It was a surreal moment in an already bizarre election; Ken Livingstone standing at the bar in Comptons, chatting happily to bears about his plans for London if elected for a third time as the city's Mayor.
Ken's whole Soho walkabout was part farce, part hard-nosed politics.
With Brian Paddick, the only openly gay candidate, attracting a respectable number of LGBT voters, Ken was out to remind people he was fighting for gay rights when his opponent wasn't even out.
Of course, he got stuck into Boris at every opportunity.
Ken, a man with acute political antennae, knew better than to attack Mr Paddick. He brushed away questions from PinkNews.co.uk about whether the 49-year-old Lib Dem was challenging for the pink vote.
Gay MP Chris Bryant was Mr Livingstone's guide round the area. He confided that he has a flat "near here" but added he doesn't spend much time in the gay ghetto. He certainly seemed to know where he was going.
Ken's cavalcade of press photographers, journalists, members of LGBT Labour and other supporters began at Comptons in Old Compton St and finished up at Heaven.
The nightclub's VIP room was bedecked with some very fetching images of Red Ken from the days when he sported a neat moustache, several drag queens and some of the prettier Labour supporters.
But back to the walkabout. Scrums of photographers followed the Mayor from the Admiral Duncan, up Dean St and across Soho Square.
In that time about two voters spoke to Mr Livingstone, a gang of camp, annoying teenagers joined the throng and several people shouted obscenities at the candidate.
The press were relieved to reach Profile, where canapes, cocktails and champagne were laid on.
Topless waiters presented Mr Livingstone with a thick, sludgy beverage which I was informed contained brandy and cream, and possibly champagne. I spilt a cocktail on my notes so I can't be sure.
I asked one of the waiters if they are normally topless, or if it had been laid on for Ken.
In a delightfully impregnable Brazilian accent he informed me they do "no top" on Fridays and Saturdays. And sometimes Mondays.
Famed journalist A.A. Gill was there to observe the scene - he is to write a piece on Mr Livingstone for The Sunday Times. He seemed amused by the whole experience.
After this short respite Ken was back on manoeuvres.
"Oh, this is fun!" he exclaimed as he and his posse of press and leaflet-wielding supporters made their way into The Yard, where he was warmly received by patrons.
As he trolled past Comptons for the third time, he popped in for a drink, and was greeted with cheers. They like the older gentlemen at Comptons.
Moving finally towards the river, there was a touching moment when a young, frail homeless girl, who looked about 17, a dirty blanket wrapped round her shoulders, pushed herself forward.
As Ken leaned in to listen, so did the press. I was too far out to hear what she said, but I noticed that Ken was holding her hand, looking into her eyes, and I heard him promise that someone would "come back for her and find her."
Among the jollity, the camp boys at G-A-Y and the drunken secretaries shouting “KEN!” as if they were at a hen night and he was the stripper, it was a sobering reminder that the gay village is also filled with the desperate and despondent, the ones London fails.
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