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IT'S THE launch party of the new bar at Gary Rhodes's Brasserie in the Cumberland Hotel, and my companion Bec and I are midconversation with the celebrity chef. Between gulps of champagne we discuss canapé-thieves, dachshunds and how Jimi Hendrix kicked the bucket in a room upstairs. Then the clincher comes. "So, how do you two know each other, then?" Erm … Well, the truth is, we don't. In fact, until one hour ago, neither of us had even met. You see, Bec isn't a callgirl from a sordid Belle de Jour-style escort agency. Nor is she some dating website floozy whom I've lured to the event with the promise of a prawn volau-vent or two. No, I found her through www.fridaynightsucks.com, a new service offering to spare blushes at social functions by finding you a plusone at the 11th hour. Whether you are seeking like-minded souls, the romance you never had or are sliding towards becoming a Salinger-esque recluse, the website represents a novel way of making new connections. [ABSTRACT FROM PUBLISHER]

RECENTLY, our boiler broke down, plunging the house into icy temperatures and setting my teeth chattering from the shock of a cold shower on a winter's morning. [ABSTRACT FROM PUBLISHER]

LAST year, passengers arriving at Helsinki Airport were greeted by a striking, soon-togo-viral banner. "Nobody in their right mind would come to Helsinki in November," it declared. "Except you, you badass. Welcome." [ABSTRACT FROM PUBLISHER]

OTHER than investing their entire student loan in the National Lottery, it's one of the easiest ways undergraduates can earn £2,500. Skills needed: an ability to loaf around for two weeks, doing nothing other than watching the odd bit of TV or surfing the web. Plus, you'd also be helping vital research into diseases such as cancer. It's money for nothing and the digs are free. [ABSTRACT FROM PUBLISHER]

THE bridal dress is a wear-itonce-in-your-lifetime garment; a symbol of innocence, purity and Disney-princess perfection. Tradition dictates that the groom doesn't see it before the big day, lest he wants decades of misfortune. And if he does happen to glimpse the matrimonial frock, tradition also dictates that he is gushingly complimentary about it. [ABSTRACT FROM PUBLISHER]

WITH the temperature nudging 17.1C (a balmy 19C in Gravesend), London experienced its hottest day of the year last Thursday. And just as inevitable as the newspapers going into full-on phew-what-a-scorcher mode was the trend for premature shorts-ulation — the predilection for the capital to slip into shorts and indulge in leg-flashing fecklessness. [ABSTRACT FROM PUBLISHER]

¦ LLIOT "Example" Gleave pads into a space-age meeting room at the Elephant & Castle HQ of his Ministry of Sound record label and emits a lionlike yawn. "I've been getting three hours sleep a night recently," he says waving a mug of milky tea. His third album, Playing in the Shadows, was number one earlier this month and the Fulham rapper hasn't stopped since. He'd celebrated by "going somewhere horrible like Whisky Mist" with Wretch 32 and engaging in SMS banter with Adele. "When I found out I was number one, I said, 'Beat you! You're crap!' She just texted back and said, 'Dickhead!'" Then it was on to Berlin, Brussels and Edinburgh before recording new material for Kylie Minogue (at her behest). Tomorrow, Brighton. The day after? Shooting a video in Iceland. Then Australia, the Far East, it goes on… Today was earmarked as a day off, one of only six he's had during 2011. There's some downtime this afternoon, but don't expect him to flop on a giant divan somewhere. "I'm going on a 13-mile run," he announces perkily. "It gives me time to think about melodies." [ABSTRACT FROM PUBLISHER]

This autumn Ricky Gervais returns to TV with his third comedy series, casting Britain's most celebrated short actor in the lead. Warwick Davis is up for the challenge, he tells Christian Koch ¦ ALK about serendipity. [ABSTRACT FROM PUBLISHER]

IT DOESN'T look much from the outside. Triangulated by the bourgeois coffee shops of Broadway Market, the ghostly arches of London Fields and the takeaway joints of South Hackney, you'll find a dour grey-bricked building with Sixties signage and nondescript windows. [ABSTRACT FROM PUBLISHER]

WITH an estimated $346 million (£210 million) fortune and a penchant for retina-dazzling multi-carat jewelry, Sean "P Diddy" Combs is not the type of person normally seen knocking about on Tottenham's Tiverton estate or queuing up at Chick King in White Hart Lane. [ABSTRACT FROM PUBLISHER]

