YOU might have noticed the story in the news this week about a man in London who claims to have a phobia of footballer's Wags.

Catching sight of Christine Bleakley, Coleen Rooney or Alex Gerrard makes Brooke Conroy physically sick, he claims.

"I'm dreading watching the World Cup. I'm scared of seeing all the Wags in the stands," he said.

The best advice I can give this poor afflicted soul is to stay as far away from Queen Street's Sugar Cube as possible, lest he feels ill.

At night, the place is swarming with the kind of girls who aspire to have that bottle popping, VIP lifestyle - and their meathead male equivalents.

Down at Sugar Cube, as the heavy R&B jams shake the glitter-festooned walls, it's difficult to move without encountering bad hair extensions or ridiculous fake nails, or a creatine-inflated Dapper Laughs wannabe.

I'm not saying this is a bad thing, by the way.

Such places are an essential part of the clubbing landscape: they free up the less tacky establishments for the rest of us.

But for anyone with a bit of taste, or a dislike of the velvet rope and Grey Goose clubbing model, it's probably best to look elsewhere.