Sometimes when you’re hungover to shit the sound of yet another generic indie outfit peddling their wares just dances a jig of absolute despair over your scattered senses, and you struggle to maintain a critical perspective as the waves of panic and dread wash over you with alarming regularity.

I could talk about what Clarky Cat sound like but I’d only be going through the motions. Oh, you know: ‘Sightline’ sounds like x happy-slapping y with an arse full of glowsticks while z eats a ham sandwich off his cock. So let's not go down that road, shall we?

As this stupefying ditty plays out I start to think he’s singing at me personally. What does he want from me? He’s mocking me, the ridiculous man, dancing to a tune I can’t even begin to comprehend and only makes me think of adverts. Or something. My mouth’s gone dry.

Leave me alone.