Sat side-by-side with your loved one, drumming your fingers on your thigh, trying to suggest an activity that isn’t Netflix. “Should we, er, do the galleries?” one of you pipes up. “Wessing! Taylor Wessing!” the other belts, relief washing over you both, an escape ladder dropping into this abyss. And off you go to the National Portrait Gallery to stand before the shortlist of the Taylor Wessing Photographic Portrait Prize – one of the most prestigious art awards in the world. It’s another doozy from the Wessing lot, and another weekend saved. For now. For now.
The skinny-jeaned corpse of 2007 indie is risen and dragging its battered Converse to a venue near you