We’ve all been there. A few drinks deep at the bar. A few schooners consumed with alarming pace. A couple of Gin and Tonics suckled, as if they were the teat of some British colonial goddess.

And then you’re introduced to someone. Could be a friend of a friend, could be an acquaintance of an acquaintance, or it could just be someone with an inflated sense of their own ego and a willingness to generously share that inflation with everyone.

A conversation strikes up. A shared interest is established. Maybe it’s footy, maybe it’s RuPaul’s Drag Race, or maybe it’s obsessing over Greta Thunberg to the point of alarming concern. Man, woman, or child, we can all be struck by the horrors of what may happen next.

‘Yeah, I love indie music, haha,’ you hear. Your spine stiffens. The grip on your glass grows tighter. The knot in your stomach twists until you can hardly breathe.

‘W-what indie music?’ you stammer. You’re hoping, praying, that you’ve guessed wrong. You’re terrified of what you’re about to hear.

‘Y’know, real indie stuff. Like Arctic Monkeys, Tame Impala. Even a bit of Catfish & The Bottlemen if I’m really treating myself,’ comes the reply.

‘You mean, Tame Impala who is selling out stadiums across the world?’ you suggest, subtly hinting that maybe, just maybe, this little psych-rock outfit from Perth are slightly more popular than immediately obvious.

‘Oh no, you must have misheard. I said Shame Grampala, this four-piece Melbourne band who composed the entirety of their first EP on ukuleles whilst high off the fumes of their reno job on their Brunswick sharehouse.’

Huh, you think to yourself. This guy knows his stuff. You settle in for another beer, another wine, whatever pickles your fancy.

‘What’s your name?’ you ask.

He affixes you with a glare that pierces straight to your heart.

‘Donald J Drumpf, Cheeto-in-Chief.’

No one hears the scream over the sound of ‘I Will Survive (12” Remix)’ coming on at the bar.

No more to come.