Today's guest spot: Caitlin Moran

I have no idea what to wear to a strip club. It’s one of the biggestwardrobe crises of my life.“What are you wearing?” I ask Vicky on the phone.“Skirt. Cardigan,” Vicky says, lighting a fag.“What shoes?”“Boots. Low heel.”“Oh, I was going to wear boots, low heel, too,” I say. “We canboth wear boots, low heel. That’s good. We’ll be matchy.”Then a bad thought occurs to me. “Actually, maybe weshouldn’t both wear boots, low heel,” I say. “If we look too matchy,people might think we’re an act. You know. Like a lesbian act. Andtry and touch us.”“No one would believe you’re a lesbian,” Vicky sighs. “You’dmake a terrible lesbian.”“I wouldn’t!” I say indignantly. This offends my can-do nature.“If I wanted, I could be a great lesbian!”“No, you couldn’t,” Vicky says. “You’re offensively heterosexual.You fancy Father Christmas. By no stretch of the imaginationcould Father Christmas be construed to have Sapphic androgyny.He wears Wellington boots indoors.”I can’t believe Vicky is doubting my ability to be a lesbian, if Ireally wanted to be. She’s seen how versatile I can be on a nightout. Once, when we went to Bournemouth, we blagged our waybackstage of a theater and convinced the star of the show—alegendary sitcom actor—that we were prostitutes, just to see hisreaction. He said, “Blimey!” in a very edifying manner. My capabilitiesare endless. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.“Maybe I’ll wear sneakers, instead,” I say.Vicky has asked me if I want to join her for a night out atSpearmint Rhino, on Tottenham Court Road. It’s the year 2000,and strip clubs—for so long regarded as the holding pen for thelast few sad, sweaty fucks on earth—have become acceptableagain.In Britain, the mid-nineties have been all about the rediscoveryof the British working class’s monochrome tropes—pubs, greyhound racing, anoraks, football in the park, baconsandwiches, “birds”—and strip clubs come under this heading.“Ladettes” now enjoy a night out in the classier strip clubs of themetropolis. Various Spice Girls have been pictured in strip clubs,smoking cigars and cheering the acts on. Titty-bars are being marketedas an exciting, marginally loucher version of the GrouchoClub—just somewhere for anyone who liked to start a night outat 1 a.m.Partly out of journalistic hunger to cover the phenomenon,and partly because newspaper editors are invariably excited bypictures of female hacks in a strip club, the Evening Standard hasasked Vicky to go spend an evening in the Rhino in order to seewhat all the fuss is about.“It’s against every single one of my feminist principles. Theseare arenas of abuse,” I said when she called.“The manager is giving us complimentary champagne allnight,” Vicky said.“I will meet you there at 9 p.m.,” I said, with all the dignity Icould muster.