I wake on the floor of a charity shop, dazed, disorientated, pants around my ankles and with an overwhelming feeling that I’ve just been raped. I have a distant memory of three men - one of whom appears to be wearing my Aunt Titty’s dress - luring me into this place of past glories with mutterings of empty motorcycles and stock clearances.

Or was it the little fella in the chinos claiming he foresaw the greediness of the banks twenty years ago? I feel very duped. Not like I was promised a Bentley, but I certainly felt that a mid-range BMW might be on offer instead of the disc shaped Fiat Crappuccino that is protruding from the cleft of my buttocks. Bewildered, I remove the Manic Street Preachers album and stagger into the street, wondering where it all went wrong for them.

Can I somehow prevent the evening’s decline from becoming public knowledge?

Can I save the reputation of my assassins? Can anyone?

Zac Brandon