By Amelia Gentleman –
By around 10pm on a Wednesday evening, several women are undressing in the dank, cramped basement corridors outside the Windmill club’s three windowless changing rooms. The combination of the unceasing rain and roadworks in the streets above is causing chaos. One of the rooms has flooded overnight and bits of the ceiling have fallen down. The other two are full already, so women are stripping off their clothes wherever there is space. Beneath the prevailing smell of hairspray and scent, a peculiar sewagey odour seeps in from Soho’s flooded drains.A dead-faced, unsmiling, oldish man in glasses, with a greyish complexion and grey hair, sits down at a table with three women he’s brought to the club with him. He’s probably in his late 60s and the women are in their early 20s; he positions the youngest and prettiest of the three next to him and they hold hands underneath the table.
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