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Photo: Justin Timberlake

Review: Justin Timberlake Super Bowl 2018

A disappointing third appearance at this grandest of pop stages

80s

Event Review: Cornerhouse’s 25th Birthday

It was Cornerhouse’s 25th birthday on 25th September, and to celebrate they held an ‘80s party called ‘It was acceptable in the ‘80s’ (why does everybody keep saying that? What was acceptable in the ‘80s? Invading the Faulklands?). It started off with a choice of classic ‘80s films, and everyone went to see The Goonies except me, a move I quickly regretted. Insignificance seemed more attractive at the time, and was also a movie I hadn’t seen approximately a billion times. It’s about a man who is clearly supposed to be Einstein and a woman who is clearly supposed to be Marilyn Monroe who nearly have sex but don’t. Weird. After the film there was a quiz about the ‘80s and I literally didn’t know a single answer, but everyone was given a donut for taking part. Guiltiest donut I’ve ever eaten. The donut of shame.
The party then moved upstairs and it was all free drinks and dancing Ghostbusters. Actually, after the two free drinks it reverted back to mad Cornerhouse prices, so getting battered wasn’t really on the agenda. It would’ve been a little weird anyway to be honest; the crowd at this party were overwhelmingly those who idolised Bill Murray when they were seven, but who are now kind of balding and forlornly picking at their glittery suits over a mug of red wine. The party was a bit lamely decked out and no massive effort had gone into the decoration of the place. There was also the quite fundamental problem that there was no good music in the ‘80s. True story.
Verdict: Members of the Breakfast Club might have enjoyed this but as a member of the Pokemon club this didn’t offer a great deal. Noughties Ferris Bueller would’ve truanted the fuck out of this.

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Event Review: Peaches Christ’s Midnight Mass

Picture the scene: It’s 10.30pm on a Saturday night and I am surrounded by glitter, false eyelashes and the distinct smell of hairspray; as a marvelously glamorous sequin-clad drag queen takes to the stage, welcomed by the rejoicing roar of an eclectic crowd of bourgeoisie zombies and blood-splattered doctors. One might be excused for assuming that what I am describing is a nightmarish Halloween night on Canal Street, that, however, is not the case.