I’ve never been to Tup Tup Palace, that nightclub of dreams in the centre of Newcastle.
Not just because the bouncers wouldn’t let me in – no amount of “don’t you know who I am?” could squeeze me through those doors – but I honestly can’t think of a more horrendous way to spend a Friday night. I’m sure the hundreds of young people who swagger in and stagger out again at 3am into urine-sodden streets have a wonderful time; I’d rather endure an evening with Nigel Farage at a UKIP rally.
