The Glitterati are back! They dug themselves in; to dens of decadence and pits of glitterball sin they fled, dark-eyed rock vagabonds banished by the cold light of day. To stacked palaces, where sculptures of Caligula cut pure from cocaine preside over balmy carnivals in humid harems, in Leeds. Where danger is daylight, fun is forever, and you will have it LARGE. Savages, hiding with girls in that room on the third floor, like a lower-rent King Adora. Look! At the curled lips and rocken’ good stances; Swoon! Girls, burn! With green eyes as the guitarist proves he is just so absolutely battered that he can barely lift his finger to hit that hammer on: and on: and on…And it won’t matter when all of this just amounts to the rock’n’roll equivalent of a black hole, ‘cos for all its sucked out snort, this zero-heart, zero-danger, zero-tune of a wasted 3: 3 quarter minutes is so limp with tissue damage that it’s only ever gonna collapse back on itself. When the morning comes you will feel dirty, and the guarded, sober October skies will rightly douse you in shame. Boys and girls, some restraint; you are too cool for the Glitterati.