Don't say, "It's been a while..."/And don't flash that stupid smile/ Don't ask me/ Ask me how I've been.

I have found my gods. I swoon at their couture-attired feet. I worship in reverence at the temple of their ultimate hipster strike-a-pose nonchalance and exuberant skipping. I throw myself at the mercy of their uber-pop knowledge, for these men alone hold the secret of all that is good in the universe.

From the very first rhythmic thrums and teasing guitar smacks that hint at 'Sugar High' on the store rooftop, I am undone. Because hell, these guys know what they're doing. Immediately, this is a divine existence, free from any thought besides how I can bounce around the room without tripping over those aforementioned stacks of insipid indie wank. In fact, why avoid them? Let me stamp in glee that such a jaunty, infectious drumbeat has been brought into being. Take that you self-obsessed, dirgesome examples of human mediocrity! You are unfit even to be strung up in a gimp mask and whipped by these fine young fellows!

There are hand-claps!
Droll sarcasm!
'Oh-oh's' and Hey's' thrown around like post-ironic confetti!
A shaky, snarky tambourine in overdrive!

And then they kick it into warp speed with a chorus of blissful accordion shouting; a fight for who can pout the loudest, wallop that triangle and slap him round both cheeks for sheer impertinance. I would swoon again if I weren't already in a joyful puddle on the floor. Bitter snarkiness hath never seen a better forum for expression, and as the weird harpsichord solo rattles onwards, picking up the vocals as it staggers drunkenly for the exit and a night of debauched deviant behavior, I've found my calling in life.

I'll dress only in crimson Gaultier, smoke pretentious French cigarettes by the crate and recline with a wicked glint in my eye on their wipe-clean leather tourbus beds. Fucking fey men named Tarquin, we'll roar across the world, leaving only a trail of broken hearts and shattered cocktail glasses in our wake.

And all in under three minutes.