It doesn't tend to lacerated flesh, it doesn't soothe Stoli-induced ailments, it won't keep the turd-coloured kebab slivers in your stomach; but when those tinkled ivories and proto-folktronica hooks hit, it's like being swaddled into a coma. The last thing I want to hear in the morning after a heavy, heady night of hedonism is Alison Goldfrapp's recollection of a narcotised despair-infused evening gone horribly awry: "How did I get to accident and emergency?" she sings on the cusp of bawling. Although doesn't alleviate my anguish, rather it soundtracks my wallowing, perhaps it's the 'being in the same boat' feeling that's kept it my go-to hangover track for five years.