1. Why do we yawn?

Good question. I’m quite sure it is a way of getting a hit of oxygen to the brain but it is an odd mechanism. Almost as odd as the epiphenomenon of closing one eye to stifle a yawn in very boring company.

2. Why do cats purr?

Not surprising. The psychology of cats seems to be a timeless topic of interest to our comparatively unsophisticated minds. They purr, thus they want something. Or they know something. Or they are simply expressing patronising disdain toward you. Whatever it is, cats put us on edge.

3. Why does my bellybutton smell?

Now that I wasn’t expecting. How many searches must it take to make the top three results on Google? We’re talking hundreds of thousands. The words “bellybutton” and “smell” have made it above and beyond the PR efforts of teams Cheryl Cole, Katie Price, R-Patz (whoever that is- I hear he’s something of a god) to the most sought information following the words “Why do..” in the most searched search bar on the web. In fact, oddly enough, “Why do the lives of Cheryl Cole and Katie Price interest anyone?” is not even on the drop-down list (I’ve left out R-Patz. As I said, I don’t know who he is, but it is evident that he is a positive enrichment of many women’s (and men’s) lives across the globe.)

Having  just submitted 28,000 words of final assessments for my degree, my body has subsided from shock into near total collapse, thus I do not possess the nasal clarity required to carry out a personal naval scent test. Actually, I don’t possess the flexibility either- nor should anyone, frankly. How have so many people, stricken by this epidemic, identified the problem? I have a friend who has always found the bellybutton to be a restful little cavity for the index finger. I always thought this a unique character trait. Apparently not. Either a) people are carrying out finger tests as word of this national- no, global- embarrassment is quietly finding its way out b) the bellybutton smell for a number of sufferers is so potent that a finger test is not even necessary or c) those whose index fingers seek refuge in the naval are making a direct move from bellybutton to nostril, at which point the problem is noted (and their taste for offensive bodily habits is confirmed.)

As stated, I typed in “Why do..”; well, “do” has been kicked right out of the park by “does” in Google’s efforts to publicise this question, and let sufferers know they are far from alone. Why are so many people troubled by this seemingly trivial ailment? I suppose the popularity of shows such as Embarrassing Illnesses could have sparked a trend for getting bizarre bodily issues out in the open, and the universal neglect of the bellybutton in the showering routine has made it a popular one to confess. Freud would have said that somewhere deep inside our psyches we are all preoccupied with the bellybutton, on the basis that it represents infantile severance from the mother. And probably something to do with an erotic, incestuous, murderous, repressed drive. Is it really a coincidence that the naval is situated at the centre and fore of the body? Perhaps this little knot of tissue is not so anatomically insignificant as I had thought.

As well as being neglectful of the bellybutton, I have also been neglectful of the blog. Apologies for the shortage of recent updates; now that my degree has been boxed and tied up with a bow I can afford the time to do a little of what I love.

Having built up quite a repertoire of memorably immemorable nightclub experiences at some major venues across London and Europe, I felt that I had perhaps ignored the most obvious club brand of them all. My avoidance of Ministry was wholly deliberate, but was it justified, or just misguided snobbery? The Ministry of Sound is recognisable internationally and is rated highly by DJ Magazine- an essential handbook for those who are really into the clubbing scene. Moreover, the London venue was designed to be a place of unparalleled audio output. The style and layout of the club were almost an afterthought; those behind Ministry had in their vision a space where people of the night could dance until sunrise to house music blasted from state of the art soundsystems.

And yet, before Saturday, as someone who had never even looked upon the exterior of the place, what would have been my description of the Ministry of Sound? A cultureless pit of fake-tanned A-Level students? A default destination for the nightclub-goer who has no imagination, nor any real interest in music? I tried to silence the scepticism in my head and keep an open mind. I was on the guest list anyway, so the night was bound to have its perks.

We arrive. I glance at the multiple queues, identifying the line for the guest list and filing in behind a clan of adolescent boys who make Blazin’ Squad look like El Divo. More of them join our queue, right behind us. We’re not even in yet and already, I am the unfortunate ham in a Blazin’ Squad sandwich that has been squashed in the bottom of a battered Reebok schoolbag. Any sense of exclusivity that I previously attached to my guest list access is well and truly wiped. A couple of girls in the queue adjacent to us (the ticket-holders’ queue, which, incidentally, was moving a lot faster than ours) attract the boys’ attention. A demure duo, their orange skin is fluorescent under the street lights, setting off the white-blonde hair extensions beautifully. They feign annoyance at the attention. Our queue surges forward and the motley crew behind us take their chances at joining their mates near the front. One look of warning from me, as I simultaneously form a one-woman human barrier, tells them they’re better off staying put. It is, of course, only a partial victory, as it means that I have to listen to them talk for the next twenty minutes. Well, you know what they say: ‘if you can’t beat them, join them’.

