Love comes in many different colours and disguises, and I have no doubt that the man of my dreams will appear to me at The Button Club’s glamorous Pink Panther Ball. Fellow revellers can expect a Valentine’s evening filled with exotic costumed theatricals, and an exciting treasure hunt for a highly prized diamond, which the sensational Bond Street jewellers, Chatila (http://www.chatila.com/), are generously giving away to one very lucky guest.

I received a mysterious love letter today, alerting me to watch out for ‘a tall, louche sophisticate with bushy eyebrows, sporting a rhinestone jacket and a Batman outfit.’ If any girls spot him, he’s mine! The gentleman spied me at The BloodLust Ball back in October last year, and I’m certainly intrigued by my international ‘Bat Boy’ of mystery. He’s even intending to roll up outside The Hurlingham Club in a batmobile. In fact, his anonymous letter has quite taken the sting out of my failed work romance with Ptolemy from The Golden Rain Spa. However, I feel it necessary to share with Button Club readers that I am looking for a mature, sophisticated lounge lizard with a penchant for peppermint creams – possibly a divorcé with his own hair. The prospect of dancing the night away with a Batman in sheer tights doesn’t fill me with passion, unless of course they are worn by a chap like Jude Law, in which case he’d be forgiven for wearing black, tan or navy.

Fantastically, we’ll be shimmying to internationally renowned band ‘Sway’, and ‘Holah!’ who sang so wonderfully at The BloodLust Ball, will also be belting out some groovy, psychedelic songs. I just hope the dashing Brendan Cole pitches up again and gives us a jig.

Perhaps I will meet my prince charming at The Pink Panther Ball, or perhaps I’ll rekindle my romance with Ptolemy. Either way, I’m looking forward to kicking my heels up with fellow “Buttonettes”.

See all you groovy revellers on Friday 9th February. Grrrrrr!

Hampton Court House was transformed into Dracula’s Castle on Friday night, for a spine-chilling Bloodlust Ball. Carriages carrying sinister vampire brides, their ill-fated victims and evil robed villains, rolled up outside the house to join Kaja Wunder, James Howland and Henry Northcroft for their first annual Hallowe’en Ball.

The “undead” were welcomed by Countess Carmilla Karnstein and Prince Vlad the Impaler for a night of feasting, indulgence, and passionate, blood-pumping merriment. Guests travelled from as far as Los Angeles, New York, Munich and Paris, to taste the delights of a coffin busting evening filled with singing, dancing and Carpathian fantasy.

Grisly rubber heads on sticks lined the front lawn in a horrific, gothic display of bloodthirsty ceremony, and torches burned fiercely beneath the moonlit skies. Masked celebrities, dead kings and queens, Welsh witches and vampire slayers, gathered outside to eye the mesmerising throng of costumed partygoers and theatricals.

I stood on the driveway looking up at the grand, mysterious house, and pulled my cloak tightly around me. There was a chill in the air, and the whole scene looked like it had been lifted from the pages of Bram Stoker’s ‘Dracula’. I shuddered. A crunching sound came from behind me – footsteps upon the gravel path. I turned around to see a lady dressed as Marie Antoinette sweeping across the driveway. She was rolling a cigarette, and blood ran down her mouth.

Production Manager Henry Northcroft, emerged from the dark mass of shrubbery to keep a beady eye on The Incredible Hulk – a chap who had painted himself so green, that he virtually glowed in the dark. I shudder to think what his bath looked like the next morning.

Once inside the grand entrance hall, a coffin containing a semi-naked, resting vampire lady greeted the eye. Most of my male guests stood peering in at her. She managed to lie perfectly still, luckily, it wasn’t a windy night. Two horny devils watched over her, as a talented pianist tinkled the ivories and entertained the guests.

