But Christ just imagine it, there you are on some island paradise, alone with a ridiculously expensive cocktail, contemplating the serenity, perhaps reading Proust, when in the distance, you hear their thunderous hooves, the stomping of inappriate footwear, the shrill, maddened barking, the howls. They stampede into your bar, a melee of glitter, beads, ridiculous plastic things that dangle, the unpleasant organic smell of long chain monopolymers from spray tan lotions, ‘Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!’ They’d heave and exclaim evangelically, demanding bigger and ever more fruitier drinks. You’d shrink into a booth, praying they wouldn’t see you, but eventually they would, and they’d descend like hungry buzzards, circling at first ‘what you reading? for?’ before coming for your very soul.