Dedicated to pleasure @ Ghetto

I didn't post yesterday as I was recovering from a late night clubbing session in the 'hottest club in London', Ghetto. For anyone who doesn't know, Ghetto is a trashy nightclub in Central London. Located in a back alley... part of London's seedy underbelly as we like to call it. We knew it was going to be a good night when one of us managed to be sick before even getting into the club... what a waste of alcohol. The music was as expected... if you like trashy cheese, you'd like the club. We don't bother going to Heaven any more, since they dumped the chill-out space and started playing pretentious dance without a hint of cheese. The highlight (should that be lowlight?) of the evening was probably being mistaken for pornstars. I'm not sure if that's a compliment or not? I think it was our fabulous matching 'dedicated 2 pleasure' t-shirts which led to the confusion. Either that or it was because we were far more heavily drunk than anyone else there. Which brings me to my other point really, when I describe Ghetto as the 'hottest club in London', I mean sweaty-hot, shuffling around in three inches of personal space-hot. It amazes me that anyone could get drunk there, given the pints of alcohol evaporating in sweat. Good job we'd drunk plenty beforehand really. As we stumbled out of the main room for the fourth time to get some much-needed oxygen, my fellow clubber, Trixie, heard some disgusted clubbers pointing at us "Look, there they go again!" I'm glad our fabulous t-shirts turned heads.

You'll catch your death dressed like that!

What is it about the older generaration which compels them to dress for arctic weather even when it's baking hot? Today was a gloriously warm, sunny day in south London, and yet as I walked to the park to sit amongst the first sun-worshippers of the season, I was given cause to whip out my camera phone and take a snap of this monstrosity.

I just don't get it - it's hot, it's sunny, it's humid - why would anyone layer themselves up and add a big quilted jacket with matching hat on top? I dread to think of the buckets of sweat which must have been pouring off her underneath there. I for one would not have wanted to end up standing anywhere near her in the post office queue.

What is more shocking is that she had somehow managed to twin the outfit with a pair of Deirdre-Barlow-esque sunglasses. I suppose she was trying to cover all eventualities.

Somebody pass me the garlic

Be afraid. Be VERY afraid. Because believe it or not, this is the current bookies' favourite to walk off with the Eurovision title on May 12th. Switzerland's DJ Bobo, a perennial favourite of the German record-buying public, with his inoffensive brand of half-spoken, half-singing, throwaway, euro-meaninglessness.

When asked to pick the worst lyrics in the song, you really would be spoilt for choice. Well, seeing an ageing DJ Bobo desperately trying to kick it with the kids in a dance routine while singing the line "we will be forever young" is too ridiculous for words. And then there is his opening line, "vampires get a life!" at which point I'm thinking two words - pot and kettle.

It is no surprise then that the best parts of the song are all the parts where DJ Bobo is not singing.

Maybe in Switzerland the goth population are a more happy-go-lucky sort who enjoy performing synchronised dance routines in the street with an old leather-clad has-been, but in South London, no self-respecting goth would be seen dead (no pun intended) dancing to this kind of tripe. And you certainly wouldn't tell the goths in our local park to "get a life". Not unless you wanted to get a serious kicking while being filmed on one of their mobile phones.

I also firmly believe that whoever cast the two second scene in the video at 02'45, where DJ Bobo comes face to face with a horse (or is that a reflection?) ought to be immediately ejected from any career connected with showbusiness in any way, shape or form.