I have to say I feel for Nicky Wire. Not because of his passionate lyrics and political committment, though to be fair he’s not actually worse at those than the bloke from The Alarm. But because he, like me, is a poor speller. “Let Robeson Sing” is actually meant to be called “Let Robson Sing”, Wire accurately calculating that dim TV hunk and karaoke clown Robson Green is the only vocalist beside whom James Dean Bradford (increasingly looking more like Marlon Dean Brando) would sound good. Alas a slip of the pen and Bradfield finds himself singing about some old folkie. A second slip-up for the Manics in two singles, this. I was ready to give “Ocean Spray” a fair hearing: “I may hate the Manics,” I thought, “But finally we have a band willing and able to tackle head-on the real medical issues facing women today. Good on them!” And then it turned out to be about his Mum dying. Ocean Spray’s not going to help with that! I can only assume that when James asked his girlfriend why she was buying so much cranberry juice she got embarrassed and muttered something about it being good for the “c-word”, and the poor man got cystitis and cancer muddled up. Poor old Mrs. B – it tastes horrible. If I’m ever on my deathbed, readers, I expect at least Sea Breezes.