Anyone who grew up in the 80s can probably name the date that, for them, fashion died.

It was the date that instead of customising your own stuff - cutting coats in half, sewing on buttons made of five Franc pieces, putting a bit of sequin trim on your dad’s old suit trousers and maybe pinning some postcards of the Virgin Mary on your Levi’s jacket (and that was just us - so ahead!) - people started wearing trainers. And sweat pants. And T-shirts with Adidas logos on.

And it’s the crossover between sportswear and fashion that London’s perpetually glittering V&A is looking at in its ‘mazing new exhibition called, handily, Fashion V Sport.

OK, so the whole phenom goes back before Kappa, all the way to Coco Chanel herself in fact, but the bulk of the exhibition seems to feature stuff by newer designers, like an Adidas tracksuit by Jeremy Scott with graphics by Keith Haring off-of grafitti, a jersey jumpsuit from this year by Yves Saint Laurent and a rather lovely and bizarre tracksuit dress by Yohji Yamamoto.

Fashion V Sport runs at the V&A from next Tuesday until January and costs £5 to get into. 

So for the last however-many-years we’ve been telling ourselves - come the summer season - that we really ought do a bit o’ touristy stuff, pop a rucksack on our backs (both straps, people, both straps), wear stone-washed jeans, stand at the entrance of Tube platforms, walk and then stop inexplicably, talk too loud, stand on the left of Tube escalators, eat at Aberdeen Angus Steak House, look generally bewildered, and c) and d). And this really is going somewhere.

Bas. I. Cally we wanna go see the State Rooms at Buckingham Palace. They look dead nice and fancy and it’s the closest we’re gonna get without being a sheep herder in the Outer Hebrides for 139 years and being rewarded an OBE for our efforts.

There’s a video showing just how fancy-schmancy they are, here. And information of the informative kind about how to have a gander at the State Rooms, here.

ps. *God save our gracious queen, god save our noble queen, god save the queen - tra, la, la, la, laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa; SEND HER VICTORIOUS, etc.*

pps. Buck House’s State Rooms are open to the dolly public for two months from 29th July.

Contain yourselves, people… this Saturday sees the last ever G-A-Y at The Astoria in London’s (not-so-) Glittering Charing Cross Road!

That’s right. No more gay teenagers high on alcopops. No more sticky carpets. No more wafts of chip fat from the fryer across the dancefloor. No more Lisa Scott Lee actually making the VIP balcony. No more performances from dance bands you know only one song from (OK, and no more great fun nights out watching Madonna or Mariah or Kylie perform…)

The Astoria is being knocked down (the bricks ground down, Native Americans brought in to smudge the ambience clean of the spirits of boys in Topman face down in their own soil) to make way for Crossrail (if Boris doesn’t ban it, that is) and G-A-Y are throwing the party of all parties starring (among other very secret guest stars) Sam Sparro. Whom we j’adore.

The Astoria is opposite Centrepoint at the top end of Charing Cross Road. Arrive early as that queue tends to build up.

London’s glittering South Bank, Her Majesty’s Royal Festival Hall no less (well, the Clore Ballroom bit), will be playing host to a celebration of all things Oz this Friday in the esteemed company of Jonny Woo, Laquisha Jonz, Lorraine Bowen (aka The Queen of the Casio Organ), Kandi Kane and David McAlmont (so you know it’s going to be a dolly old affair!)

Presiding over the festivities will be one Dame Amy Lame (that last ‘e’ should have an acute accent but we can’t find it on our keyboard). It’s a night of no doubt very twisted cabaret with swathes of blue gingham, the odd ruby Dolcis sandal and maybe even a dog.

We’re going as Diana Ross in The Wiz aka a very old lady skipping. It’s starts at 10pm (so they’ll all be half gone) and is absolutely free to get into. Are they mad?

At a loss for things to do this very Tuesday eve? Then you’ll be delighted to hear that the entirely bummable Will Self will be in London’s glittering Green Carnation to read from his book Dorian.

The excitable event marks the return of Polari – Paul Burston’s gay literary salon night – and will cost you no earth pounds, which leaves you with plenty of paper money to pop into Mr Self’s panties. Oh hello. Continues…