I ask why so many of them are out. A scrawny, five foot tall, Ben Sherman clad member of the group whips out his phone and shows me a photograph: “We’re wetting the baby’s ed, innit.” How delightful. The words “clunge” and “wants it” escape the mouth of another one and I pull a face. “What? Do you want it? Do you like it gentle, do ya?” No. And n.., I’m not answering that. I ask him if that’s his idea of being clever and smooth. “Nah. Well, smoov, maybe. But clevah? I wouldn’t even attempt that.” At least he’s honest.

We finally get in and are lucky enough to gain access to the VIP lounge. The club is packed; Vernon Kay is due to play in the Baby Box and young girls are there in their hoards awaiting the ultimate Facebook profile picture opportunity. I still don’t know what Vernon Kay did in his allotted set time, but I do feel quite confident that my time was better spent at the bar. We wander from room to room, sussing out the place and its punters. The Box and the Baby Box are aptly named; they are literally dark boxes penetrated by your standard strobe lighting. Is the sound quality superior enough to warrant the club’s name? Yes. It is booming. The rooms throb and the music reverberates from the walls. Sadly for the Ministry of Sound though, that is not enough. In 1991 when the club opened it was an entrepreneurial masterpiece. For the first three years, Ministry was not even licensed to sell alcohol, but it drew clubbers in their droves because of its unique dedication to all-night, audio-centric partying.  Now, in 2010, with superclubs like Fabric and Matter dominating the scene with their underfloor speakers and underground edge, Ministry just seems a bit… uncool.

I spend the majority of the night seated in one of the VIP lounge’s leather booths. The table is reserved for another party, but by 2.30am the vodka that is on ice and the bowl of Refreshers still remain untouched. My friends and I decide, drunkenly drawn to the prospect of free booze and the subsequent improval of many hours preceding the first train home, that the intended party are probably not going to show. I have never liked to see anything go to waste, after all. It is only the following day that I make the connection between the unattended vodka, and the presence of Vernon Kay and family in that same booth not long afterwards…

How would I describe the Ministry of Sound now, as someone who has spent a night there? A cultureless pit of fake-tanned A-Level students, and a default destination for the nightclub-goer who has no imagination, nor any real interest in music. There was a chance that my snobbery could have been misguided before, but it is well-informed snobbery now.

L’Homme qui Marche I, the life-size bronze sculpture by Alberto Giacometti, sells for an astounding £65 million at Sotheby’s auction house as the financially exhausted arts sector anticipates crippling cuts in funding. Unfortunately, Giacometti passed away in 1966. Even those that hit the jackpot in this wonderful but largely unlucrative industry seem to do so once long departed. A bugger, really.

As for the buyer… I can’t help but picture a man alone in his large but sparse house. He is sat on a leather sofa in silence, lips pursed, occasionally sniffing for no reason and rubbing his face, his eyes remaining fixed on the unexpectedly imposing sculpture of an impossibly thin male figure as he represses the thought that he can hardly bring himself to acknowledge:

“I’m not sure if I want it now.”

Desiring some form of light background entertainment to enhance my filing experience, I switched on the television. My face turned away from the screen, I grinned with sardonic satisfaction as I attached the mingled sounds of heckling and defensive shouting to the nation’s favourite morning programme. Excellent. Glancing over, I wince at the pair of women confronting my vision. Exhibit A is a swollen, misshapen mass of angry pink flesh, desperately seeking to free itself from the grubby, faded tracksuit that clumsily contains it. Exhibit B, the alcohol-dependent mistress of Exhibit A’s long-term lover, is the embodiment of age masquerading as youth. Compacting her fragile frame into a hunched, cross-legged position, her vulnerability is plain for anybody to see, and somehow, the wiry peroxide hair that sits uncomfortably upon the deeply tanned, deeply lined face seems to accentuate it. What ensues is the very action the viewer tunes in to watch. With the voiceless bulk of male sexual potency (which he surely must be to inspire both women to take part in a televised cat fight) fixed like a bollard between them and exuding as much neurological activity, the two women screech accusations at eachother, heightening the pitch to compensate for their verbal impotence.

I smirk against my will, and question human nature. I continue to watch. Two girls on the brink of womanhood join the ugly pageant, each joining her respective mother and greeting the bollard, ie. Dad of the Year, with the language of hatred. They are anaemic in appearance with weary, greasy complexions. They spit venom at eachother, in defence of the wretched figures of maternity who have dragged them into this pit of moral degeneration; a pit that the public can freely peer into from a safe and sanitary distance. Cue the standard DNA test. Bollard is not the youngest girl’s father. Expecting a show of relief and a clap from the audience, I lose interest and idly pick up a few sheets of paper that need hole-punching. My attention is quickly arrested when the gasps of the audience are swallowed by an agonised sob from the trembling girl, who groans in bitter contractions of pain as she tries to process the news. She rocks in her seat, before disappearing into a backstage ‘retreat’ that is equally as accessible by the camera crew. The only member of the repugnant clan who joins her is the other girl who, previously hateful, now sees in her rival only the loss of one who she thought was bound to her in a shared endurance of a life so utterly shit that it is met by pitiful mockery by the rest of the world.

Jeremy Kyle. Bodyshock. Big Brother. The Victorian freak show. It’s a tragic parade of those whom society rejects.