Helga's Chickens take the floor around eight thirty every night. Could anybody ask for more? Perhaps some spotty troglodyte would rather hide away and write computer code, but that's a bore and hardly likely to delight Helga's Chickens. Take the floor for instance - even if it wore a carpet of a lurid white our eyes would still be on the door around eight thirty. Every night the Paranormal's heaving. Quite a crowd prepares for what's in store and brightens as they dim the light. Could anybody ask for more than Helga and her brood? Before you rush to call her 'parasite' or breathe the appellation 'whore', perhaps some spotty troglodyte will rush to her defence and cite an evening back in '94 when he succumbed, gave up the fight and sang - O come let us adore Helga's Chickens!