Dare it be whispered - nay, barked through a fucking megaphone - that, quite possibly, the battered metropolitan personality no longer needs its nose to be so mercilessly rubbed in the bleak surroundings and rugged criminal personas of the world it inhabits.

“There must be more to life than stereotypes,” Albarn puzzled way back when, before Mogwai simply scoffed that “Blur are shite” and still the world kept spinning on its axis. So who wangled the elbow room for the next chapter in the survival of the most true and observational amid this never-ending torrent of suburban drama?

Probably not Good Shoes: here they're riding fraying old coattails with Jam-lite riffs and trite vocals to dress up a running commentary of direct ‘Morden’-centric headlines about suicides and drug dealers. Good news, if you’ve lived life as an Ewok thus far and suddenly find yourself in need of a shotgun guide to the worst possible aspects of any given concrete jungle.

With drunken fools singing ‘80s tunes and a skinhead in a Burberry coat there's nothing left to inspire Good Shoes: Morden life sounds rubbish, but where’s the fruit to wallowing in such soul-destroying defeat?

This self-confessed by-product of urban decay just isn’t as raw, pissed off or punk as it needs to be if its intention is to incite anything more than a brick through the speaker while it plays the news we already know so well.