This may well be my least favourite song of all time. It’s certainly up there (or down there) with Hey Jude, Son Of My Father and Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep.

I hate everything about it: the voice, the hair, the clothes, the bling; the overblown arrangement, the tedious earnestness, the utter pretentiousness, the trite piano, the orchestra, the squealy guitar solo that he plays SITTING on his piano stool.

It’s prog at its worst – or, as my friend Nick Coleman calls it, “show tunes rock” (see also: Queen, Meat Loaf) – cloaking a trite ballad in the trappings of ‘serious’ pseudo-classical music, dividing the song into ‘movements’ as if it’s a symphony, and changing time signatures so it seems like two, or even three, different songs.

I could go on… but however long I went on for, it still wouldn’t seem as long as the bloody song, which lasts nearly six minutes but seems even longer since it keeps threatening to end before starting up again, each time with more orchestration.

Even the the girls in the audience, who wander in and out of shot, look bored beyond belief.

Give me 90 seconds of The Ramones singing Judy Is A Punk all day long over this ‘epic’ dirge.