About Glitterditch
We're here to babble about London's most scandalous. Glitterditch will keep you up to date with who's doing what when they shouldn't be (and where you can see them doing it). We'll leave no party invitation unturned.
We'll be your eyes and ears into the dark world of London's trash and glamour. We'll whisper secrets into your ear that we know will dazzle you and we'll tease you with sneaky snippets about your wonderful city and the people who live and work in it.
Glitterditch promises to be dazzling, exciting and unexpected. We can't promise to be sober, quiet or well-behaved. But you wouldn't want it any other way.
Contributors
A textbook homosexical type C (he can't wolf whistle or click his fingers but he doesn't have a lisp), Dickie Beau was delivered bum-first through a biker's moustache one sweaty summer in the time before body hair was banned, slightly premature, whimpering and blue. Shameless scenester and preponderant partygoer, Dickie keeps a keen eye on the capital's cultural comings and goings, wading fearlessly into the alternative art world and queer clubland to find out who's doing who, who's not paying and what's worth whipping your wallet out for. Superficially diminutive in stature, Dickie is structurally sound and surprisingly stronger than he looks. Mentally, he's a fucking giant.
On a Kentish maternity ward in 1981, Ria Campbell was forcibly excavated from her Mother’s womb with the aid of offensively large forceps.
After a brief stint podium dancing in Manchester’s subterranean house clubs, she headed to the capital with twin intentions: first, to get a proper job and second, to spend more time above ground.
As a freelance writer and editor, Ria has at least fulfilled ambition two. She enjoys red wine and spurious gossip, preferably together. At six feet tall with a penchant for high heels, she always gets served first at the bar. An obvious perk.
Ria tackles her writing like everything else in life: with haphazard enthusiasm and a slack jaw.
Nicole Farrell went down the trusted art school dropout route in her hometown of Dublin, going on to hit the high-flying English Lit degree circuit. Then she left the land of the spud for a year out in France, where she discovered croissants, berets and eh… le vin rouge.
She arrived in London, end of summer ‘07, with a hunger for pie, mash and world domination. She hung out with the Esquire mag people for a bit, then sampled the delights of financial journalism, and is now chancing her arm freelancing and tech-writing. Loud noises can scare her, so CAP up your comments if you want a good reaction.
Born in Portsmouth, Nikki Whiteman escaped to Bristol for a few years to study philosophy, argue with people in pubs, and watch far too much stand up comedy. A part-time Japanese course paved an easy way out of a Real Job, and she left the UK in 2005 to spend two years teaching English and exchanging amusing foreign swearwords in Osaka.
A brief stint with an improv comedy group gave her the excuse to travel to Tokyo and pretend she was famous for a while before heading back home. She now lives in East London, works in Shoreditch, smokes incessantly and occasionally writes about filth and fights with strangers on the internet.
Nikki would like to warn you that many of her links are not safe for work, and she invites you to bitch about it assertively in the comments.
