B-Side Sunday.

Leaping lustily into view with more portentious rumblings than Jezuz kicking Buddha down Heaven’s grandest stairwell, it’s B-Side Sunday! The holy box social of beautiful idiots and brilliant lunatics that is already planning to hijack the Large Hadron Collider and subvert it to commit nuclear murderation on the scores of lesser weekly ceremonies that seek to detract from its supergyrating splendour. The ceremony that packs more soul than a sock with a hole but still wouldn’t think twice about plucking the purse from your bag whilst you’re in the toilets and rifling through all the messages on your phone. The spiritual weekend retreat that sets out to save you from skittering around Skid Row with your trousers round your ankles with tears in your eyes by bathing you in the sanctifying light of those tunes pushed to the margins of pop by the solipsistic strut of all them chart-bothering A-Sides: like a dog licking sick off a slumbering tramp, we’re here to make you a better you. Who says there are no heroes anymore?

So relax and unwind as your third favourite Sunday service tugs another bound-and-gagged B-Side from the cellar and sets to it by the hearth of a roaring fireplace, pausing only to get into the groove with, um, Muse’s ‘The Groove’. B-Side to the steely mighty of ‘Time Is Running Out’, it’s the cacophonous sound of Bellamy channelling Tom Morello after just the right amount of ketamine, fashioning an assured blast of typewriter-chewing-concrete twatfunkery so damnedably thrustworthy that it pretty much grabs you by your hair and forcibly drags you, kicking and screaming, to the dancefloor to melt your knees in a delirious spacerock frogmarch as you shit your brains out of your ears in sheer, unadulterated joy. It won’t be pretty; but what a way to go.

Featuring exactly the kind of pummelling riff that allows Matt Bellamy to strut around onstage with blue hair in a natty labcoat and still look cooler than a Polar Bear that’s been kicked through Topman, Muse don’t want to change your world; just rock the effing eff out of it. Unbelievers may sniff airily and harp on about Bellamy’s fretboard gymnastics and helium histrionics but extended scientific study has revealed that this track is precisely 5.768 times better than the majority of their last album and even if that doesn’t convince you of this track’s utter brilliance, just remember that experience is what you get when you didn’t get what you wanted. Aaaaaamen.