Bill Hicks - who, let me say before I begin to abuse him, is the funniest man alive - dislikes five-piece manufactured pop groups. One of his routines sees him lambasting the parents of America for, apparently, voting that they, more than anything else, wanted their offspring to turn out like NKOTB.

He calls the Kids "insipid", "plastic" and suchlike, and, rightly, castigates them for allowing themselves to be counted among the supporters of Operation Desert Storm. In conclusion, he encourages all little 'uns of the band-forming age to "Play from the fucking heart!"

All perfectly fine, you might think, until I tell you that the man who Bill cites as an alternative role model for young America, someone who, I suppose, played it from the flipping heart, is the one, the only, Jimbo "I'm drunk, I'm nobody; I'm drunk, I'm famous; I'm drunk, I'm dead" Morrison. At this point his argument crumbles irretrievably to ashes, whose scattering is aided by some flatulence left over from 'Celebration of the Lizard'. Listen, man, I'm not going to be told who I may or may not like by some ex- hippy reactionary rockist who thinks that cultural evolution ended the day John Bonham arose from his drumstool after laying into 'Moby Dick', got that? Take That are alright.

There is no more fruitless activity than slagging a packaged pop band. A, no criticism outside the hallowed pages of Smash Hits is going to make the slightest bit of difference to the salubriousness of their living quarters, and, B, they have their place, just like Nick Cave and PJ Harvey do, and just like many more respected acts don't.

Everyone I told laughed when I said I was reviewing Take That's album, a passable collection of upbeat dance tunes and well-executed weepies (designed specifically for the fantasy-projecting twelve-year-old girl in your life). No-one laughed when, a number of months ago, I had to review Pete Townshend's Psychoderelict, the most shabby and life-negating work of "art" it has ever been my intense displeasure to share a postcode with.

Skewed priorities ahoy! Down with rampaging hormones and hoarse discoverers of the joy of pop, Viva dead pon(ytail)ies, is that it?

Anyway, I'll never listen to this CD again, but the singles are fine - I take my hat off to anyone who'll record a Dan Hartman song that isn't 'I Can Dream About You' and give Lulu her first Number One in one triumphant swoop - and the messages to the fans ('All my love', 'Up the Vale', 'Robbie') are touching, in a careerist, manipulative sort of way. We're such nice lads, make our record company rich, purleease.

On the whole, Everything Changes is more enjoyable than a jab in the eye with a red hot aubergine, and I can't say fairer than that.