittery sight of Christmas upchuck. Everything is lights and colour and consumerism.
At least the beatboxers are still here.
Rocking their tunes in the middle of a crowd. A sign displaying their Instagram handle in place of a upturned hat.
"By the way," says the beatboxer, pausing in the middle of his spree. "It's called freestyle. I hope you like it."
The crowd is not unappreciative, but I can't hang around. I have tickets to pick up.
The box office for the Spiegletent is right next to the entrance.
It's in a small wooden cabin that I'm sure it meant to make us think of gingerbread and ski chalets. It's painted red, and the windows are split into four panes, like a child's drawing of a house.
"Hi! The surname's Smiles?" I say to one of the box officers.
He types something into his computer and a second later my ticket is printing off.
"There you go," he says, handing it over. And that's it. I'm dismissed.
Easy.
I head for the entrance. A huge sign is proclaiming Christmas at Leicester Square as the home of La Clique. The trees are drenched in lights, and the pathways crowded with more cabins - these ones more of the market stall variety.
First up though, the bag checkers. I pull mine forward, ready to open, but neither of the hi-vis jacketed men on duty pay the slightest bit of interest in me, and I walk past without interruption.
I'm a little bit early, so I find myself hanging out with a row of Christmas trees while I come up with a plan. I could stand here an edit a blog post. That would be the sensible thing to do. But the whole point of my blog is to write about the experience of going to the theatre, so perhaps I should be off experiencing it. Not at all to indulge in Christmas shopping, you understand. This is a purely selfless enterprise. I need to look at what all these cabins are selling for you.
Turns out though, they're all selling a bunch of tat.
Wooden tat. Crystal tat. Tote bag tat.
I keep on going, hoping there's something to help me knock at least one name off my Christmas list, but as I turn the corner and start up the opposite path, I seem to be getting a repeat view: more wood, more crystal, and some Union Jack hats.
The air smells of molten sugar and hot dogs. The food-stalls alternative between carbs and sausages. My two favourite food groups, but the combined fug is turning my stomach.
People wander around clutching at paper cups and a curious lack of shopping bags.
I finish my rotation and end up at the entrance to the tent.
A pretty girl and her date are arguing about whether to go in.
"What time does it start? It's only half past..." says the most chill dude ever.
His gorgeous girl isn't having it though. She wants to go inside, and he follows on up the steps behind her.
I suppose I should go to.
Up the steps and towards the entrance which is rocking some old school circus vibes.
I hand my ticket over to one of the ticket checkers and she tears off the tab.
"Err, sorry, which way is it?" I ask, looking between the two entrances to the space. One either side of us.
"Either way!" she replies happily.
I chose left, because I like being sinister.
Inside I find myself in the emptiest bar I've ever seen in my life. A vast space punctuated only by a small group leaning over on the bar.
I have no interest in joining them, so I go through.
More ticket checkers await, both wearing the bowler hats so beloved of cabaret performers. Although I'm not quite sure they are usually worn with plaid shirts. But it's a bold satorial choice, and I respect it.
"You're rear stalls," says plaid shirt, glancing at my ticket. "Which is these ones here." He points over to two short rows of high stools, tucked against the wall.
But I'm too busy gawping at the space to inspect them properly. It's quite something in here. Like a proper circus high-top, the circular ceiling is lined with stripey fabric. Huge globes of light float around the frame. And roving spotlights pick up the ruched satin curtains behind the stage. It all has the exact level of seedy glamour that you would hope for when booking a revue show.
In the centre, tucked up close to the stage, are circles of chairs. Then there's a moat-like walkway. After which come the booths. The booths look rather nice. All tucked away and darkly lit. The sort of place you could get very very drunk and not even care.
Pity that they are all completely empty.
I turn around and head towards the stools at the back, and pick one in the second row.
There's a programme waiting for me on the seat. They all seem to have one.
I pick it up and have a quick flick through. But I'm left rubbing my palms in disgust. The paper is all wavy. Like someone dropped it in the bath and thought they could get away with drying it on the radiator.
Looking around to check no one is watching, I switch it with the one on the next seat.
This one isn't wavy. But the cover feels all crusty.
I really don't want to contemplate what with. A cocktail, I tell myself.
"Is anyone sitting there?" asks the leader in a gang of three young men. He points to the three empty stools next to me.
"Go for it," I say, twisting around in my seat so that he can get past.
But a second later, one of the bowler hatted ticket checkers come over, and they are backing out, disappearing around the walkway.
A few more people go after them.
Something tells me that I missed something quite significant.
The bowler hatted lady returns. "Did you hear what I said?" she asks, looking at me curiously.
I have to admit that I did not.
"We're not sold out tonight, so we're offering a free upgrade."
"Oh!" I say. "Wow. Great."
I slip off my seat, grab my coat, and follow her into the main pit, close to the stage.
"Just one?" she asks.
Yup. Just one.
She leans into a row. "Is this free?" she asks. The row residents all nod. Yes, it's free. "In here," she says, waving me in.
I appear to have found myself in the third row. That's quite the upgrade.
The girl on the end stands up to let me through. The boy on the other side grabs the programme from the seat and holds it until I sit down. "There you are, this is yours," he says one I've plonked myself down.
This one feels very smooth. It definitely hasn't had a drink spilled on it.
"Sorry, your coat," says the girl as she takes her seat again.
"Sorry," I say, stuffing it out of the way. "It gets everywhere." It's a big coat.
