I'm drunk on all of this insanity/ Overdosing on reality/ The bigger the high/ The further the fall/ I'm crawling the carpets/And climbing the walls.

Harry wants to be a rock star. She wants it so much and so badly that desperation practically oozes from every record she pushes onto the market by way of A&R exec 'favours' and slots supporting Crazy Town in 2001. I can almost imagine her as a child, wishing upon that falling star, gazing from a poetically steamed window saying, "One day, I'm going to be famous. I'll sell millions of records and travel the world and fuck rock bands."

One out of four ain't bad.

Because there's a reason Harry is known among the music circles of London as a professional groupie, and nothing else besides; and that reason is a stunning lack of originality and only a tiny vestige of talent. But luckily for her, I find those features hugely endearing, and hence am presently giving her more press attention than she's ever received to date.

The song is brazenly masterful in its utter irrelevance, snatching the underlying synth signature from Peaches 'Fuck the Pain Away' and layering on the heavy electrics and languid wistfulness. Since I find originality hugely overrated, and the desperate dreams of others an amusement, you can imagine my delight. The entire track is a peripheral orbit of laboured rhyming patterns and lyrics that are simply laughable ("We lie like lovers and break like sinners/ Hate like Hitlers) around a gaping absence of any uniting element. Yet combined with the sheer wanting that soars through each aching verse, and that hypnotically repetitive bridge, and oh, how I'm transfixed.

For all the redeeming features, it's the sheer desperation that compels my pity and admiration. 'Tastes Like Kisses' is that sluttish girl who rolls up her pleated grey skirt with one hand (the other never pauses as she stuffs over-salted crisps towards darkly-lined lips), revealing only pasty flesh and shaving cuts, her dark bra too-tight under the school blouse so that flesh bulges in bands across her back. It's that look of numb desperation in the eyes of an underage girl in the Crawley 2am club, as a skin-head fifteen years too old gropes her lycra-clad buttocks in a sickening grind.

Something's just not right, but I can't look away because the horror and beauty of the lengths people will go to just compels me to watch with complete awe.