I walked my party through the corridor past a bubbling blood fountain, and down into the depths of a darkened room, where another semi-naked vampire girl carrying a tray of hors d’oeuvres welcomed us to this private, exotic, vampire lair. There were lots of famous faces, although I didn’t spot the dashing Brendan Cole from ‘Strictly Come Dancing’ until later in the evening - he was heavily disguised in macabre makeup.

After a few heady cocktails, I hit the dance floor. Two of my friends ogled members of the band, Holah! and one of them had a romantic kiss. I found a quieter room decorated with a coffin where some mysterious rituals were taking place. Sworn to The Button Club's secrecy, I won’t reveal the ghostly goings on, but suffice it to say, my evening turned into a spiritual journey into the supernatural. Later that evening, a man wearing lipstick and a bra ordered me a cocktail and foretold my fortune, which proved a life-changing experience. He predicted that I wouldn’t join his cult. I predicted he would get me another cocktail.

I met a bunch of chaps dressed as spooky surgeons. They were equipped with green surgical masks and lots of smudged eyeliner. Lisa Scott-Lee and Liz Fuller looked suitably gothic in vibrant red, purple and green. They posed for photographs with the party’s vampire hostess, Kaja Wunder. Kaja also welcomed special guests including: Rick Parfitt, Samantha Rowley, Scott Henshall, Jasmine Lennard and Eva Danenza to this blood-curdling soirée. Celebrities loved the occasion - they could mingle and flirt incognito, and guests were unsure who was lurking behind each guise. Towards the end of the evening, a famous musician asked a friend of mine to pose in a coffin, but a soothsayer prevented her from doing so for fear of bad karma.

I staggered into my hotel room at 4:00 in the morning under the influence of gin fizzes and potent vampire cocktails. I had no doubt taken Bram Stoker’s immortal words: “Drink from me and live forever” too far, having drunk plenty of Castle Of Dracula Marsecco. I fell into bed wearing my vampire bride’s gown and plastic teeth, and awoke on Saturday morning curled up on the end of the bed covered by a bath mat. I was slightly puzzled by a red bite mark upon my neck.

After a stiff orange juice, my friend rang the Golden Rain Spa and told them, “Araminta won’t be coming into work today. She’s been bitten by a vampire.”

I had a fantastic night out.

Araminta Corker-Sherry

Celebrities Join The Button Club & male cancer charity Orchid, raising over £30,000 for the Charity

The Button Club, and male cancer charity Orchid, welcomed guests to a star-studded Valentine's fundraising evening, on Saturday 9th February, at Porchester Hall, Bayswater.

Brendan Cole from ‘Strictly Come Dancing', Princess Tamara Czartoryski Borbon, Hofit Golan, Liz Fuller, and Rick Parfitt Jnr., were just some of the celebrities who joined hosts Antonio Soler, Kaja Wunder, Henry Northcroft, and the debonair Quentin Holland, to help raise awareness of male cancers. Partygoers, romantics and lovers were treated to an entertaining dinner with a haunting performance from the beautiful opera singer, Summer. There was juggling by Stewart Pemberton, and a breathtaking acrobatics display by British acrobatics champions 2Xtreme. Sav, a self-proclaimed sleight of hand expert, provided table magic, and guests hit the dance-floor until the early hours.

Porchester Hall provided a romantic, gothic setting for the occasion. Blazing torches burned brightly outside the entrance, and once inside, as we made our way up the sweeping crimson staircase, waiters welcomed guests with Patron cocktails. Black tablecloths and white orchids adorned the dinner tables, and large black and white balloons floated like silicone balls above our heads. Low lighting, sparkling conversation and the clink of champagne glasses, made this a memorable night out.

A raffle and a silent auction boasted luxury gifts, including: a diamond pendant from the Bond Street jewellers, Boodles; pens from Cartier and Mont Blanc; a Chloe handbag; a shooting day; Michael Owen's football shirt; a Sunningdale golf day for 4; exotic holidays, including a World at Sea cruise; Cartier Polo tickets, memberships to the Harbour Club, Volstead, Boujis and Chinawhite; and a tour of the Houses of Parliament. Many other spectacular gifts were up for auction.

