Well, I went to The Parkin Lot at The Green Carnation in Greek Street last night and was not entirely impressed. And I say that as an adoring fan of the DJs Molly and Sophie Parkin. The music is horrible screeching 60s stuff - I met Kathy Kirby once, crazy cow - and two old bags had a dance (I wasn't one of them) - ie they swayed about like wind chimes. The few Hitler Youth lookalikes (cropped heads, muscles, attitude - the cast of Bent crossed with Anna cunting Wintour) sat about in pairs against the walls snogging and nuzzling and stroking each other's testicles: artfully positioned wall mirrors enabled me to observe growing erection bulges while seeming to admire the Victorian wallpaper Oscar might have selected before his unfortunate explosion on his death bed in Paris. Or so I read. He left quite a mess.
Molly herself - whom I did not introduce myself to because I wanted to see what would happen - was fabulously turned-out and turbaned: frankly, I would quite like to have sex with her: I think we could give each one with a sequel. She stood about appearing to be giving advice to the pretty young girl at the reception desk: perhaps the girl was talking about her boyfriend's monster cock and how it's so difficult to accommodate. That sort of thing. Or the feminine equivalent if she's a lesbo. I've noticed a lot of big cock problems addressed by the nation's agony aunts lately. It must be the effects of nuclear power and GM food.
No one appeared to appreciate the legendary, the Empress Molly Parkin - but then what do you expect of a bunch of narcissists who think life started in the mid-80s? Still, it wasn't an entirely uninteresting way to part with £10 for two scotches and water (bottled, none of your Thames tap rubbish) and no ice.
My advice to the Parkins is update the music - something of the Noughties would better suit the petting patrons. That might bump up the crowd.