IF YOU go down to the pub today, you're sure of a big surprise. Because sitting in the corner, you might stumble across a tiger, giant piranha and a "cannibalistic cow" supping beer together and hogging the quiz machine. Or maybe somebody will be checking out YouTube footage on their phone of some half-naked chap cavorting around pretending to be a zebra. And if "today" happens to be a Saturday in Holborn, then you may find yourself besieged by 30 fluffy blue foxes, giant squirrels and God knows what else, prowling the streets, dispensing hugs to passers-by. [ABSTRACT FROM PUBLISHER]

THE Monday morning commuter rush at Lee Valley, in north-east London, starts early — at 4am. From that ungodly hour, people can be glimpsed hurriedly pacing across dewy grass in the pre-dawn gloom. Some wear the high-visibility chartreuse tabards favoured by council workers. Some are clad in immaculate white shirt and tie. Others wear hoodies and a few still have driblets of shaving foam on their cheeks. [ABSTRACT FROM PUBLISHER]

PUB quiz question: which million-selling Walthamstow band has sung with everybody from Paul McCartney to Stevie Wonder, performed in front of two billion people at Live 8, and recorded England's last official World Cup tune? Oh, and they once bagged an Oscar nomination for best song, too. Need a clue? It's not E17. [ABSTRACT FROM PUBLISHER]

IT'S 11am on a Wednesday and the SN1 (Spare No 1) clothing store in Peckham, part-run by hot new UK rapper Giggs, has yet to open its metallic shutters. But people are already gathering outside, some having driven halfway across London and waited two hours for it to open. Nathan Thompson, aka Hollowman aka Giggs, has been heralded as the UK's hottest rapper for 2010, and it's not just his newly released debut single Don't Go There that is a burgeoning success. In his home neighbourhood of Peckham his clothing is making waves too. Every two minutes somebody shuffles past wearing SN1 hoodies, T-shirts or even PVC leggings with the word "UUMMM!" on the derrière. [ABSTRACT FROM PUBLISHER]

IN retina-scorching neon T-shirts emblazoned with net-speak slogans, the Babycakes "scene kids" cram into Islington Academy and screech. It's the second London party for Babycakes' clothing label, and over the next few hours, these 15- to 16-year-olds, with their Skins-hairdos, hotpants and faces painted like cats, run riot. They'll play with the bubble machine and suck Chupa Chup lollies. They'll pogo and stage-dive away to the additive-laden sound of the "chiptune" bands playing live. And they'll suffocate every last remaining gasp of air from the venue with their prodigious use of hairspray. [ABSTRACT FROM PUBLISHER]

MANAGING time is something with which we all struggle. At work, we're plagued by deadlines, an inbox full of emails and unfinished to-do lists. At home, there's a stream of never-ending chores. [ABSTRACT FROM PUBLISHER]

SUNDAY nights aren't supposed to be like this. At an hour when most of the city is adjusting its alarms and whingeing about back-to-work blues, pockets of nattily dressed youth start assembling outside clubs in Kensington, Mayfair and Noho. Queues snake around the block while inside champagne flows and the music is a vivid cocktail of rap, funky house and African beats. Then, at 2.30am, the entire club — a thousandodd people — launches into a dance best described as the kind of move a crippled giraffe might make if doused in itching powder. The sickie calls tomorrow are inevitable. [ABSTRACT FROM PUBLISHER]

Friday in-house drinks are back as a morale-booster in these stringent times. This may not be Mad Men's Don Draper's idea of a booze-up but, as Christian Koch discovers, a bar break can work wonders THERE are many reasons to envy Don Draper — the slick, cleft-chinned ad exec anti-hero of BBC4's Mad Men. Starched collars, sharp suits, profligate philandering … and his casual way with whisky in the workplace. Sixties Manhattan offices were places where you could pour a sturdy Scotch (or three) at midday without colleagues shoving an AA card in your hand. [ABSTRACT FROM PUBLISHER]

JOHN LEWIS is the kind of place where simpering couples leave wedding lists for toasters and crockery. Never in its 146-year history has it been a destination where you'd want to bunk down for the night. [ABSTRACT FROM PUBLISHER]

IN THE corner of one of east London's coolest clubs everybody is queuing up to get a slice of the most popular girl there. But she's neither dancing like a dervish nor wearing a low-cut top. Instead, she's standing behind a floral tablecloth and a blur of bunting, dishing out garishly coloured cupcakes on chintzy china plates. [ABSTRACT FROM PUBLISHER]