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New Moon is nothing if not an international advertisement for the hungry virtues of virginity and young people can’t get enough of it
The Twilight Saga: New Moon
Theatre
A smart, prickly and rewarding view of sexual and emotional confusion
Cock
Restaurants
Kitchen W8 is a bargain for this area, if such sophistication is what you crave
Kitchen W8
Too long and drawn out but very entertaining with excellent special effects
This is a peculiar play and does not work for me. Some of it is very funny but there are real flaws
Alex has a strong powerful voice and was faultless, she is far better now than she was on the X-Factor
London,
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Phone: 08444775 775
Trains: Tube: Hounslow East 
From hair to eternity: bassist Steve Harris on stage at Twickenham
Twenty-five years in and Iron Maiden are the biggest we've ever been," booms the diminutive plastic-trousered Bruce Dickinson. "We've got people in the front row who weren't born when the band started" - the front row roars appreciatively and raises the "horns of rock" fingers for the 740th time that day - "none of us has been on reality TV; none of us has been in rehab... Where did we go right?!"
It's an interesting question. Iron Maiden sum up all that is preposterous about heavy metal, but their global fanbase is millions strong, and those fans' dedication is clear from the fact that almost to a man (the crowd is 95 per cent male) the Twickenham crowd are wearing official T-shirts featuring zombie mascot Eddie.
Behind Dickinson on the mock-Egyptian stage set is a 25ft tall lurching mummified Eddie (about as scary as a Teletubby), and five wizened bandmates so tight of trouser and long of hair they make Spinal Tap look like Public Enemy. It's all so spectacularly silly that a casual observer might well wonder how they inspire such passion.
But as the galloping riff of Rime Of The Ancient Mariner kicks in, such questions are blown out of the stadium. Iron Maiden's sound, which they deliver as gleefully and efficiently as they ever have, defines metal: Metallica to Pendulum, Papa Roach to Foo Fighters - there is not a current hard rock band that doesn't owe them some debt.
Yes, it's silly and cheesily macho, but this band started silly and were born to age disgracefully, so, paradoxically, even in their spandex and leather strides they look less ridiculous than many of their contemporaries. And the crowd, despite having been drinking through seven support acts, couldn't be more good-humoured. It's as formulaic as pantomime, but it's also as wonderfully
English, camp and absorbingly entertaining. The crowd bellow along to every word and air-guitar to every solo, moving as one and doubling their volume when anthems like Run To The Hills or Can I Play With Madness appear. The band's playing and showmanship are as honed as they should be, with history-obsessed main songwriter Steve Harris's basslines their skeleton, and Dickinson's melodramatic howl their crowning glory.
Maiden have never been fashionable and never will be - but that is precisely where they went right: appealing to aged rockers, to Beavis & Buttheadstyle misfits and to Wheatus's "teenage dirtbags" alike, the band have united and consistently entertained the kind of massive army of fans that cooler bands can but dream of. And who are we to argue? So, downing our plastic glass of fizzy lager, we too raise the horns of rock to a genuine British institution.
Details are correct at the time of publication - please check with venue before booking.