"No, it's your coat. If you don't mind it being on the floor..."
"Eh," I say with a shrug. "It's cheap."
That done, we settle back.
Our host for the evening is Bernie Dieter, dressed in a slinky cat suit with feathers emerging from her shoulders and a black wig sitting on her head, making her look like a bird of prey. The object of her hunt soon becomes obvious.
"Silver Fox," she purrs, narrowing her eyes at one of the men sitting in the front row.
She turns back to us. It's a Monday night, but that's no excuse for a poor show from the audience. She's going to make sure we know what we're doing.
She starts us off gently. Clapping with just single fingers. Then two. "Then the whole hand," she says with the dirtiest leer I've ever seen.
The bar is at the back, she tells us. The toilets are at the back and on the right. She's in full flight attendant mode now, gesturing with her arms. No flash photography, it's dangerous for the performers. And, she adds with a lowering of the head to show she means business, if she sees our little phones out, she will confiscate them, and stick them down Silver Fox's pants. And she will not be held responsible for any dick pics that might appear on them.
With that dire warning ringing in our ears, we begin.
The acts move quickly. A singer, a juggler, acrobats. None of them stay long enough for us to get bored. All of them beautiful and sultry and not wearing very much.
And then Dieter is back. She hasn't forgotten about Silver Fox, but she's out for fresh blood now.
Her dancing finger lands on a young man in my row. My neighbour's neighbour. And presumably his date for tonight.
"Business!" she names him with a triumphant jab of her finger.
She kicks off her shoes and she's off.
I lean down to move my bag out of her way. But nothing could stop her, she launches herself through the row, clambering up over Business and straddling him. He blinks at her, shocked, but he's taking it well. At the demand to caress her, he strokes her thigh. When she insists that he add another hand to the mix, he clamps onto her bottom, digging his fingers in.
I squirm uncomfortably.
With all the horror stories of audience members getting all groppy in immersive theatre, seeing something so blatant is sending me into paroxysms of worry. But then, I did just go to a play where one of the actors asked if I wanted to slap him, so perhaps I'm being to precious about it. As long as the performers are comfortable with what's happening, I should be too...
"It's Monday," Dieter purrs. "You've worked hard."
She eyes the woman sitting next to him. "Is this your Mother?" she asks, shocked. "Oh my god, it is! You're doing this in front of your Mother!"
It's time to get someone else involved.
"Lumberjack!" she coos at a man wearing a plaid shirt sitting just behind us. And she beckons him in to the embrace. One hand on her. One on Business. They writhe together.
It's not enough for Dieter.
"Beardie!" she calls.
"Shaven Haven!"
Now in charge of a veritable harem, she has a job for them. To carry her back to the stage.
Business it seems, is not just a smart chap in a suit. Oh no. This guy works out, and he's not afraid to show off. Clapping his hands on Dieter's thighs, he hefts her onto his shoulder and carries her out, with the rest of us scrambling to get out of their way.
Giggling, we all return to our places.
But if anyone thought about relaxing, the ushers coming in with huge plastic sheets soon put a stop to that. They drape them over the front row. Designating them a splash zone, and as Jamie Swan takes a bath on stage he makes sure they get wet.
The ladies in the front row lift up their portion of sheet, cowering behind it, in fear of their blow-drys.
Slightly damp, we are released for the interval, with the order to go to the bar. I suspect this is more of a warning. If this is act one, alcohol may truly be required for the second part.
Stage hands appear with squeegee mops and start pushing the water off the stage, will one of the ticket checkers in the bowler hats works on mopping up the floor. Mops are replaced by towels, and they crawl around on their hands and knees, working the the stage until it is perfectly dry and it's time to start the show again.
"It's a quality night," says my neighbour as he returns to his seat.
"Yeah, it's funny," agrees Business.
Business' mum nods along. She's loving it.
The band is back on stage. We're ready for act two.
Except nothing could have prepared us for the beautiful David Pereira. Too shocked laughter at his shaving cream antics, he bounces off the stage and asks for help from a man sitting in the front row.
Our front rower is a little wary, but he does his best to help out. Only to find himself with a lap covered in foam.
Dieter comes out with a sympathetic smile, clutching a packet of baby wipes. The shell-shocked front rower takes one, but she presses the entire pack on him. He's going to need it.
He wipes delicately at his trouser legs. He doesn't seem to have noticed that his jacket is coated too, from where Pereira wound his creamed-up arm around the man's neck.
His programme has slipped out of his hands and onto the floor. It's covered with foam.
I think we're solved the mystery of the crusty programmes.
"You need a drink," Dieter says soothly, and a stage manager runs over, drink in hand.
But there's no time to linger on him. It's time for the next act. Under cover of darkness, Dieter comes back with a towel so that our foamy front rower can get the stuff out of his hair. He seems much more relaxed now that he has a drink in his hands.
"I'm so glad we're not sitting over there," whispers Business to my neighbour, as if he hadn't just been wiggling his bum at at audience that contains his own mother.
When Leah Shelton starts pulling a tiny red handkerchief from increasingly more intimate locations, to the shocked laughter of the audience, I make a mental note not to ever take my mother to see La Clique.
Handkerchief recovered for the final time (and sniffed) we are sent out into the night with a drinking song.
Out in the bar, a pap board has been set up and people are queueing up to have their photo taken with the (now fully clothed) Dieter and Shelton. I keep on walking, stepping out into a fog of sausage fumes.