Angus Somerville, Chief Executive of Orchid, made a moving speech about male cancer, saying, "Orchid is delighted to have been beneficiary of the first Silicone Ball which raised over £30,000 to help research into the uniquely male cancers to give men a better chance of surviving testicular, prostate and penile cancer.  The Silicone Ball has also helped to raise awareness of male-specific cancers like testicular cancer, which predominantly affects young men between the ages of 15 and 40. Over the last 25 years incidence has doubled, and though curable today, at least a quarter of all patients delay seeking treatment because of lack of knowledge or embarrassment, making treatment more complicated and distressing."

The Silicone Ball organizers would like to thank the committee for their support: Antonio Soler, Kaja Wunder, Brendan Cole, Rick Parfitt Jnr., Quentin Holland, Tamara Beckwith, Giorgio Veroni, Maria Vega, Hofit Golan, and Andy Wong. 

By Fiona E. Lister

Araminta Corker-Sherry

Romance, decadence and seduction filled the rooms of Beauberry House on Friday night, at The Button Club's ‘The Fall of Rome' feast. This grand celebration of Ancient Rome attracted stars from stage and screen, as well as city workers, and those in need of a toga filled romp.

Golden sunshine bathed the terraces of Beauberry House, in what resembled a perfect Roman setting. As the guests arrived in their togas and sandals, beautiful chestnut coloured horses, supplied by Brett Polo, greeted them in the driveway. A naked couple painted in grey to resemble stone statues, posed for guests on the sun-drenched emerald green lawns, where The Button Club's party-seekers congregated in front of photographers.

Talented dancer, Brendan Cole from ‘Strictly Come Dancing', rolled up in his chariot with an entourage of gladiators and pouting Roman goddesses. The dashing Brendan has just returned from a trip to New Zealand, and it was great to see him. He looked caddish in an off-the-shoulder white designer number, and completed his seductive look with a crown of bushy green leaves. Brendan charmed the guests, and it wasn't long before I spied a topless chariot inspector eyeing him from across the room.

Sun-kissed guests sipped champagne on the terraces, accompanied by the mellifluous sounds from a harp. Praecones Pitranniae also supplied wonderful Roman music, as did Master Percussionist Mamadi Kamara, talented DJ and actor Ebe, and Skip and his performers. Bongo players beat out their rhythms on the other terrace as guests compared togas, or rather the lack of clothing, and chatted animatedly into the night. I felt somewhat overdressed for the occasion, especially when I noticed lots of semi-naked men running about the place. They were painted to resemble ageing stone. When Liz Fuller showed up wearing a divine black dress with gold bands, I noticed that one man had a job to concentrate on being a statue, and his eyes began to water.

Beauberry House provided an abundance of food, including a spit-roast, vegetables and a mountain of grapes and cheeses. In true Roman style, a pig's head adorned the table, together with figs and bread. Singer and actor Jimmy Golding, whipped out his scroll and announced the start of the feast. We all tucked in.

Hofit Golan looked stunning, as did her glamorous party, which added to the spirit of the evening. Francesca Isabella Santamaria, whose angelic voice captured everyone at the party, serenaded the guests. Fire-dancers ran through the gathering Buttonettes, and performed a powerful routine involving whirling batons of fire around their heads, and indeed, twirling them at full speed. No one was scorched, and no gold thongs blew up. Instead, guests stood dumbstruck as the fierce dancers swatted the air with brazen abandon.

The party's hostess Kaja Wunder, looked like a true Roman goddess. Ever graceful, the statuesque Kaja wore a shimmering gold, long backless toga, and her blonde locks had been carefully coiffured into a mane of ringlets. The party's host, Henry Northcroft, joined Kaja. Dressed as a centurion, Henry showed off a fine pair of legs, and sure enough, he was approached by a bevy of Roman beauties.

