Pork – divine to some, disgusting to others. 34% Pork questions the purity of paint and how it lends itself to the composition of art. Here, the paint itself becomes the show. Allowing it to mimic itself, the work of Rob Leech, Guy Bourner, Alexander Heaton and Rachel Potts draws paint away from its stated purpose of illustration, and expresses it as a material, a device, a colour, a surface unto itself.

My fashion week…Well, the first day it catastrophically pissed with rain, so I stayed in, then on Tuesday when I finally dragged my sorry carcass up to the Natural History Museum to go to the Basso and Brooke show, I discovered that it was actually on Wednesday, so I thereby failed to see any shows again. I kind of had an inkling that I had got something wrong when I arrived to a desolate queue – no well dressed black-clad ladies – maybe it's just me but they (fashion Ed’s) all seem to be in black. Well, maybe it's just that I am so resolutely not ever in black (the pink shell jacket got a lot of outings last week).

Anyway, we missed the support because the thing that came through with the tickets said they were called the Macabees which sounds like one of those 'The' bands that make music to a streak of piss being washed away in the bristol drizzle. Through the floor of the bar above the Anson Rooms they didn't sound like that at all, but then it turns out they were another band entirely who may have been alright.

So that's what took them so long to set up. After a ferocious intro with Setting Sun, accompanied by vermillion and orange strobes, the aliens finally arrive, with a light display that doesn't disappoint. A few songs in and I am wondering whether this bunch of apparently ordinary blokes have actually got any tricks up their sleeves bar the fabulous light show - for now the aliens moniker seems hardly suited at all, but then the singer inexplicably requests a towel with which to wipe his patch, and whilst he doesn't immediately engage in some breakdancing (although a little bit of body-popping makes an appearance later) he does take a turn for the strange - coming over all Mr C out of the Shamen on us.

Amelia and I just spent a romantic couple of days in the lovely Paris. There are tons of things I love about London but it has to be said - Paris just pisses on it. We spent the evening in Hotel Amour: red & black shiny walls, pink carpets and marble baths full of champagne & vodka on ice, not bad eh? There were musclebound boys in tight pants wandering about; soggy strumpets cavorting in the shower together and we were even straddled by a blonde masseuse infront of a crowd of gawping French...