Cast your minds back, if you will, to those far-off innocent times shortly before the NME decided that Glasvegas were the bright shiny future of pop music and then began their inexorable and undignified climb up James Allan’s fundament. There was a brief period of time when said publication tried to put forward The Horrors as the latest guiding beacon for a lost generation of pop kids, and somehow it all sounded so right on paper to begin with. Some holy hallowed names were invoked in the process: they were the skewed warped voodoo ju ju of the The Cramps, the white-knuckle rollercoaster ride through Hades of The Birthday Party at their hellish narcotic peak, the sexed-up whiskey priest sinners of The Gun Club. Throw in the strychnine-soaked sixties garage trash of The Sonics and that, said the hacks, was The Horrors in a nutshell. Good God, we all thought, that sounds amazing, what could possibly go wrong?