B-Side Sunday.

Gracefully soaring over the gaping abyss that separates the best from the rest, it’s B-Side Sunday! The weekly ritual that would leave flowers on the doorstep and poetry on the answerphone, but can’t because it’s too busy slicing through swathes of the muckiest sinnery this side of Sodom and Gomorrah with virtuous zeal and the light of God burning brightly in its eyes. When times are hard and friends few, B-Side Sunday is there to pluck you like Cincinnatus from the plough and elevate you with the humble dreams of ‘Side Two’ salvation.

B-Side Sunday cares not for the lavender sensibilities of the pampered elite and the gentrified dandys of London, who spend their Sundays mincing up Buttercup Junction to buy new jodphurs for their pet peacocks, preferring instead to spend the holiest day of the week knee-deep in crepulent pools of dirty sinnery, bloodily rogering the zeitgeist with a firm and steady hand to salvage forgotten gems from pop’s undergrowth in order to help the good and the few to dance their way to freedom. Love should never hurt this much.

Bouncing up and down like four cans of red-bull noisery, this week is the turn of that fresh-faced fancy dan David Bowie with ‘Velvet Goldmine’. B-Side to ‘Space Oddity’, it’s a carousel of sneering thrust that explodes with more preening camp splendour than the Scissor Sisters covered in glitter and silly string, unfurling into a writhing nymphomaniac of a tune that would gleefully trip you up and be under you before you hit the floor. A strummery goosestep of hyper melodica that’s sure to make a lazy grin spread evenly over your face as winter draws in and Sunday evening slips into another working week. It’s almost enough to help you forget that we are just sunken-eyed machines surviving in a daily competition for resources before toppling into history’s chasm, or something. Amen.