We were dancing to save the world. I know this because it said so on the dancefloor, in yellow and green lights. In a strictly prosaic sense we were dancing to save the electricity bill of the club and half a dozen residents in the flats upstairs – the energy of our thrusts and shimmies was being captured beneath the reclaimed wooden floor and transferred to power the lights. When I thought about it too hard, I felt rather like a hamster.

But this was no time to be small-minded. On our jiggling shoulders rested the future of the planet. It was quite a responsibility, being on the front line of the climate war and, as someone with a limited arsenal of boogie, I found myself deploying all three of my patented manoeuvres again and again and again. As we worked ourselves towards an ecstasy of responsible dancing, high on one too many organic beers, messages on plasma screens informed us that “a child dies every ten seconds due to hunger” and that “more than 200,000 acres of rain forest are burnt every year”.

We were in Surya, in King’s Cross, North London, a venue that claims to be “the world’s first sustainable club”, a place where one is never allowed to doubt the ecological significance of one’s actions. Even in the gents, as each man took aim at the waterless urinals, he was informed that he was helping to save 90 gallons of water per day. There were signs everywhere. The cubicles were made from linseed oil, resin and soda. All who entered to perch on “low-flush” toilets were enjoined to help “set new parameters for our existence . . . before the eighth day, the day of global Armageddon”. It was quite a thing to worry about, on top of general anxiety over whether there would be any loo paper.

The landlord, Andrew Charalambous, a millionaire property developer, had dressed for the occasion in a white suit and kept referring to himself as “Dr Earth”. There were wind turbines and solar panels on the roof, he said. The DJs for the evening had all been sourced locally and reared on organic produce. (If they were not free range, they had almost certainly been allowed to roam on broken ground).

I asked how he would ensure efficient energy production on the dancefloor. Would there be a ban on Chris de Burgh? “I’m not sure,” he said. “Arguably people dancing two-step could generate a lot of power.”

Gregory Barker, the Conservative environment spokesman, observed walls pasted with newspaper and old CDs and a chandelier of green Biros. “I’m afraid I thought of Dolly Parton, who said, ‘I spend a great deal of money to look this cheap’,” he said.

But he was impressed. “Politicians can’t solve the problem of climate change alone,” he said. This seemed true. Even if they were all splendid dancers, they would need our help.

There were sceptics among the assembled clubbers. One young environmental activist pointed at the Biro chandelier. “Have they been used?” he asked, pointedly. “No. Someone went out and bought them. They could have bought recycled Biros.”

He was also upset about the bar, which served organic beer and wine. “There is no option for organic vodka,” he said. “There is not even any organic cola.”

Elsewhere there were earnest discussions about the sustainability of other people’s outfits. A young lady asked me what I was wearing. I was delighted. I informed her that I was attired in an organic cotton T-shirt and organic trousers from Marks & Spencer. My sandals contained no animal products. Vegans could literally eat my shoes.

“What about your underwear?” she asked. Alas, I could not vouch for the sustainability of my Y-fronts. She said she had to get back to her friends.

Chyna, 26, who described himself as an estate agent and womaniser, offered some much needed advice. “I love eco-ladies,” he said. “The way you are with the environment, that’s the way you have to be with them.”

With these words in mind I ventured back to the dancefloor where, besides three environmental consultants, a male nanny from Devon and an acupuncturist, I saw a tall willowy Canadian who had been stomping and gyrating all night. She was literally lighting up the dancefloor.

She was Daphne Lorian, 29, an “alternative events producer”. “It’s all about how hard you stomp,” she said.

If we were generating power for a handful of flats, think what Michael Flatley could achieve. When you add in the entire cast of Riverdance, Ireland suddenly appears to be sitting on a goldmine of untapped green energy.

“This is just the tip of the iceberg,” said Ms Lorian. “Eco-clubs will soon be springing up everywhere.” As I stomped to Amy Winehouse’s version of Valerie (a recycled song!) and the screen told me that “300 million children have no access to health services”, I contemplated the scope of this revolution that will turn us all into human hamsters. Energy-absorbing pavements, pedal-powered trains and thermal-capture lavatory seats: all of these seemed only a few beats away.

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