Over the last few years, ploughing through the grim wasteland of early evening entertainment shows has proved a spirit-deadening, brain-maiming business. If sham Russian lesbian pomp-pop doesn’t get you, then meat-headed millionaire skater grunge will. Mis-dial a pizza on a Saturday night and you could find yourself rocketing an 18-year-old Ronan Keating fan to a brief number one and a lengthy, drug-addled, spell being roasted over the tabloid coals.

Thank God, then, for the likes of Colin MacIntyre, the Hebredian auteur, and low-key melodic wizard, who – along with the likes of Damon Gough and Mike Skinner – (with his recurring one week straight in at no. 25) has helped, unwittingly, to draw some of the poison from the pop body politic.

Us (and it must be said, what a hackneyed, brilliant title) is a poignant little gem of a record, powered by enough gorgeous hooks and melodic tricks to, partially, confirm MacIntyre’s reputation as a Pro Tools Brian Wilson.

It’s also an unabashedly humane record that has something to say about grief, heartbreak, parental love, and the struggle to stay sane in a hysterical world. At times (‘The Final Arrears’, ‘Asylum’) the songs share the same battered, blinking-into-the-daylight quality as The Delgados; on other occasions (‘Live Like The Automatics’) M.H.S bust Ash’s power pop flush.

Overall, Us is an invitation to rediscover a place where pop music remains in good cheer. You’d be mad to pass it up.