Other male guests had opted for the more demure approach to toga chic. I scanned the room and noticed a city chap wearing a pinstriped shirt and ironed trousers beneath his toga to protect his modesty.

I wandered upstairs, where a tall chap with long dark hair and a thorny crown accosted me. I was a little pie-eyed on champagne by this stage in the evening, and although he was attractive, I couldn't tell what he was saying, due to his very strong accent. I just said "yes" to everything and nodded. Unfortunately, I was nodding to the suggestion of an illicit dalliance in a bush involving him and a bunch of grapes. He wasn't my type, so I made my way back downstairs where I helped myself to more nougat.

Beauberry House provides a delightful setting for love, romance and glamour. The staff and Hype Events worked tirelessly to achieve a sparkling Hollywood setting for this magnificent soirée.

‘The Fall of Rome' was an enchanting evening's celebration of a colourful period in history, and even though I didn't manage to stay awake until 5:00 a.m., I'd like to repeat the evening all over again.

My Dear Friends,

Dum spiramus tuebimur - While we breathe, we shall defend

It is with the deepest of sorrows that the fate of our great City will fall into the hands of barbarians within days.

Evil blackguards, drunkards and foul lunatics, have marched for miles; killing, raping and pillaging their way towards to Rome. The stench of bloodshed is upon these men, and their lust to rip the heart out of our splendid City fills all of us with fear dear friends, and in so doing, makes us even more determined to do what Rome does best. That's right, we will party.

Indeed, your neighbours at The Button Club, the ethereal Empress Supreme, the dashing Guardian of the Temple of Jupiter, and the suave Protectorate of Latifundia Dulwicheum Capitoleum, invite you to join them for ‘The Fall of Rome', a lavish Roman feast. The most splendid of parties will be held at Beauberry House, Dulwicheum, on Friday, 8th June. Festivities begin at 8:00 p.m., and will finish at 5:00 a.m. the next morning, when Rome will have fallen. Those of us left standing will take chariots home.

I beseech you dear clerics, poets, painters, sculptors, juggling dwarves, philosophers, gladiators, centurions, and beautiful courtesans, to unite. Let's celebrate Rome's final ours. Let's show those murderous barbarians, that when they tear through our gates and knock down our walls, they will find only feasting, dancing and merry making.

The Button Club will laugh in the face of troubles. Sine cura (without a care), indeed. Those philistines may be dangerous, but they won't destroy our spirit. Dulwicheum will stand firm with fine wines, low lighting, togas and gold sandals. Let those rascals whip out their weapons, and we will, in turn, implore them to taste the fruits of our lavish feast. They will be so starving hungry from their long journey, and so soiled in the filth of their crimes, that I doubt any one of those savages will refuse a succulent spit-roast or the charms of Rome's finest eunuchs.

Come dear friends, and join the noblest of statesmen for this deliciously entertaining evening.

I look forward to seeing you all for a night of total indulgence! Hoorah for Plutarch, and Up Pompeii!

For now, dear friends, Da mihi sis bubulae frustrum assae, solana tuberosa in modo gallico fricta, ac quassum lactatum coagulatum crassum (Give me a hamburger, french fries, and a thick shake).

Cardinal Vacuumus Hooveramis III, Sanctum sanctorum

Letter from Count Fang to The Button Club

Castle Dracula, The Carpathians

8th October, 2007

Dear Fellow Vampires, Facebook Werewolves, Ghouls, Witches, and Potential Victims,

Garlic, crucifixes, the wild rose or mountain ash will not keep me away from Old Finsbury Town Hall, on Saturday 27th October. Indeed, I am ready to burst forth from my coffin to join The Button Club’s thrill-seekers for the ‘The BloodLust Ball’.

