In nineties Britain (which can be distinguished from eightees Britain largely through the proliferation of royal indiscretion) everything from the past was made new again. The fact that most people’s conception of the past doesn’t get much further than The Beatles’ Revolver was loudly criticised by your more artsy, intellectual types. And why not? Oarseis and their troupe of dimwitted followers can all go throw themselves off a wonderwall for all I care (and yes Fran Healy you too, your concerns regarding grammar notwithstanding). But resurrecting the obvious has one saving grace, if you can call it that, which is that at least your insipid imitation will only be dull and tedious, rather than actively evil.

Which is where No Man step in. Or rather, flounce. Speculations as to the origins of their annoying name center around the last surving testimony of an old midwife in Camden, who recounted that one cold stormy evening, singer Tim Bowness and instrumentalist Steve Wilson met on a high, craggy hilltop and debated the form that their freshly minted band would take. After chewing contemplatively on some particularly strong skankweed (which imparts dubious insight, doncha know), Wilson jumped up and shouted “I’ve got it! We could combine the pointless wankery of Genesis with the pouting arrogance of Simon le Bon, only with some vague dance beats so that we’d be, like, relevant! No one’s ever done that before!” At which point the clouds parted and God himself stared down at them, proclaiming darkly, “That is because no man has ever attempted this and survived my holy wrath!” Tim Bowness started to cry – in the excitement he’d received a paper cut from a blade of grass.

Still, heavenly vengeance ain’t what it used to be, and No Man’s name stands as a grim reminder that ever since then the world has been party to an infection that prior to these dark times wasn’t even allowed to exist.

My theory? God went away and thought about it, eventually coming to this conclusion: No Man were undoubtedly evil – a scourge on the musical landscape – but they were a necessary one, for every moment Wilson spent creating tedious “genre-fusing” (more like the pidgeon-rat Bart’s evil brother created than any genuine hybridisation) soundscapes for Bowness to whimper over was time away from Porcupine Tree, his outfit for peddling loathsome neo-anything-bad prog rock… which is an altogether more devillish proposition.