Bunyadi caters to folk for whom public nudity is somehow thrilling; I am here because A begged to go and bashed the steering wheel of the Honda Civic with his fist. I am not only nude, which is odd, because being sexually exciting is not my journalistic identity, but, worse, I have accepted a freebie. There was no other way to get in. I asked Rod Liddle, who fashioned an anti-Bunyadi polemic a few weeks ago, to accompany me. He muttered ‘skidmarks’. Then he said no.
It is a glowering ex-nightclub in Elephant and Castle, south London; a black building on a corner with the windows taped up. It looks like a pub trapped in a bondage situation. There is an unnecessary velvet rope. (There is no queue.) A man asks for our names and checks them off a fraying list, and we are in a gloomy bar in which a series of quite attractive couples, including a man who looks like a right-wing stereotype of a Trotskyite, loiter with the preening self-importance of 13-year-olds who have just stolen a Silk Cut from their mum.
We drink mojitos and read a list of rules, which say: do not stare, do not photograph, do not approach.
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