I've been listening to Ken Bruce this morning. Among the good stuff (Steve Winwood, Poco) was a dreary, would-be heartwrenching ballad (for want of a more pejorative word) called Haunted, by one Ben Montague. Now I long ago gave up any pretension to being au courant with the latest sounds; nevertheless, I read the music sections of two national newspapers, alongside Word, and when some newly anointed next big thing arrives on Radio 2, I've usually at least heard of them. But Ben Montague? Nope, not if you held a gun to my head. Who is this guy, and where did he pop up from? And why his song so bowel-churningly vapid?

Another instance of this was a few years ago, when I was watching something on telly, possibly Top Of The Pops, at my mother's, and Kristian Leontiou (below) was thrust on stage to sing his uber-drippy ditty Story Of My Life. I remember wondering then, and over the next few weeks, where the hell did this man apparate from. Then, shortly afterwards, he was gone, never to be heard from again.

I reckon there's a factory somewhere, possibly on a different planet, knocking out these saccharine balladeers, for sinister reasons that have yet to be revealed. Let's be watchful.