Sundays are for realising that it’s been years since you looked behind your wardrobe. You gently lean the unwieldy thing away from the wall, centuries worth of grey-faced dust kings cursing at you as they’re unseated from the thrones upon which they’ve stocially squatted since the last great cleansing. Oh, there he is. It’s Adrian Edmondson. You ask him if he still considers himself a young one in spirit. He bellows at you to call an ambulance. You gently manoueuvre the wardrobe back into place.