Apologies to those of you have seen all of this for yourselves.  During last week’s Dragon’s Den, some old crackpot with 1970s paedophile P.E. teacher hair stepped up to the plate, or wherever it is that dragons go to hit things out of sight.  Onto a naked witch’s back, perhaps.  He had wheeled in a crappy looking blue seat, which didn’t look like much of an invention to me, but then again I am not a dragon, and don’t have a dragon’s x-ray eyes.  He began to scrabble around various secret doors, like an excitable child opening an advent calendar.  In one compartment was a set of exercise bike pedals.  In another, a pully weight thing.  Round the back was a treadmill.  Finally, to assorted gasps from the assembled dragons, he unrolled an open-air Olympic-sized swimming pool, in which he swam half a dozen laps with a sad, slow, lop-sided front crawl.  Now I am a bit of a latecomer to this show, but with so much bona fide genius on display, I thought he was a certainty to win the million pound record contract.  But no.  He wasn’t even afforded the dignity of a bottom two sing-off.  Him and his chair were chased out of aforementioned den, with dragons pissing firey piss all over his inventorial chips.  The lesson appears to be this: it doesn’t matter how many brilliant ideas you have if all you are going to do with them is stuff them inside a crappy blue chair.

Why am I going on about this?  The new OOIOO record, their fifth I think (like near relatives Boredoms, their discography and record distribution are a bit like three dimensional jigsaw puzzles), has more ideas than a dozen bags of assorted brainstorming scientists of the highest order - even up to and including your Stephen Hawkings and your Johnny Balls.  And while it may lack a sense of coherence, by sheer force of conviction alone it nails those bags of scientists to a rocket and launches them to the moon.

Taiga kicks off in fine style with drums and shouting, before following this with fanfares and shrieking, then crazy pseudo-latin time signatures and chanting.  Accordions and wailing.  Rhythm and barking.  Funk and girl group harmonies.  Short of attention span, switching and twitching as if smashed on cocaine-dusted cola cubes, this record invents a million new genres.  If they were to package them inside a seat, it would be so uncomfortable you couldn’t sit on it for long, and would be upholstered extravagantly and in a somewhat impractical colour scheme.  Clearly it would never sell, and no-one would take a 40% stakeholding in the company that made it.  Utter genius, obviously.