This season, The Fold will mainly be wearing high-pitched hollers, taut and trebley guitars and ominous, pounding drums to give off an overall image of three-minute punk ferocity. They will be accessorising their outfit with howls of feedback, whiplashing dance beats and a hearty dash of withering contempt.

Thus aurally dressed to slaughter, they will proceed to cover many a toilet venue in sweat and blood by peddling their Ikara Colt meets The Wedding Present style to the masses. On this single a demeanour of distinct dourness comes into head-on collision with thrashing anger to create something really rather tasty which will doubtless entice many a new disciple into the fold. It’s far too seldom that one encounters eyeliner-wearing indie types with such obvious balls (that’s a strictly metaphorical statement, thankyou) – The Fold may well serve to inject some much-needed amphetamine into the vein of the dancefloor.