The party’s hostess, Countess Carmilla Karnstein, tells me there is a ring of secrecy and intrigue surrounding this exclusive, blood pumping night. “The evening promises to be a magical experience,” she informs me, before warning, “The BloodLust Ball is not for the faint-hearted”. Indeed, my cousin, Prince Vlad III ‘The Impaler’, or Count Dracula, as he is more commonly referred to, will meet all those guests who dare step over the threshold into a world of werewolves, victims and vampires.

Last night at Castle Dracula, as we supped on an unfortunate gypsy, Prince Vlad licked his bony, blood-encrusted fingers, grinned his scarlet-toothed smile, and with the wild ruby red eyes of a seasoned bloodsucker joked, “Enter all those who dare.” He smoothed a lock of raven black hair from his pale face, and with a blood-soaked thumb and forefinger, twiddled the ends of his pencil thin moustache. Dracula is caddish to the extreme, and whenever I see him, I can’t help but think he looks hundreds of years younger than he is. Dressed in a crimson velvet smoking jacket, complimented by a white ruffled shirt with lace sleeves, the dashing rogue cuts a dastardly figure in the candlelit confines of the dusty old castle. Many a young maiden has been lured onto the dinner plate as a result of being invited back to his place for coffee and a doughnut.

After dinner, as we sat by the fireside impaling rats on cocktails sticks, he rocked backwards and forwards in his threadbare armchair like a wild demon from the depths of Hell. I shuddered as he laughed his most blood-curdling laugh, which echoed throughout the musty, bloody corridors of Castle Dracula. The Button Club is in for a rare treat.

I am ready to sink my sharpened fangs into victims, virgins and other creatures, at this exciting, highly exclusive party. My calèche awaits to take me on the first leg of my journey to England. I am delighted to be invited to dance the night away by a bubbling ruby red fountain overflowing with delicious, gooey blood.

In just one hour, I leave the tatty (it could do with a splash of Dulux on the walls to cover all the blood stains) confines of Castle Dracula, where I will travel by coach along the Borgo Pass and onto Bistritz. The mountains along the Pass are quite beautiful, and at night, when the moon shines through the thunderous clouds and the treacherous wolves howl, I can emerge to feast upon the blood of a weary, lost traveller.

As many fellow vampires are aware, journeys of this nature are particularly tricky, not least because we must travel in a box for fear of being killed by sunlight. This leaves us at the mercy of curious goods handlers at seaports. I will miss the comfort of my crimson, satin lined coffin, but a simple cargo box will not arouse suspicion, and is easy to stow on board a ship.

In a few days time, I will be travelling with Count Dracula from the Port of Vanya to Whitby in England, as my dear, deceased predecessor once did. I say ‘deceased’, since although vampires are deemed ‘immortal’, sadly, you can kill one by exposing him or her to sunlight or by pushing a nasty stake through the heart. His death was a terrible business, at the hands of a group of vampire slayers from London and Whitby, who had followed him back from London to Transylvania. Details can be found in Bram Stoker’s ‘Dracula’.

However, my friends, let us join together, and let us not dwell on past misery. I look forward to seeing English soil again, and can’t wait to sink my love fangs into a few virgins – if indeed there are any living and working in Clerkenwell!

Dracula has sent a consignment of some twenty boxes ahead of us. They contain my bride, Lady Stabteeth, and our blood relatives. I am due to join them in Whitby in one week, where we will be transferred by removal van to London – to the dimly lit, dank ventilation corridor in The House of Detention in Clerkenwell. From this haunting prison filled with the ghoulish, blood-curdling screams of past prisoners, we will feast, make merry, and prepare for The BloodLust Ball. Countess Carmilla Karnstein waits for us.

The BloodLust Ball is nearly upon us. I bid you adieu for now. My horseman is fidgeting with his reins, and I must make haste before sunrise.

