“‘He’s new. Wearing a polyester number from Burton’s. Looks cheap. Not like that one over there. Savile Row, he got that from, for sure.’

It is 11 PM in a cellar in the bowels of King’s Cross, in the center of London—specifically, the still-slightly-ropey area round the back of the station. Doug, my hairy, red-faced guide, dressed in a natty brown three-piece suit and bright purple tie, pauses for a breather…”

link: http://www.vice.com/read/suit-fancier-sex-party-london