To Gossips, the self-styled “dark heart of Soho”, for a hastily arranged Host concert. Gossips is on the corner of Dean Street and Meard Street, and in better times was probably the centre of 1950s Bohemia, featuring Francis Bacon screaming at Dylan Thomas for leaving some manuscript in the French pub, and George Melly sauntering in past an increasingly p!ssed John Minton, while they all contemplate how they'll shake off Jeffrey Bernard before taking lunch at Kettners. Today, however, it's not like that at all. A hilariously jumped up 20-something promoter with cut off combat trousers and an absurd hairstyle stalks around, informing anyone who'll care to listen that he's “in charge”.

I did warn Host about doing gigs in scummy West End venues. Gossips exists purely to get 4 bands in on each night of the week and do ZERO promotion, but be reasonably confident that each band will bring about 10 mates at £5 a head, with strictly no guest list. Great. £200 in the till, give the bands no money, steal off quietly into the night. As such, you can go to Gossips and be confident of seeing bands who should never have made it out of the rehearsal room stumble on stage, with a terrified faux-confidence, while their mums and dads stand a few feet away with a grimace on their face and their fingers jammed in their ears. Host stick out from this like a fvcking gigantic inflatable sore thumb, but the promoter nevertheless treated them as his own personal whipping boys. “Now, how does it sound onstage?” he asked them patronisingly during soundcheck. It didn't sound too bad out front, considering – get this – the band weren't allowed to bring their own gear, and had to use the malfunctioning equipment supplied by the venue. “Well,” said Steve, “I could do with more vocals in the monitors.” “Then tell him!” said the promoter exasperatedly, jabbing a finger at the soundman. “Tell him!” Steve told him. I had the audacity to suggest that the vocals outfront were too loud. The promoter swivelled his body around, and then swivelled his eyes, before delivering the familiar excuse given for not letting bands have the sound they actually want. “When the room fills up, it'll sound totally different.” I snort, knowing that he has never once seen the room full up, not since a party of Japanese tourists took a wrong turning on their way to Ronnie Scotts. “Oh, really??? Well, nevertheless, the vocals are too loud.” He walks away. Nothing is done.

The venue itself is vile, every corner stinks of dirty raincoats stained with all manner of bodily fluids. Steve emerged from the toilet looking a bit upset. “Ugh. It's like 1,000 years of piss has mounted up in there.” I nodded. “Only for some hideous lifeform to emerge from the piss.” Steve agreed. “And then die suddenly, and rot quietly behind a cistern.” The woman behind the bar is a goth caricature that has featured for years in cartoon form on posters for the Full Tilt club at Camden's Electric Ballroom, and carries with her approximately 20 years worth of hatred for anyone who is not also plastered with eyeliner and sporting shiny trousers with buckles. Shirley from Spearmint dared to ask her for a pint of lager. She looked at him with complete disbelief, and demonstrated that none of the beer pumps actually worked. She then gestured at the fridge. “Just what's in the fridge,” she said, folding her arms. We bought expensive cans of Carlsberg, and Shirley asked around the members of HOST what they might like, before going back to goth-lady and passing on the information. “I can take an order for more than one drink at a time, you know” she spat. How this woman ever got a job in a service industry I'll never know. I hope she doesn't move into the undertaking business – although, judging by her mode of dress, it's not impossible.

The band before HOST took to the stage. A man with long ginger hair furiously but ineffectively pummelled his guitar. They hadn't actually begun their set, he was just enjoying the fact that he could make a great deal of noise while people watched. The first song kicks in, and – I kid you not – the first line of the first song begins with a screamed “I DON'T CARE…” Around the venue are television screens showing the antics onstage. I walk up to the one nearest me and turn it off in protest. Then I worry about the goth woman getting all cross, so I turn it back on. It resets itself and goes bright blue. I scuttle away. By now the band have finished their first song, and the guitarist picks himself up from the floor after having been writhing around for 15 seconds while 6 friends look on with pity. “Oh no,” he mumbles. “My guitar's come off. I gotta stop, uh, having sex with my guitar.” One person laughs. He takes this as his cue to carry on. “Yeah, yeah, you know, I love, uh, humping my guitar.” No-one laughs this time. As they finish their set in a roar of feedback, the singer says “Thank you! We've got an album out!” “No you haven't,” I shout.

I tell Steve that if he goes on stage, slags everyone in the venue off and gets the plug pulled, I'll give him £20. He considers it, very carefully.

HOST play a good one. Steve doesn't scoop the £20. As they finish we scuttle out to a pub round the corner. HOST aren't far behind us.