With a logo that looks like a hooker bending over to tie her bootlaces; a look that is equal parts Turbonegro, G.G. Allin and Tom of Finland’s stag-do; and songs about ‘Trailer Park Boys’, Danny Dyer and alcoholic annihilation, you should know from the outset that Brighton’s Rotten Foxes are not going to win any prizes from The Daily Mail any time soon. Picking up where last year’s debut EP left off (or rather slightly before since the follow-up features two reworked tracks), ‘EP II’s nine songs are throttled and bottled in just over 15 minutes, and delivered the way punk should be, that is to say thrown in, thrown up and thrown out. None of this pop punk, art punk, crunk punk rubbish, just four best mates ripped to the tits on legal highs and poor decisions, making greasy music for their greasy, denim-clad, lager-soaked ilk. Clattering drums, buzzing riffs and vocals scorched by Special Brew fight for supremacy in a ramshackle assault that gives new meaning to the phrase “simple pleasures”, teetering on the edge of chaos at all times, but where similar bands often sound like cats shitting razors in an oil drum, Rotten Foxes have got the humour and talent to turn any topic into a bottle-fed earworm, like King Midas, but with lager instead of gold. With hooks so big you can hang planets on them, and more tongues in more cheeks than Soho on a Saturday night, the band are never anything less than brilliant, whether singing the praises of spirit animals and booze-hound BFFs Pints or destroying ‘EastEnders’ cock-drip Ian Beale. In a world where political punk is about to go supernova, we need Rotten Foxes now more than ever.