[4] Happy Mondays, ‘W.F.L. (The Vince Clarke Mix)’

Happy Mondays, WFL

Look at the video for this, the Vince Clarke mix. With his floppy hair, tatty hoody and pissholes-in-the-snow eyes, Shaun Ryder set a template for a generation of teenagers who wanted to achieve that blissed-out E’d-up look. Trouble was, we were buzzing off our nuts on a combination of Woodpecker cider and Fisherman’s Friends. We had breath that could cut dry ice, and our love for our fellow man bordered on the surly.

You had to get the correct hoodies too. Hanes had the best texture and weight, but they cost 20 quid and the cider was soaking up most of the cash. Top Man did some thin versions with self-consciously trippy patterns. These would ride up to make you look like a bellydancing Bez. Who’d defected to Candy Flip.

So we were never quite right, but the music was. Until this point, I’d always felt as if I was catching up, picking up on bands and movements as their time was passing. Whatever you want to call it – baggy, Madchester, indie dance – we were watching it unfold this time. Strands of house, techno, Balearic, acid, rock and pop mixed into a heady potion that could even make white schoolboys dance.

As a girl, Junior’s not afraid to dance, and this had her rocking. She threw in a maniacal cackle at the start. Maybe she’s seen pictures of that purple Aztec-design hooded top.

[3] Black Grape, ‘Reverend Black Grape’

Junior was agog as her dad performed the Bez dance with a finesse hitherto unexpected. The inflatable ring is the perfect vantage point for appreciating both music and performance. She slapped her hands on the sides and gave panda a quick spin to the rumbustious verses; they’ll be happy memories if she’s not scarred for life.

This record is more bananas yet more direct than anything the Happy Mondays released. Ideas fly all over the shop, Kermit declaims like an acid casualty possessed, the lyric is hilariously crazed. There is a message, mind you. Beyond the tangents and flights of fancy, there are irreverent barbs at the corruption of organised religion, with TV evangelists and the Vatican getting it in the neck. What happened to fat lady wrestlers, Shaun?

Unhinged ad libs, bellowed choruses and frantic harmonica see the song to a close. The head’s spinning; time to bring it down a notch.