Seconds played a blinder last night: Brian leaning back all louche and dishevelled on his drum stool, his sticks creating intricate imaginary patterns in the air, telling his joke about the lightbulb (don’t ask) (please), thundering fury and disdain out of a hi-hat stand, drumsticks click-click-clicking mischief and joy. Seconds played a blinder: Zach’s face all contorted and NICE, screaming incontinent babble down the mic, guitar bouncing freely against his chest as he tangles another expression of dismay from six - count ‘em, s-i-x - strings. Seconds played a blinder: Jeannie all wired and compressed dissonance, screaming words of challenge into stilled air, bass a solid heartbeat, a ticking metronome of determination. Numbers tumbled after numbers tumbled after jokes tumbled after - hey, was that a brief nod to The Legend!’s performance supporting Yeah Yeah Yeahs a few months hence, Brian (“It’s five o’clock in the morning and I’m going to get fucked up”), I believe it was - and all in front of 15 Brighton punters. But they were 15 very select Brighton punters, believe me.

And afterwards, we all piled down Jim Smith’s aptly named No Fun indie nightclub, 30 seconds’ stagger away, and composed songs about local promoters. Jeannie taught me a few hand signals, and Jon Slade confessed to a momentary tiredness.