On Saturday night, after our ignominious departure from German shores - what a twat that doughball Rooney, is - and an uplifting episode of Dr Who - uplifting because Rose is at last on her way out - I set foot for Hoxton. Once a hotbed of NF activity, it is now an arty hub surrounded by ringroads and fit blokes who read The Guardian. I was hot to trot. But... on entering our comedy club of choice, my mate and I found the punters consisted of four large hen parties and three couples. The local boys were in the Dog and Duck weeping into their beers. The only single man was a blow up doll with an enormous penis. Right totem, wrong consistency. There was also a woman with inflated boobs that sat solidly in her lycra top like the Elgin Marbles. We disgraced ourselves by making laddish remarks about being smothered to death and deploying her as a scud missile. The first act was a former teacher who, having failed to raise the youth of our country to new highs, similarly failed with the over 25s. The second was a gay muslim GP intent on hitting all the discomfort buttons. He was so clever-clever you needed a degree to get half his jokes, but he was funny. Finally, a middle-aged Aussie with a Stratocaster took the stage. Within seconds she had stripped off to display her flab. In a room of women, this was the equivalent of baring one's soul. Alternately embarrassed and delighted, we were then reduced to hysterics by her Shirley Bassey skit. There are times when the absence of men is a deeply affirming experience:-)