More high-pitched whining from the self-styled dumbest man in rock. No amount of powerhouse drumming can disguise the fact that this is formulaic angst-rock that Brian’s written about a love that’s either like a) a drug so
mind-numbingly dreadful that
not even [I]The Sun[/I] bothered to mount a campaign to demonise
it, or b) a low fat breakfast cereal. Either way, its overwhelming rubbishness spells an uncertain future for the poison dwarf and
his two ghoulish henchmen.
[I]NME [/I]understands that Clarks shoes are currently hiring sales assistants, however.