When we were young we dreamed that we'd be stars

But there's more chance of finding Life on Mars

Like the Polish lancers, charging against Hitler's tanks in 1939, there is something tragically heroic about Slurred. Perhaps it is their stubborn persistence in refusing to accept objective reality, or even the passage of time.

Slurred maintain that their ambition goes little beyond reproducing classic rocks songs in a barely competent manner. They are too modest, for in this, they excel themselves in the Glam-honoured fashion that they know.

Slurred are, in a very real sense, the Chicken Tikka Masala of our Post-Millennial culture. There is something quintessentially English about the way they bring us back to that lager-fuelled anticipation. Something warmly familiar in knowing what we will be getting. And still an element of bite in anticipating the tingling spiciness.

Yet the morning after there is that feeling that somehow we have let ourselves down by going there again.

Surely the heart of the band is their Post-Modernist irony. In their classic Anthem (a new version of which kicks off their CD – Middle Aged Rampage) they say they won't try to make you reason or to think – yet Slurred are a band constantly calling us to think – about ageing and about mortality and most of all about the failure of England's World Cup dreams.

Slurred are the band for every frustrated thirty-something male. The one who hides his newly-pierced nipple under his jacket and tie at work; the one who tries to cover up the pain he got from falling off his son's skateboard; or the one who dreams of Kylie screaming with joy as he knobs her. Rock 'n' Roll is still alive and kicking, sort of.

Middle Aged Rampage is dedicated to stars who have made more money than Slurred can dream of. One can only wish that those stars have respect for a band who do what they do for their love of the music.

Bruce Douglas, March 2003