The only thing I want popped is my Dom Pérignon.

M1nt. Bastion of all that is wondrously and unashamedly hedonistic. Also frequented by those who want to get it on with the laydies. Whether all the gentlemen at this establishment are wealthy or not, I do not know. Nor care really. It’s well stocked with premium vodka, mini sharks in tanks and, um, what else, mini sharks in tanks! Oh! And an abundance of young men who may or may not be in the financial industry, but who definitely think that popping their collars is a blue-chip stock when trying to get in your pants; safe and reliable, not like those leather ass-less chaps.

How dost thou know? I spent part of Saturday night wandering through the crowd at M1nt; politely rearranging these specifically collar afflicted men. Well, the way I see it, I wouldn’t want to wander around a reputable establishment with, say, toilet paper on my shoe. Or my skirt tucked into my underpants. Thus I thought it rather nice of me to either gently rearrange or subtly alert these men to the fact that they were in the midst of a wardrobe malfunction. A few thanked me; most backed away in incomprehension, or was it misapprehension? It was dark, I didn't chase them to find out. One man tried to engage me in conversation by boldly stating “some women like it that way”. Ha! This statement may be less incredulous if related to sexual assault, cocktails invented in the last three weeks (vodkatini anyone? oh my god, that was so five minutes ago), or even – at a stretch – men with hair product/s. Collars popped? No. Just no.

I’m going to make a broad generalization here: anyone who has sex with a man who parades the popped collar most likely does not know his last name, but does know the thread count of his sheets; after four dates he also calls you “babe”, which you and your friends think is adorable. Sorry to break it to you, but he probably figures it’s not polite to ask your name when his dick is in your mouth.