(This was a column that appeared in the paper today)

Crack open the Bacardi Breezers: Schooldisco is ten years old.

For almost exactly as long as the present government has been in power, this notorious club night has found astonishing success with its recipe of binge-drinking, binge-groping and school uniform, first at the Hammersmith Palais, and now at the Forum in Kentish Town.

Apparently, for a large portion of my generation, sex never got sexier than knee-high socks and pleated skirts, and music never rose from the peak of Tiffany’s I Think We're Alone Now.

So here I am at Kentish Town station on Saturday night, waiting for my friends, Layla (Beaverwood School for Girls, Kent) and Abi (Charters School, Surrey), both Schooldisco devotees, on a mission to understand this phenomenon of Blair's Britain. This is not my usual beat. "Hello Schoolboy!" coo three passing pupils as I stand by the ticket barriers, trying to look dignified. I am wearing shorts. Abi and Layla - Oxbridge graduates, both - turn up looking not unlike the Russian paedo-pop duo, t.A.T.u.

Once we’ve stepped over the vomit to get inside Gomorrah High, I chat to Bobby Sanchez (Alleynes School, Dulwich), the club’s founder. Queen's Don't Stop Me Now is being played at furious volume. I get the impression Bobby would really rather be running some cutting edge hip-hop night, but he isn’t going to complain at his concept’s quite amazing success: having welcomed one million clubbers in London, he‘s  rolled it out all over the world. "It just took off", he says. "It’s got a rawness about it. I like that".

Just as he’s revealing plans for a Schooldisco clothing line, I see a bloody-nosed reveller being escorted to the toilets. It's playground rules here. "Let’s go out onto the balcony" says Bobby, trying to divert my attention. Through the rest of the evening I see two more bloody noses and three ripped shirts: "They’re animals!" says Andrew (Enfield Grammar), when I ask the provenance of his. "It’s just testosterone", I sympathise. "No it was a girl that ripped this!"

Despite the feral menace in the air, the atmosphere is genuinely infectious. Like gonorrhea, I suppose. It is just very difficult to remain cynical in a roomful of people so obviously having fun. Hammersmith seemed to attract the young lawyers and accountants of Fulham and Clapham - but here the crowd's more diverse. I see an Asian hen party, a cabal of Essex boys and, worryingly, a large contingent sporting the tie from my own alma mater (Latymer, Edmonton).

We drink. Possibly in a binging fashion. We dance. A young man infiltrates our group to bellow Bohemian Rhapsody - and I'm surprised to find that he's French. "This is so fun!" he grins. "There is nothing like this in France." Seems a fair deal: they get foie gras and decent railways; we get accountants in pig-tails.

Education, education, education indeed - I wonder whether this is what Tony Blair had in mind all along.