I owe a snug 2.1 to Sleaford Mods thanks to their lyrics being the basis of an essay last semester. Their lyrical content in that respect did not slack at all. This pairing of tinny lo-fi beats with Jason Williamson’s scathing spoken-word should not be marketable at all, but everything about it is perfection.

The title itself has you envisaging ex-pats in the Balearics, complaining about foreigners whilst tucking in to egg and chips on the beach front and sneering at the very notion of patatas bravas. Get past the abundance of f-bombs, see you next Tuesday’s and every other notably English swear word, and you’ll arrive at an admiration for the lyrics of a pure genius. If there’s one tip that should come with Sleaford Mods it’s to actually listen. Listen once and you’ll laugh, listen twice you’ll start to get the message, listen a third time and you’ll actually realise that the place you call home might not be quite so homely after all.

Their albums always carry some overt theme, and this time? Brexit. Early on in the album we have ‘Mophead’ the biggest f u to Boris Johnson since Gove stabbed him in the back. At first it seems Brexit is something we can all have a joke at in songs like ‘Carlton Touts’ suggesting we ‘get to see the Right once again look like nobs’, you can take that as the Tory Right which have landed us in this uncertainty just to secure another term in Government, or a rather bleak consolidation against the Alt Right that has reared its head like an ugly beast out of the eve of 23rd June 2016.

Sleaford Mods are the epitome of dark-comedy, with profanity and obvious invocations of every reason why Britain is actually shit, not the ‘great nation’ that the Right has romanticised about since the very existence of our Empire. To take the Sleaford Mod’s own words, ‘We’re going down like B.H.S’ and there’s nothing we (the people, namely the 48%) can do about it.

Rianna Julian