The thing nobody seems to ask about the boy who cried wolf is why Bubby would do such a thing. What would prompt an otherwise standard-issue ten-year-old – likely even-tempered and straight-laced – to, on seemingly unconnected days, run through his village screaming about a wolf he’s seen? Aesop blames it on boredom and naughtiness but eventually faults the kid.

Inch by inch, then mile by mile, they corrode the core of you. Eating away at what some say is a soul while others disagree; who’s to say whose story adds up? Your dreams are set in concrete and glass, towering all around you. You – dwarfed, hunched over, lurking in the shadows – become one with them. All in or nothing, depending on which side of the bed you last graced.

It is a little over the top perhaps, but when I first heard Jawbreaker’s 24 Hour Revenge Therapy, I was instantly hooked. I was in my early twenties, either just graduating college or already dealing with issues of a grown-up life like rent and utilities and bills. But the record – and Bivouac before it – struck a chord somewhere deep within my core.

The story of Portishead’s Dummy usually fits snugly into pop music historians' retelling of nineties electronica. A Bristol-based band obsessed with dub, pads, and hip hop breakbeats releases an idiosyncratic debut album in 1994: it’s the natural progression of UK electronic music after Massive Attack's Blue Lines, establishing Bristol as the global capital of trip hop.