I have a feeling Je Ne Parle Pas Français is going to be one of my favourite songs of the year. There may be something wrong with me at a fundamental level. (but really, it just affirms my theory that 'd'accord' is the greatest word in any language, ever. And I will fight anybody who says differently. Or run away and spread scurrilous rumours about them involving rubber hose and a reissue Sideswipe figure.) But right now, it's the year that punk rock broke my heart. Or a year later. All my cynicism melts away in the face of the prospect of drowning in Dewey Decimals, the benefits of doing these things in flats, the jealousy of That Guy In The K Records t-shirt, and all the rest. It reminds me that I am the ridiculously twee person that would leave treasure maps on the pillow, film sub-Gondry epics using finger puppets and deck trees out in LED lights as the twilight sets in. It's just somewhat unfortunate that I'm almost 30 and supposed to grow out of all that. But I don't think I'm going to anytime soon…because at this point, if I changed, would I still be me? It's you. It's me. And It's DANCING!