Fuck all the kisses, they didn’t mean jack. But, of course, they did, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Humiliation is a rarity this high up the charts – when you find it, you find it tempered with sweetness; in this case Don and Phil’s lovely falling harmonies. Their rueful descent and the relentless march-band drumming make it unpleasantly clear that the public agony will continue. By the end the pleas are pitiably feeble – “Don’t you think it’s kind of sad?” Cathy and the clown are both lying, and they’re both lying to the same person, and neither seem likely to stop.