- 1 overrated electro-pop band, au fait with the current synth-trumpet-resurgence fad.
- 1 feature artist (typographical tomfoolery in performance title is a non-negotiable pre-requisite).
- 1 Justin Bieber.
- 1 hook ripped straight from the wounded limbs of the popular Disney villain; rearranged in abstract from hand drawn film-cell to musical element by way of wordplay (yes, hardy ha – have you heard this song? Right now, this is my idea of a joke, so let me have my tortured moment).
- 3 precious minutes of my increasingly finite time on this Earth.
Observe, as the apparently sentient ingredients (by now, over-familiarised with one another and subsequently the formula for success as a unit) clamber together to form a miserable throbbing orgy à la most mid-tempo EDM popular in the sacred year of 2016.
Assume a foetal position on your blood-stained linoleum floor, with only the foul, rotting petals of your already-severed ears for company as Major Lazer’s Cold Water, featuring Justin Bieber & MØ, plays on repeat without going away – ever.
Witness the subliminal sale of your mind and body to slavery; the name on the deed is ‘the beat’. Faint though it may seem, these words are printed on the document in the blood, sweat and tears of Slade. Yeah, remember them? The band that earned their number ones. Actually, let’s take a moment here to lament the 1970s generally. What about the electric light orchestra, for crying out loud? Not a single UK number one in the entirety of their Golden Catalogue. Well, I mean there was Xanadu with Olivia Newton-John, but that shouldn’t really count. I’m talking Solo Elo. Who is to answer for this travesty? Who will account for the seemingly forgotton genius of Jeff Lynne? Have you heard of Tightrope? It’s the opening track on their 1976 LP, A New World Record. It’s a sodding album track. An album track. It could have been bloody number one. It’s theatrical, majestic, brilliant. What happened?
4.Heat the oven to 180C/350F/Gas 4.
Line two 18cm/7in cake tins with baking parchment.
Sniff the gas, and think lyrically about the tragic demise of Sylvia Plath.
Turn off the oven. Bash the shit out of your laptop, or your iPod, or whatever disgusting vehicle it is that has transported Cold Water into your home.
Resent the recipe.