Somebody smother these guys immediately.

Friendly Fires's new single 'Paris' concerns itself with a fatuous desire to live in Paris - and I'm not talking about the basement apartment of Ms. Hilton you dirty dogs. No, this is Paris, France (as a geographical subtitle from an American blockbuster might put it), a city that I've always considered to be dirty, smelly, full of fat tourists in search of sloppy cheeses and populated by poncy idiots whom don't have the slightest clue how to drive properly. (Does this make me a xenophobe?)

Friendly Fires is/are described thus: "...an all-around good time disco funk punk dance-making machine". After listening to 'Paris' however, I'd be far more inclined to describe he/she/it thus: "Balls".

Why? Well apart from the aforementioned lyrical posture, 'Paris' sounds like it was knocked out by a couple of Belgian toddlers on a Fisher Price Music Machine, perhaps while ingesting twenty five schooners of foaming wheat beer after a hard day of milking goats and eating a ton of sickly-sweet chocolate. (Does this make me a xenophobe?)

I beg your pardon?! You want a more considered and serious critical appraisal? Fine.

The verses are an underwhelming mish-mash of syncopated electro-cowbell piffle that make one yearn for the relative simplicity of 'You're Beautiful' by James Blunt (yep - it's that bad). And while the chorus IS a lush symphonic interlude that smacks of The Knife at their best, you know it ain't gonna last long and that the prosaic eulogising of Paris, France will swiftly return - and so too will that godamn cowbell. (Does this make me a xenophobe?)

And so I guess all that's left is a snappy quote to send you on your way with a smile:

Don't throw shapes - throw it in the bin.

N.B. I'm not a xenophobe. I had a curry with a Chinaman last weekend so how can I be?