Everything here is fucked and awful. The band sprawl and ooze, slicking themselves with endless grease and muck as they crawl on their bellies towards some terrible, ignoble fate. Brainbombs and No Balls are things to bear in mind, but so are a version of ‘Fun House’ where most of the ‘Fun’ has been forcibly extracted, and a gummy-eyed version of ‘The Crusher’ so seemingly endless that Lux Interior has been pushed far beyond the point of breaking.

It’s horrible. Undeniably and unforgivably horrible. But also good. Very, very good. God help us all.