Your Friend, COUNT FANG

This afternoon was the final straw - we had a chap in from the West Country. He was a far cry from the gorgeous, well-heeled city slickers of St. Paul's and Liverpool Street. It was horrible. He was dressed from head from to toe in what resembled a scarecrow's getup; a cigarette hung from his grey lips, and he evidently needed a bath and a strong athlete's foot spray. The wife had purchased him a Red Letter Spa Day for his fiftieth birthday, and I wish she'd purchased him a weekend break in a field. Nevertheless, it is the duty of the Golden Rain staff to make our customers feel pampered and special, even if they do exude the fruity aroma of a sweaty ferret in a pair of trainers.

The scarecrow walked over to the reception desk and grinned at all the spa girls. "Good afternoon sir," I said in my special spa girl accent. "You must be Mr. Shatfield."

"Aye, that's me!" he said, grinning a wide, gappy-toothed smile.

"Would you mind putting your cigarette out please sir," I said. "Smoking is not permitted in the Spa."

"Don't you worry me duck," he replied, hiccupping. "I'll just stub it out outside." He staggered into the rainy street, and once in the open air, stood on the treacherous, slippery pavement puffing furiously away on the last little stump.

Two of our regular clients - a rain drenched mother and daughter, walked into reception. They shook their colourful umbrellas out onto our new reception carpet. A spray of rainwater covered the chairs. The rotund, sturdy women with skin resembling alabaster, were draped in jewels, and clutched Prada handbags. Golden Rain receives many ladies who lunch and then polish off the day with a facial, reflexology or aromatherapy session. They are great for business and usually tip very well.

"We've come for our facials and hair appointments," said the mature lady.

"Ahh," I said. "You are Mrs..."

"Mrs. Blaker-Pepperpot."

"Charlotte will be looking after you today, " I explained. "If you'd just like to take a seat, she will be with you in a minute." The two ladies sat down in the squishy, leather armchairs, and watched as the door opened and in walked Mr. Shatfield. The Blaker-Pepperpot girls eyed him in horror as he blew them kisses on his way back to the reception desk.

"I'm looking for something Chinese," explained Mr. Shatfield.

"Chinese?" I said, quizzically. "If you want a Chinese, then you could try the Wong Chunger just up the road from here. I recommend the noodles and prawn balls."

"No," said Shatfield. "I'm looking for something Chinese to massage me. Chinese girls aren't just great with their chopsticks. They really know how to give a man a deep tissue massage."

"I'm afraid our Chinese lady is giving acupuncture right now."

"She can puncture me any day," he said with a glint in his eye. Mrs. Baker-Pepperpot tried not to notice, but couldn't help scanning him up and down with her beady brown eyes.

"Right sir," I continued, "I see that your wife has booked you in for an aromatherapy massage, a body wax and a facial at 2:00 today," I said, tapping my biro on the appointments book. I knew instantly that my treatment room supervisor, Anita Donothing, would make me look after Mr. Shatfield. Since I've only recently qualified, she always gives me the difficult customers.

"Yes, love," he said. "Which one of you lucky ladies will have the honour of massaging me?" Anita gave me the look of a woman who had eaten one too many cheese and pickle sandwiches. She busied herself in reception with a pair of rubber gloves and some window spray. Whenever a difficult situation arises, Anita always starts polishing or doing things to our Christmas display. Despite the fact that it's October, we already have an imitation Christmas tree in the window, which is festooned with bright baubles, and topped with flashing amber, pink and green fairy lights. Our reception area is covered in tinsel, and next month Ptolemy from the salon, will be dressing up as Santa and giving out discount holiday vouchers to potential customers. Ptolemy is divine. I've fancied him rotten for months. He has a floppy fringe and a dark, dangerous look about him. He's the James Bond of the hair salon in a pink overall. What he can do with a pair of electrolysis prongs is pure magic. Once you've been zapped by Ptolemy's prongs, your hairs won't grow back for ages. Anita thinks he likes boys, but I reckon he's just a bit confused.

"I will be looking after you today sir," I said, taking Mr. Shatfield's coat, which reeked of manure.

"Excellent, I like brunettes," he remarked, smirking, before cackling like a lecher. I gave him a sharp, don't mess with me or I'll tell the wife kind of stare.

