Another day, another Hozier remix blaring out of the audio feed, bringing us one step closer to a kind of clubmageddon, where every last ounce of dynamism is bled out of music by the repetitive application of indiscriminate force to a kick drum. Sure, I like the thump-thump as much as the next girl, but there’s a reason why this song was played to death: it has a hook-line so massive, it’s not so much a song, more of a 12-tog opiate-laced butterfly net. Once it’s got you, it never lets go and you don’t care anyway.

Something terrible happened with Take Me To Church. After it had been played to death, the DJ mixes came along to repeatedly flog its warm carcass for long enough to ensure that even its aura was extinguished. It was played to death, then clubbed to death to make sure. You know those awful sparkly floor Saturday night shows? The ones that are so cynical, even TV execs refer to them as ’shiny floor shows’? The Hozier song has suffered the indignity they let the bovine masses inflict on the talent on those shows, in which absolutely everything must be smoothed out and robbed of all personality and quirks. Smearing such an ace, though admittedly over-played, song out over a quantised 4-4 is like asking the public to clap along to the Strictly bossanova - it works, but it completely ruins the music in the name of a desperate lurch at popularity.

It’s low standards like these that tells me that DJs may as well buy most club music by the pound. The only thing that much of it has in its favour, after all, is it’s very interchangeability. The constant measured bpm of an insistent kick drum, its crisp hi-hat and its say-nothing vocals at the hands of a vanilla voice that stretches all the way to mediocrity. Surely there are enough bad songs written specifically for bpms without inflicting your fascist beat-zeal over a perfectly good one? Homogenised chocolate pop, sweet-tasting and diverting, but ultimately bad for you. Why must we do this all the time?

As a sidebar - and something I’ll return to another time - this year marks the 30th Anniversary of the Breakfast Club, an iconic film with admittedly terrible montage sequences. In it, ‘basket case’ emo-goth Allison Reynolds (as played by Ally Sheedy) gets a makeover from ‘princess’ Molly Ringwald. It is celebrated as a triumph when it is the opposite, a defeat by the 4/4 forces of muchness and unswerving uniformity. It’s been 30 years and nothing much changes in popular culture. I’m frightened that it might be the very thing that makes it popular in the first place.