Phil Collins prances back with a ruddy great twat of an album. It’s as gleeful as it is glib and, in many ways, makes you want to f**k something really thoroughly.
It’s as if the 1970’s never happened, but all the other decades happened twice. The songs lurch, leer and fart at us like petulant wasps intent on stinging the only person at the Regatta who’s actually allergic to wasp stings
The wall of bang and fizz that ripples out of the speakers is like the noise of Little Jimmy Krankee ageing as he/she/it begins to realise the hypocrisy of the cabaret circuit and wails longingly into a conch shell that’s been smeared with horse fat.
This album makes fools of us all.