STREET LEGAL

CANNABIS legislation is back on the agenda with a vengeance. The past few weeks have seen an increasing media interest in the subject aided and abetted by a series of interesting events.

A Time Out survey revealed that virtually all 25-year-old Londoners have at least tried a puff, Lord Woolf published a report urging legalisation as a means of freeing police to deal with the real criminals and voices from within the constabulary have been heard agreeing with drugs advisory bureau Release that some form of controlled legislation is essential in helping to curb drug-related crime and the absurd harassment of otherwise decent folk.

But perhaps the strongest indicator of the winds of change was the release without charge of a 27-year-old former TV presenter for opening an Amsterdam-style café in Brighton. Beki Adams' offered only mild space cakes containing home grown grass, at two quid a throw, to members of the press and public for the 57 minutes it took from opening to the arrival of the Brighton Drug Squad. A legalise cannabis campaigner, she made maximum use of her arrest to draw attention to the debate.

But released without charge? For possession, supplying and incitement? Unless her Dad spends his Sundays hopping around with a trouser leg rolled up, the times sure as hell must finally be a changing.

NEW ROMANCE NOUVEAU

At last! The antithesis to grunge is here and on the move. From the pages of Vogue to the high street shops, the tonsorial trends set by Lord Byron, Dick Turpin, Captain Hook and Rudolph Valentino are making one serious come-back. So far those of the same gender as their originators remain reluctant to cast aside the denims and the check shirt, but word has it Manchester, trend setter of British nightclubs, is witnessing growing numbers of New Romantic revival events.

The problem with taking a leap into the realms of dandyism is the deeply depressing all dressed up and nowhere to go syndrome which invariably follows. The only London club playing significant quantities of Japan, Spandau Ballet, Visage and Human League was Assemblage at the seedy, rundown Gossips nightclub. Peopled by the same raggedy slouchy clientele as the Electric Ballroom and Electrowerkz, it held scant appeal for the sharply dressed adult looking for a real excuse to get flamboyant in sophisticated surroundings.

All that has changed with the timely opening of Syndrome at the rather up-market Legends in Old Burlington Street, Piccadily. The venue's chic glass and chrome interior sets the mood perfectly, the crowd is a healthy cross section of gays and straights of all ages and although no dress code exists as such, take it as read that new romantic gear, evening wear and the most extravagant of out-on-the-town costumes are keenly encouraged.

Syndrome's organisers have a mission to 'bring out the Beau Brummel within' and coax the male of the species out of his historically uncharacteristic dowdiness. The result is an excellent club night, recapturing the spirit of London as you always thought it would be - outrageous, cool, decadent, posy and sexy - and comes more than highly recommended.

Entrance is a fiver, the loos are immaculate, the drinks are affordable and if this isn't

S-T-Y-L-E, Human League were skinheads.

MASTER BLASTERS

You know how sometimes you really want to just grab you a gun and go shoot some motherfuckers? Contemplated paint ball but don't want to get your hair all mussed up and technicolour? Anyway, paintball's for crusties and stressed-out executives on assertiveness-building courses!

I write just hours after my first experience of a laser war zone, namely Laser Quest in Kingston-upon-Thames. A larger variety exists at the Trocadero in Piccadilly, but I have yet to sample its delights. Three quid earns you twenty minutes stalking up and down ramps surrounded by dry ice and searchlights with a bodypack which flashes with lights and a laser gun which temporarily 'kills' people. Not as good as the real thing, I know, but prison chic just isn't me.

You get a score sheet at the end of it all, showing who hit you where and how often and likewise what injuries you inflicted on your fellow cyberwarriors. The real skill, however, lies in avoiding the assaults from the horrible little kids -known as munchkins - who spend all day in these venues (where the hell they get the money, I don't know) and combine the advantage of experience with being rather small and un-noticeable until they sneak up and zap you.

It doesn't hurt or sully your clothing and provides grown-ups with an excuse to play The Professionals and run round shouting "Cover me! Cover me!" or pretend to be Emma Peel or mutant warriors or cyberpunks, or if you want to be really dull, soldiers. Three sessions and you're pooped, nine quid lighter and with enough adrenaline pumping around to keep you up for hours without immediate risk of arrest.

For the budding mass murderers amongst you - and hey, I know I'm not alone here - this is your chance to get it out of your system without winding up in the tabloids, a fate too cruel for even the sickest psycho gerbil-shagger to have to endure. Your Honour, I rest my case.