Nothing like cruising round the Peterborough ring road with a dismembered brass (who’s also your mum, and, possibly, uncle) stinking up the boot of your Ford Ka. Pull a quick left at greasebag lane, crank out the Meteors tape and sleaze up the jailbait. Yeah! We’re rolling like the Bad Seeds Matchbox Strayshakes ! So grunts the rhythm section of Two Wounded Birds running a filthy hand through it’s slimey quiff. Shame the singer has to show up with his fey watery ickle indie voice that scares nothing and no one and just sort of hangs around. Come on son, try a bit harder, you sound like you’re auditioning for a flippin tribute to the Bluetones.