This is Colin at 4 a.m.: “I mean”, he says, slumping in his chair “I’m in a band, we ‘re reasonably successful, I’ve got a very nice suit - I’m not even a bad person - so why can’t I get a shag?” He pulls a face, slurps morosely at his wine, and gestures for a light. Someone holds a candle across the table, and drips molten wax on his trousers, in one action cutting his chances of getting laid by a quarter. “Oh! My trousers! Fuck!”. This is how you should think of Radiohead.