"Brunette it is then," he said, winking at me.

Just then Charlotte came out of one of the treatment rooms. She is bright and efficient, with straight blonde hair tied back into a French plait. Charlotte arrived just in time to rescue the Blaker-Pepperpot girls. "If you'd just like to step this way," she said, "I'll take you through." The two women followed Charlotte into the treatment rooms. They looked back at Mr. Shatfield as they walked past. "Goodbye girls," he said, waving. "Have a nice time. Don't do anything I wouldn't do." They failed to respond, and stayed close to Charlotte.

Anita finished re-arranging the gold tinsel on the Christmas tree. "I think I've finished now," she said. "Shall I look after reception while you take Mr. Shatfield in for his massage?" Anita looked
at me as though everything were perfectly normal. Why is it that some people, whenever they are shirking from their duties in surreal circumstances, can act as if everything is just peachy. Anita is a dab hand at looking busy or taking over reception. I can't remember the last time she gave a massage.

"Yes, Anita, that's fine. You just do reception, take a break, and have a nice cup of tea." Anita scowled and then began sellotaping tinsel to the telephone. Some people!

"Which way to the treatment rooms?" enquired a keen Mr.Shatfield.

"It's this way," I said, grabbing some fluffy, brown towels from the cupboards. My heart sank at the thought of massaging this lecherous scarecrow. He also had to be waxed. No wonder his wife sent him to a spa. We get lots of married men in here. They come in looking very hairy and unkempt, and we send them back home looking buffed and coiffured. I fail to understand how this could improve a marriage. After all, it's still the same guy we're sending home.

We enter the dark, dimly lit aromatherapy den. "If you'd just like to take off your clothes and strip down to your underpants," I told Mr. Shatfield, "I'll get the essential oils together. You can put your clothes on the chair over in the corner."

"Right you are me duck," he said, and undressed. I mixed up my potions and dunked my hands into the oily liquid.

"I'm ready me duck!" he shouted. I turned around to see him in the dim light. He was posing on his side, with one leg raised in the air. It was horrible. He was wearing nothing but a pair of trunks bearing the inscription ‘Loch Ness Monster Lives Here' written in pink lettering across the front. His hairy stomach hung over the elasticated waistband. I felt queasy.

"I've taken my kit off. Now it's your turn," he said. I threw my oily, angst-ridden hands into the air. They slipped over the knob - doorknob that is, and I couldn't turn it. I panicked; my heart raced, and I felt a sense of absolute despair. When I finally did get out of the room, I ran along the corridor and found Anita sipping her tea in reception. "Anita!" I yelled. "Mr. Shatfield is a madman. He's just asked me to remove my clothes!"

Suddenly, there was a loud shriek. Two women ran into reception wearing nothing but brown towels. "A strange man in odd trunks has just burst into the ladies sauna and offered us a free massage!" one of them shouted, panting and out of breath. "Don't worry ladies," I reassured them. "It's just a new client who's got lost in our maze of corridors. If you'd just like to go into the lounge area, I will be with you in a minute. I'm sorry for any inconvenience."

Anita picked up the telephone and called Zebadie, one of the masseurs. Zebadie is built like a huge trucker, sports tattoos on both arms, and is the proud owner of a Doberman named Buck.

Thank heavens I have The Button Club's Blood Lust Ball At Hampton Court to look forward to on Friday night. I'm going as a vampire bride. Charlotte from the spa is applying my makeup and the lovely Ptolemy has agreed to dress my hair. I'm looking forward to meeting fellow revellers and The Button Club's members. I hear there is a few ghostly surprises in store for us on Friday night, so I hope you will join me in sinking your teeth into a night of Transylvanian festivities.

I'm just about to turn the Christmas tree lights off and head home. It's been another day of seaweed wraps and entertainment at the Golden Rain Spa. Goodnight. See you on Friday.