‘It’s late, we’re drunk – let’s go and swing our pants’ I hollered last weekend to my friends (and most of the neighbours probably). So, to celebrate the fag end of the Brighton Festival, we  grabbed a taxi and thundered down town to the Spiegeltent. The saucily named Guilty Pleasures was churning out the cheese but try as we might to make an entrance, it was to no avail. ‘I’m sorry, you can’t come in without a ticket’ said the 12 year old door girl, sucking furiously on her cigarillo (I know, it was that sort of place, men dressed as chihuahuas and girls with handlebar moustaches).  So, we repaired to another venue called Madame Geisha’s. Apparently, inside it was all spanking and sparkly gussets which sounded nice but we didn’t have the energy for domination. No, instead, we found a beer tent complete with karaoke booth. And this is where we stayed, doing windmill arms to Bonnie Tyler’s ‘total eclipse of the heart’ – not easy when there’s three of you rammed into a telephone box.