I have already planned my selection of facial expressions for the night – I know how to play the game. Right now I'm trying to look innocent, yet aware, confident, yet quiet. A loud word or an inane smile could finish us. The bouncers might think we're drunk.

The gloomy shadowy figures are walking up and down the queue, their eyes looking past people, through people, and down to people. As the storm troopers pass me, one looks in my direction. I look down, for fear of catching his eye, causing displeasure to him. My clothes, my look, my face, my gaze are all possible offences. I am nervous, I am scared. I have been humiliated enough times to understand how it breaks me.

My friends and I have already organised our plan. We are well versed in club vernacular, and we all understand that six male associates at the door won't get in. We have to act like we don't know each other. So we are playing this ridiculous game, pretending to be strangers, working overtime not to catch each other's eye.

Since we know that this club is hard to get into, we've done our research. This is the usual routine. Experience has taught me that hope is a dangerous thing, and that certainty is a redundant concept in club land.

We have various permutations worked out in our matrix. If two or more of us get turfed, then the group splits. Those who get in, stay in. Those who get turfed, try another club. If only one gets in, we all try the next place. If only one gets turfed, we all move on. You need a strategy, and we have sharpened ours.

I can see the guest list queue. Groups of women, 'I know the DJ', imprinted on their foreheads; condescension echoing with every cackle.

A problem arises – the Stasi have decided that all men from now on must be accompanied by a woman. So urgently but subtly we are trying to find women who will allow us to pretend that we are 'with them'.

"Hi, will you allow me to come in with you please?"