The question, of course, is not posed by me but by Oscar Wilde who was captivated by a one-night engagement at that epitome of sophisticated night clubs, the Cop Shop in Mill Street.
My experience of that most chic of towns is now restricted to visits to the seething cauldron of indifference that is the St Mirren Stadium. A visit on Saturday to that cradle of football (the St Mirren defence had been rocked to sleep) was enlivened by the singing of one song during the recent Saints v Sellick match.
It went to the tune of Achy Breaky Heart by Billy Ray Cyrus and it is a protest over the mere thought of Patrick McCourt being sold. It fulfils all the criteria of great football songs in that it is funny, bizarre and upsets no one.
Don't sell McCourt, Paddy McCourt,
I just don't think you understand;
Cause if you sell McCourt, Paddy McCourt,
You'll have a riot on your hands
It reminds me in its wonderful silliness of a chant by Manchester United fans in praise of Gary Neville, whose father, strangely, is called Neville Neville.
To the tune of Rebel Rebel by David Bowie, it runs thus:
Neville Neville, Your future's immense,
Neville Neville, You play in defence,
Neville Neville, Like Jacko you're bad,
Neville Neville, Is the name of your dad
All of which is but an apology for the discourse for this week's witterings. I know saying sorry for my column is never enough. It is, like muttering 'pardon me' after one has run down the beloved family cat in a steamroller while, ironically, steaming. Still here it is. On the 50th anniversary of the Beatles releasing their first single, here is the Fab Four's fitba' top 10.
The new bogieman of Scottish fitba'.
9SHE Came in Through the Bathroom Window
The scene is Murray Park and Allan McGregor is explaining another tabloid headline to a bemused Walter Smith who is contemplating putting his goalie through a dressing-room windae.
8we can Work It Out
After a season on the bench, the physio gives medical advice to Paddy McCourt over a large skelf in the player's bahookie.
7I WANT to Hold Your Hand
A desolate John Terry makes a play to fellow professionals after he runs out of players to shake hands with of a Saturday.
The massed choir of Scottish Football, the Tartan Army, the administrators shovelling down their tranquilisers, the national coach holding on to his job with all the certainty of a man with boxing gloves picking up a bar of soap, the players in all divisions seeing their jobs having all the security of a snow plough driver in LA, and the fans facing the prospect of watching Scotland in a World Cup only on their PlayStations . . . all join for the anguished cry of Help!
5FROM Me to You
Mark Wotte tries to inculcate the basics of passing while reflecting that his favourite song is that lament to a bottle of Buckie in the council gardens, namely the Days of Wine and Roses.
4LUcy in the Sky with Diamonds
This is the celebrated reply to a physio, holding up three fingers, and saying to a concussed Frank McAvennie: ''What can you see?''
3i am the Walrus
Sam Allardyce has a moment of truth when he looks in the West Ham dressing-room mirror.
The tragic tale of the most recent idignity to befall Diego Maradona. The little Argentinian was forced into a transgender decision (and operation) – after playing a charity match on a blaes pitch in Lanarkshire. He said through gritted teeth (it had been a cold day and all surfaces had been covered): ''The Malvinas would be ours if we has this ball that you call El Mouldmaster instead of that wimpy Exocet missile.''
1LOve Me Do
A self-pitying and forlorn Duncan Ferguson pleads for affection outside his pigeon loft.