CORSETS ROASTING ON AN OPEN FIRE

WELL. It’s here again. The shopping, the stamp-licking, the mad social whirl, the parties, the receptions, the reunions, the idiotic games, the enforced cheerfulness . . . the over-indulgence, the drunken conviviality, the throwing up over the boss at the firm’s do.

Followed by the hangovers. Mine’s an Alka-Seltzer, bar man. Make it a double, with a Solpadeine chaser. Oh what the hell. And a hair of the dog. After all, it’s Christmas.

HOT PUSSY (or Some Like It Hot)

A word to the wise for the party season: accidents can occur. Be cautious in your revelry. News of the first festive disaster has already reached my ears and is about to enter your brain through your eyes.

First a little preamble. It is not unusual to hear those unsympathetic to the mores of the sexual subculture express the view that if pain is what they want, then they should receive it – in abundance.

There is a fine divide between sado-masochism and outright agony. Equally, there is a profound difference between a surprise treat and a totally horrendous shock. Sometimes the edges get blurred. Other times they get razor sharp.

Once a month, a group of women, united by their love of PVC, rubber, leather, corsetry and sundry sexual activities which I can’t possibly imagine, but associated therewith, assemble under the auspices of the Pussy Club to indulge their own peculiar erotic tastes. The atmosphere at such events is of paramount importance and for the latest bash, the club was swathed wraithlike in white muslin while candles burned and flickered like the fickle flame of lust itself.

Everyone was happily grovelling or dominating away, according to individual preference, and then . . . something went horribly wrong. The muslin drapes and candles got together in a forbidden embrace which really hotted things up by setting the club on fire.

Escaping from a building with your legs clamped together in a restrainer or your feet balanced in six inch stilletoes is no mean feat (to hazard a guess). No doubt the more heartless amongst you will find the thought of a bunch of people in full fetish gear losing all dignity in the frantic scramble to escape somewhat smirkworthy. But read on.

The timing of the conflagration was particularly poignant, as the evening’s highlight had comprised of a woman having her pubes shaved whilst suspended in chains from the ceiling. She was released only minutes before the fire swept across the ceiling in a sheet of flame. My investigations into the sex scene lead me to believe that the little unexpected extra of being roasted alive would not, despite the new arenas of pain-v-pleasure into which the lady concerned would have been initiated, have fitted even the wildest fetishist’s definition of hot love.

Talk about disco inferno. Thankfully there were no casualties, although at least half a dozen women were hospitalised out of whom several are now facing minor plastic surgery. It could have been so much worse, all that rubber and PVC melting onto human flesh. Now there’s a thought . . . oh . . . gosh!

BAD NEWSFLASH

The more astute amongst you might have noticed more than a hint of enthusiasm regarding a London club calling itself Syndrome. So excellent did I consider this weekly outing into the daft posery of New Romanticism to be, that I even wangled free admission for Hot Press readers to get a taste of London’s best for themselves.

But note the use of the past tense, for Alas! I had forgotten the Curse of Wolftree and its awful legacy of doom and destruction. Syndrome has shut down. Given up and gone away. The organisers, who were more concerned with pleasure than profit, felt that they were not attracting enough of the right kind of people and have put the whole thing on hold.

I still don’t know whether to take it personally or not.

GOOD NEWS FLASH

You’ve seen the play, thrown the rice at the film, twanged the suspenders and done the time warp again and again and now, at long last, another highly collectable experience from the castle of Dr Frank N. Furter is mincing its way towards your wallet.

To celebrate 20 – yes 20 – years of Rocky Horror Show mania, a four CD box set has been cunningly released just in time to catch the Christmas market. It comes complete with an all-singing, all-dancing book containing more colour photos than you can waggle a false eyelash at.

Discs one and two feature the original Roxy cast and the original film soundtrack respectively. With disc three things start getting weird. “Un Relato Bien Extrano Y Muy Pasado” anyone? And who can forget “Alltid Lys Ros Frankenstein”? Yes, it’s Rocky Horror international, an hilarious collection of your old favourites as performed on stages around the world.

Disc four gets even cooler: “Songs From The Vaults” is a priceless collection of Rocky Horror rarities, including Tim Curry singing ‘Baby Love’, and Little Nell singing ‘Do The Swim’ and ‘Fever’.

Released by Castle Communications through Ode Records, this is an essential for all of you whose lives have been indelibly touched by the greatest cult classic of all time, and one essential party asset to boot.