The heating's gone again, the rain is lashing down against the window and the sun has sunk below the neighbouring estate dropping East London into a gloomy twilight. Never fear, Moony are here with their shimmering sub-Kylie Ibiza dance-lite, to transport me away to the sunny terrace at Space.
Except of course it doesn't -the identikit club 'diva' can mouth vacuous inanities about clowns or whomever all she likes over a chugging guitar flecked house beat, but my feet, let alone my mind, remain firmly rooted to the floor.
The remixes attempt to add a little sparkle into the proceedings, but they sound like something Pete Heller might have knocked out in his sleep a couple of summers ago. Overall, an uninspired package that will no doubt clean up at Woolworth's with Britain's sun starved undiscerning pop buying public.
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