The Saturdays took a little break from singing and looking hot on Wednesday night and treated themselves to a little drinking sesh in Guy Ritchie's Mayfair pub The Punch Bowl. During which they looked hot and sang. Presumably. 

Who can blame them? A little midweek knees up is always nice. Sharing a few scoops with your workmates gives you a slight feeling that work's not so bad, maybe they don't all hate you, and perhaps your life doesn't revolve entirely around a two-day respite filled with Mark Lawrenson, FIFA 11, too much Pizza Hut and copious amounts of Tesco own-brand vodka. 

Frankie Sandford was there. The poor uber-tanned cutie got so hammered that when someone told her she had a fluffy little Persian cat sitting proudly astride her right shoulder, she believed them and spent the rest of the night stroking the Right Honourable Lord Fluffington. 

Una, still bubbling with resentment at being branded 'the ropey one', took great pleasure in giving Frankie the universal symbol for 'he who self-pleasures with Lady Palm and her five enthusiastic daughters' for her imaginary-feline frolics. 

Rochelle, meanwhile, did that thing that girls sometimes do where they overdress for the occasion and then spend the rest of the evening complaining that everyone should have told them it was a 'jeans and boots' night while secretly loving being the most glamorous cat in the pack.

Mollie King, fast becoming our favourite Saturday of the week, left early. She could barely keep her eyes open, bless her.

Wait. Hold up. No. What sort of devilish wanton wickedness is afoot here? Mollie King left early... with a man. No, Mollie. Say it ain't so.

Pass the Tesco vodka. 

The Saturdays went on holiday
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Frankie Sandford wore a tight purple dress