Night on night within London’s en vogue parties this autumn, the same thing happens. It nears midnight, and a trim crowd slips past polite school-night chatter and into their Friday-night loose egos. To the chorus of Like A Prayer or heavy techno, almost every pair of arms go up, gyrating in the air.
At this moment in recent weeks, I have had one thought reccur: erm, there’s a heck of a lot of huge, polished biceps here. And they all belong to people I’ve never heard of.
