The essential guide for native New Yorkers planning an evening out has always been the Village Voice. However, as an expat Londoner I was delighted to find that Time Out had established a New York operation shortly before my arrival. The big difference was clarity and ease of use. Two things contributed to this. One was the familiarity of the different sections. The other was that, as a relative newcomer to the New York publishing world, Time Out wasn't yet clogged up with advertising. So every week I would grab a copy of Time Out New York and scrutinise it for suitable entertainment. There were only two criteria that mattered. One was location - I didn't want to go much further North than Greenwich Village. The second was unusualness - I couldn't be bothered to turn out to watch anything that was too run of the mill. So I routinely turned to the off-off-Broadway theatre section to see what was going on in any of the performance spaces and basements which inhabited the area below an arbitrary line which stretched between Washington Square Park in Greenwich Village and Thompson Square Park in the East Village. The result of my nocturnal rambles was that I became far more familiar with the alternative downtown scene than my be-suited Wall Street colleagues, who dipped down to the World Trade Centre to earn their crust, then escaped as soon as they could to the safe and familiar grid system of the Upper East and Upper West sides. The Lower East Side, East Village, even Soho, were either just names or places to which they would make an annual lunchtime expedition to check out some exotic new entry in Zagat.

An opportunity presented itself to introduce my colleagues to the crown jewel of the downtown performance spaces, namely Surf Reality. It happened because Noddy, the Beast's favourite new recruit had been sent over for a couple of weeks to work with Big John on putting together a new departmental Audit Procedures Manual. Big John's defining characteristic was his continuing devotion to the Grateful Dead. On his office machine he had the definitive collection of bookmarks to Deadhead websites. He was also one of the first in the department to discover that the newly-installed cd-roms could cope perfectly well with audio cds. His other claim to fame was the way he had obtained employment with the Brothers, by cold-calling the Lion King and charming his way into first an interview, then a key job in the department, without any relevant knowledge or experience of the work of a securities firm. The key job which he secured was simply to listen to the Lion King while he extemporised and rambled, and then from time to time collect these thoughts together into a PowerPoint presentation describing the department's strategic direction. This was as near to a perfect job as anyone could imagine, which made Big John the target of envy and admiration in equal measure. In my view he added enough of his own flavour to the work he did to prove his worth in pure entertainment terms. His slides were light on technical detail and full of graphical representations, such as auditors walking a tightrope over a pool full of sharks. They were also liberally peppered (of course) with quotes from the Grateful Dead. When Noddy came over, he obviously needed to be entertained in the evenings, after a hard day spent crafting the new manual. I came up with the suggestion that we head over to Allan Street on the Lower East Side to see what was cooking at Surf Reality on a Wednesday evening. I had inside knowledge of what was in store, but didn't let on too much. The title hinted at bondage and domination, which was enough to secure the agreement of the other two. In fact the Time Out write-up had made it clear that this was very much a spoof version of some of the bridle and whips shenanigans which took place for real (so I understand) up in Chelsea. What none of us had reckoned on was involuntary audience participation. I cannot recall what ritual humiliation I suffered at the hands of Mistress Helga, but I do recall that I submitted in a docile manner and it was all over quite quickly and painlessly. I couldn't take her too seriously as a dominatrix as I was used to seeing her as plain old Jennifer selling tickets at the door for the more mainstream events, normally with her little girl dancing around nearby. It was Jennifer and her partner who had given over the large backroom of their oversized loft in this unfashionable part of town to become the Surf Reality performance space.

Noddy remained glued to his seat in terror, refusing every attempt to get him up on stage. He seemed petrified of getting into a situation which he couldn't control. Mistress Helga gave up on him and turned her attention to Big John who, initially at least, seemed more than happy to become the centre of attention. But Helga had something special in mind for him. "What's your name" she barked, as she started to tie him to a chair. "Kevin" he squeaked in a falsetto voice, which he presumably thought would enhance the humour of the situation. Helga produced a rubber toad about the size of a cycling helmet, which she proceeded to tie to Big John's head. "Now ve call you Mister Toadhead and you vill answer to no other name. Understood?"

The precise details of his further humiliation, with props which included vegetables and whips, are less interesting than his reaction to what I told him when he returned to his seat after being released from his bondage. I pointed to the video camera standing on a plinth at the back of the room which had captured his performance. I mentioned the Surf Reality television programme which went out on cable in the early hours of Wednesday morning. And I alluded to the technical possibility of this evening's performance being broadcast, captured on videocassette and shared with a wider audience within the Brothers. Without entirely losing its smile, Big John's face took on a grim expression. "What you don't understand" he said through clenched teeth, "is that I will definitely kill you if you do that. What is more, I will seriously consider inflicting a permanent disability on you if you even mention what went on here to anyone in the department." Something in his tone prevented me from continuing the joke. Noddy and I gave suitable assurances and we came away. We stood on the sidewalk outside Surf Reality discussing the usual banalities of who was heading where by what means of transport. Without explanation Big John ducked back into the venue. When he came out he admitted that he had been checking out with the staff whether or not his performance actually would be broadcast. They had reassured him that absent a signed consent form they would never consider showing audience participation routines. In litigation-happy New York Big John was ready to believe them.

And true to my word, I never did tell the department. However, it was too good a story to keep entirely to myself. I shared it with Military Mike in Compliance, who I knew would be utterly discreet. I also told Mike's boss Old Dog, who I knew would do whatever he liked with the information. I knew that some leakage had occurred when I started getting black looks from Big John in the corridor. It turned out that Old Dog, with uncharacteristic subtlety, had tipped him off by grunting "Ribbit" as they passed in the Plaza.

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