Afternoon style merchants. Excuse the dip in coverage. Been at it, frantic style. Not sure where to start, so will reverse in. On the way to Manchester for the final of some old talent contest or other.

"You talk like Marlene Dietrich, you dance like Zizi Jeanmaire" I sang to Gary Barlow's ear last Sunday night in Wembley, in keeping with the spirit of the competition. "You clothes are all made by Balmain, and there's diam'..." at that point he had to go on stage, indeed wearing deep blue velvet Balmain. More velvet at Dolce's bash on Wednesday, where received a full homeboy style buddy-hug off my man Mr. Tempah dressed in a blud red smoking jacket. In clear site of Domineco, don't cha know. You may sneer, but they all count, men. They all count in this caper.

Afraid am about to be lodged in a Jurys Inn, with a torn out page of a weekend supplement and box of opened la de das for entertainment. It is a singing competition after all, ha-ha-ha, la-de-da...Wi fi round here stands for What internet? Fuck It. So am bracing self for an old time weekend of it.

Meant to mention something about  significance of wearing your shirt out and semi-disheveled back in 1983 but have arrived in Manchester, always so very much to answer for. Am late. The TV bodies will be alarmed. But writing about fame, fame, fatal fame, it can play hideous trick on your train. Not long now: One more weekend of it my bredrins, and we'll be gladioli its all over.

Stubbs is out of The Metropolis.