Fosca have made their debut appearance in a national UK newspaper, thanks to a live review by Simon Price, who also gave Orlando their ‘big break’ in the Melody Maker in a past life. He makes it quite clear that Fosca haven’t yet stolen his heart in quite the way Orlando did. After initially folding myself into a predictably hysterical ball of sobbing mascara, I eventually accentuate the positive (‘a rare treat’, as more inarticulate journalists say), and concur that at least it sets Fosca up for less promises to break. The duck references are water off a Dickon’s back. And the piece is otherwise very kind: he quotes some lyrics, which is what they’re there for.

I am intrigued, though, that he thought my lyrics sounded “like a throwback to a less liberated age”. My intention, at least as I see it, is to depict a strain of English self-repression that I am convinced DOES prevail today. It’s the one that meant that the UK Big Brother show was the only one among all the European versions to feature a courting couple who shared a bed but didn’t have sex. It’s not just me. Liberation is all around, but the fact that English people (as opposed to the Dutch or Danish) choose to retain a few sexual shackles here and there fascinates me as a lyricist. That and my love of innuendo as metaphor. That’s what I’m trying to do, anyway.

And the protagonist of “Supine…” isn’t meant to be me at all. They could just as well be female. If I wrote songs about myself, they’d all be about staying indoors reading Saki, drinking sake, and being sarky, and looking haunted on Archway Road. And only some songs are like that. Honest.

After the recent news concerning members of Feeder, EMF and Big Country, I note that I can’t possibly commit suicide just yet. Or people will accuse me of trying to Join In. Over my dead body!