"What is this? Who let this happen? Can someone give me the name, or the contact details or at least the website of whoever made this happen to me? Because it DID happen to me. It happened to you, as well, obviously, but mostly it happened to me. ME. I’m sick, you know? It’s like the exact opposite of a Make-A-Wish. You can’t just — you know, she has a lovely voice, but you can’t just take a song and sap the soul out of — when did this happen? I’m googling it. Wait, what? It happened behind my own back? Consider me displeased, you fuckers. I hate every… last… one of… oh."

The rant I made this morning regarding Birdy’s godfuckawful cover of Skinny Love, in its entirety: played out until I realised I was alone in the house, and I had become the crazy man in his pyjamas, shouting at his computer.

I am not good at being slightly ill.