Old clubbers never die
They just go to Ibiza and spend more. In The Times Annabelle Thorpe slips on her slingbacks.


THE air is warm and balmy and we’re sitting on our balcony, eating paprika crisps and swigging ice-cold water. Below us, girls in skimpy vest tops and boys in shiny trainers are skittering along, giggling and chatting; mopeds whip past them, taxis scoop them up and whisk them off to the bright lights of the old town on the other side of the bay.

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<small>[ 14 March 2004, 05:20 AM: Message edited by: Stuart Sweeney ]</small>

Say cheese
The music’s naff, the dance moves are stupid and the outfits are totally bonkers. But that’s the point. Bad taste is taking clubland by storm — and it’s a right laugh, says Grae Hillary for The Sunday Times.


It is Thursday night at what is fast becoming one of London’s most popular club nights, and the trend-setters are out in force. In the middle of the dancefloor is the star of the show. Is it the latest Gucci girl, or a Hollywood A-lister back from the Oscars? No: it’s a 4ft 2in Elvis impersonator. And the music driving everyone wild? Not the latest single from Pete Tong’s Essential Selection, but Billy Idol’s White Wedding.

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