B-Side Sunday.

Hitting you like the headbutt outside a discotheque that forced you to reconsider buying that diamante bow tie, its B-Side Sunday! The Sabbath-day service so damnedably sexual it could fling you onto the kitchen floor and make colours dance through your mind as you writhe in twitching ecstacy, but refrains cos it’s too busy slaving away in the godless void of modernity to bring you spritual salvation at a price that’s right. After the grey paradise of empty satisfaction that is Saturday night, so comes the sanctifying light of the Sunday service. The vicar’s in line to welcome those at the door with a toothy grin and a bash on the thimble-full of speed he found behind the bottle bank, so set your bony behind down upon a wooden pew and open up your heart to the boundless love of B-Side Sunday. In a world gone mad, it’s the difference between making up and making do.

Leaping forward into the indie past, it was only a matter of time until we ran into the demur priapism of the mighty Suede, a band who managed to weld seedy, red-light-sex-pest lyrics to melodies so naggingly pop that a mother could absentmindedly hum them whilst bathing her newborn; to no greater effect than on early offcut ‘My Dark Star’. B-Side to ‘Stay Together’, this stands as a shining example of Suede’s mid-90s ability to effortlessly tickle the criterati with their androgynous brilliance, before Bret Anderson realised he was straight and Bernard Butler flounced off to produce Duffy albums and all the rot set in. ‘My Dark Star’ is a louche and elegantly wasted shot of fragile humanity, ol’ Bretty Boop sounding as resigned and baleful as Morrissey crouched in the basement of a derelict tenement block, eating a sugar sandwich and waiting for it all to end. So, as the sun sets on another day in paradise, let’s salute these gloomy little heroes and get on with getting on – lost time is never found again. Amen.