We've been around a while, watching from the sidelines. The housewife's choice, the city's best kept secret, the true underground - too gay for radio, too tuneful for the Hoxton trendies. Pop music in exile, forced off the air by corporate dross, three-chord faux East Enders, the 80s regurgitated by Mormons. Apathy breeds apathy. A scene slowly fossilising; cobwebs gathering around a stack of front covers from days long gone - Adam, Bryan, Brian, David, Johnny, Jarvis, Gina. Ghosts in the lifts.
But we're not alone. Our number is growing. Kids hitting repeat in Hebden Bridge and Loughborough Junction, desperate for something to grab hold of, falling in love to the middle-eight and chorus. A secret army of the devoted, a secret public ready to rise up and storm the Tower.
Now, here, right now - it's happening. Luxembourg vs Great Britain. Choose your weapon, give it your best shot. With us or against us, we want you. It's not about the money, baby. We're not after your water or your oil. Yours may be bigger than ours, but boy, do we know what to do with it. We want nothing less than your hearts and minds, to fill the yearning void inside you. Leave the door unlocked, microwave your vinyl, and surrender. Tattoo it on your arm: we're coming out.
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