GROWING UP ABSURD WITH THE THOMPSON TWINS

Scampering around in the British dancepop maze is a painful business at best. You wind up like the little white lab mouse that keeps bashing its head on the same old wall in search of a breadcrumb that's probably old and stale anyway; or worse yet, clean and white and tasteless, some insubstantial, artificial, scientific Wonderloaf that'll make you wither up and die if you don't throw up first.