There’s an upcoming book that catalogues the carpets in Wetherspoon pubs. On every page in Spoon’s Carpets a new frontier of stomach-turning repulsiveness is reached.
Here’s one with faded postboxes, somehow trumped seconds later by a swirl of fuzzy worm-shapes.
It’s genuinely fascinating to discover the level of thought that goes into these beasts, and the write-ups strike just the right note of incredulity.
The skinny-jeaned corpse of 2007 indie is risen and dragging its battered Converse to a venue near you