Good night out

The definition of a good night out is staggering around SoHo at 2am, seventy quid poorer and with a grin on your face.

I met an old friend from school who I have to be careful about drinking too much near. The first time I met up with him since school, we ended up Doing Bad Boy Things in an alley. The police turned up. My old school pal looked up and said "It's all right officer, I'm straight." The police went away.

The second time I met up with him, he brought a bottle of absinthe to my housewarming party, and ended up giving us a display of intimate wrestling in the kitchen.

Anyway, this time it was all right - there were a lot of nice, normal people there. And some Really Irritating Models.

I have nothing against female models. So long as they're a long way away. At close quarters, however, the poisonous radiation of fizzling disdain is quite irritating. Men were holding it in, and normal women were tugging down crop tops and demonstrating the Good Posture.

However, as well as the models, there were lovely people there - a man called Mike who watches Babestation, a lass called Verity, who's on air kissing terms with the important bouncers of SoHo, a man called Digby - who is not in advertising - and, joy of joys, a great guy called Matt who, it turns out, has grown up to look like H from Steps (only not annoying), is a record producer, and is going out with the gorgeous singer in his band.

It's lovely when life turns out perfect. It was a good evening - beyond a visit to the Mezzo Bar. The models insisted we go there. It was poisonous. It had all the angst of Luton airport, but with none of the charm.