And so it was that thousands of men of a middle age stopped what they were doing, found an old tennis racket in the garage, dug out that Kappa tracky top they’d always kept hold of just in case there was ever a Third Coming, swaggered nonchalantly on to their garden / living room / bedroom stage and gave it their very very best impression of John Squire. Sun hats were pulled low over eyes. Gazes were held unblinkingly. For three or four blissful minutes everything just was.

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