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The birth of the Antichrist is traditionally believed to herald the beginning of the end times; humanity’s slide into debauchery and decay leading directly to Armageddon. A somewhat fitting name then for London’s newest fetish club, which took over all four floors of Sin, Charing Cross Road’s best-kept dirty little secret, for the first time a few weeks ago.

Perversely, you got the feeling that each level you climbed in Club Antichrist inevitably consigned your soul to a lower circle of Hell. The basement housed the first of two dedicated dance floors pumping out a continuous, deafening mix of goth and industrial.

Meanwhile, the ground floor played host to a succession of bands, ranging from the deliciously glammed-up Richard Christ to the extreme aural assault of black metallers Leechwoman. From there, guests could ascend the stairs to the more risqué ballroom, which showcased a range of burlesque and fetish performances to a surreal soundtrack of rockabilly and show tunes.

Finally, for those in search of a little more traditional fetish play, the VIP dungeon area at Sin’s apex came fully equipped with an array of restraints and medical equipment, all presided over by Mistress Rebekka Raynor, the in-house dominatrix.

The organisers (for more about them see sidebar) wanted to create something "for the fetish crowd who aren't into the house and funk of some mainstream fetish clubs" that have shifted towards the mainstream as they have grown. "Antichrist is for people like us who live this 24/7," said joint organiser D.Void.

As a club, Antichrist is perfect for ADHD-ridden clubbing dilettantes wishing to sample the best that London’s underground scene has to offer. And on the first night, a diverse, all-ages clientele mingled happily always finding something new and exciting demanding their attention, from undead stilt walkers to living marionettes.

Yet the jewel in Antichrist’s decidedly filthy crown was undoubtedly the ballroom. Compere Randy Wornhole, a rubber-clad nurse sporting a hypodermic-studded mohawk, deftly guided his audience through a full seven hours of live performance art.

Pole dancers and corseted models shared the bill with suspension acts, aerial acrobatics, syringe-fingered belly dancers, perverted clowns and angle-grinding Smurfs. Bleeding corpses emerged from underneath American flags at one end of the room while Victorian dolls turned play fights into lesbian trysts at the other. Often, the crowd had difficulty deciding which way to look.