"During my time in the City, strip clubs were endlessly useful. If used correctly, they can be the City girl’s trump card; providing hassle-free after-dinner entertainment at will. I always thought of them as the City’s after-hour crèches; a sanctuary where I could sit back and relax with a drink while some tedious client bounced around, spaniel-like, his head safely ensconced ’twixt breasts. The overwhelming smell of talc and dubious moisturiser — no longer masked by wafts of tobacco, thanks to the smoking ban — is really the only downside. However, the feminists have developed the handiest of explanations for that rare breed of female who defends her time spent in strip clubs, and leaves the City without suing for sexual discrimination: false consciousness. Such a woman is merely deluded. She will wake up one day, and — the scales falling traumatically from her eyes — suddenly feel wronged; a victim. She will reach for that nice employment lawyer’s business card who had told her that this would happen; that the ‘drip drip drip’ effect of years of having her arse slapped would eventually take its toll.