Nothing like a messy divorce to get the creative juices flowing, eh? Nothing like being accused of flailing wildly at your ex-missus with a broken wine glass to put decades of whimsical, milkman-tickling, cred-killing songsmithery into sharp relief, wouldn’t you say? Clear the decks, dig deep into those reservoirs of marital pain and vomit out your own Blood On The Tracks for the new millennium. Paul McCartney? Oh that shit’s dark.

Except... he isn’t really, is he? At all. We’d like to think of Sir Paul inwardly seething with untapped rage as he simpers, whistles and generally mugs his way through this tootling, flatulent ditty, but he almost definitely isn’t. The only hint of tragedy is in the video, where he can be found wandering round his deserted mansion with an inexplicable procession of ghosts and Gareth out of The Office (playing a milkman - huzzah!), mandolin nestled somewhere under his aged, cloying puppy-dog features.

As the song fades to a well-deserved close, it’s impossible to shake the lingering image of him sitting crumpled in a lavishly upholstered chair, strings busted on his mandolin from the unbearable strain of having to play out such depth-plumbing inanity, strumming out a few wretched chords, lump rising in his throat as he drunkenly hollers after the memory of his old flame: “Heather! I love you, you fucking whore!!”

The walls of his desolate manor echo back their mocking response.

But yeah, it’s a toe-tapper, alright.

Watch the video here