1997: directed by Sophie Muller

Someplace sunny, dry and dusty. (It's Spain, apparently.) In a parking lot overgrown with some kind of creeper bush, a big black Lincoln limo slowly drives up. It's braking a little wildly, as if it's a standard transmission and the driver doesn't know how to shift gears. Which, in a limo, would be a king hell drag. Oh, the driver is Damon! Obviously he can't shift for shit. Riding shotgun is his homeboy, Graham "O.G." Coxon. Damon steps out of the limo - the camera lingering on his DC trainers like they're wildly significant product placement. In the distance is a brick tower. Damon "Face" Albarn, wearing a blue ringer with "BGY" on the front, shuts the limo's door, staring commandingly from behind his hip sunglasses. He looks peeved. "Where's my bitches?" he wonders. "I thought I told y'all to have the kilo, a case of Evian, and ten bitches waitin' for me!"

He glances at some random Spaniard in black hoodie and trousers, then into the sky where a black and yellow helicopter flies overhead. The cops have come to seize his crops. Damon, mouth-breathing, glances at the tower, contemplating a quick getaway. A drug flashback makes the whole scene go photo-negative. "Face" shuts his mouth, knowing he can't outrun the Man for much longer.

Meanwhile, "O.G." Coxon bombs a wall with spraypaint, obviously setting up parameters, because it looks to the Author that he's just making squiggles. However, the O.G. is an artist, and would never tag just for the heck of it. Somewhere else, a black shiny mop of hair hangs over a plain white dress shirt, and an antenna protruding from in front of the figure implies that the helicopter is remote controlled. Or maybe just Secret Double Agent Alex James has a new toy from H.Q.?

"Face", still mouthbreathing, glances around, wondering where the heck he is. (Spain, apparently.) The tower; the copter; other towers; mounds of trash. And a very freaky scarecrow. The camera freezes and shakes on the scarecrow. Whoa! "Face" mouthbreathes. The random Spaniard puts together scarecrows or something equally artistically ambiguous. Down in a hole, a cheerful and contented Dave makes beats with an Roland drum machine. A shepherd dog scratches in shakey-freeze-cam. The Spaniard is definitely making art out of found objects. Pretty cool! Graham, now with a guitar, slouches against a building.

Suddenly "Face" has on a pimpin' fuzzy white Kangol porkpie hat, custom made for a little, pointy skull. The style is actually known as "high crown bin" in "furgora" should the Viewer wish to acquire her or his own. Our Dames is getting seriously jiggy with the camera, doing a decent rendition of the Brooklyn B-Boy dance as perfected by the Beastie Boys in the "Pass the Mic" video. He still manages to work in a bastardised version of the Jazz Hands of the Apocalypse, though. He looks ABSURD. Secret Agent Dave looks around, hoping that no hip-hop giants are going to come crashing into his cozy little hole, safely far away from the madness. He's really got incredibly important work to do.

In gangsta's paradise, Damon pretends to drink from an empty can of Coke, then tosses it away and grins. What a tool! Somewhere else, Agent Alex, looking quite hung over after a night of resounding triumph at the baccarat tables in Mallorca, slouches past. Written in marker on the front of his white shirt is "ceci n'est pas une cigarette", and a sloppy drawing of a cigarette. Get it? This is what passes for fashion in London in 1997? Dear God! Between this and "Face"'s superbaggy jeans, the world is in crisis.

Graham keeps hiding from The Man. "Face" flashes his gold rings. He's naughty by nature. "O.G." smirks impatiently, waiting for Damon to outgrow these absurd hip-hop affectations. He is, as far as the Author knows, still waiting. Dave keeps hiding, too. Damon jumps up and down and puts his hands all in the camera. He will be beatboxing next. Hip hop hooray!

Graham examines the front of his dark hoodie for some possible antidote for Damon. He is unable to find anything. He is NOT down with O.P.P.

Agent Alex wanders amongst the trash heaps, pondering the riddle of sign and signifier, and also wondering where the bitches is at.

Agent Dave twirls his finger, which has been providing us with the funky tempos. Sorted! News Flash: Dave Rowntree saves the world. Again.

Agent Alex takes his shades up after "Face" has said "horrors", showing us two deep brown eyes full of confusion, distaste, and sheer fatigue. "Face" has dropped a tab, and now all the pure white in the frame (the sky, and the Kangol) show a rapidly rushing starfield (though it looks more to the Author like a blizzard). As Damon says "space", helpfully, it turns into a monochrome version of the sparkly multiple dimensions from the "Beetlebum" video.

Jump around! Damon sure does. "Home" is bombed on the wall in solid ghetto style. By Graham? If so, he's a total artistic crim of the old school! Damon leaps up really high and does scissor kicks and goes on about gorillas, which should have given us a hint ages and ages ago. "Gold card Soul", reads the last graffitti piece. It's awesome. It's not Graham, that's for sure. This is some Krush Groove 14th Street shit. So that means Graham IS just tagging for no reason! Hey, punk!

Agent Dave looks up out of his hole a little doubtfully. He has been sending Morse code to H.Q. for the last four minutes in the form of a cheerful beat. TRAPPED IN HOLE - HELD CAPTIVE BY DANGEROUS MADMAN WHO WANTS TO BE FLAVA FLAV - PLEASE HELP... Meanwhile, O.G. Coxon finds Agent Dave's cubbyhole, and stands over it, disturbing Dave's arrangement of patch cords. Then "Face" starts bustin' out there, too. Poor Agent Dave. He just wants to be alone. Alas, "Face" has to jump over the hole a bunch of times, just to show off how athletic he is and strike fear into the hearts of the Secret Service. Dave does not falter, though - he stays on task like a good soldier. By the time Agent Alex shows up, Agent Alex is drunk again, in the fine tradition of spies everywhere.

"Face" has a big jump-around party with fifty of his posse, which looks to be made up of a bunch of angry youth from East London who listen to a lot of Cypress Hill. Some of them even know how to break dance! Yar! Electric Boogaloo! Damon pretends to punch and kick the camera. He shows us his expensive watch. He might as well hold up a huge painted sign that says "I'm filthy stinking rich now and I can do whatever I want!" Agent Alex has crept away from Agent Dave's hole, realizing that he's crap for backup in his current state. Graham rubs his forehead in the international sign language for "headache". Damon attempts to breakdance, but fails utterly, and his Kangol falls off and then starts to blow away and he has to chase after it. HAW HAW! Sorry mate. Should we have gotten you some instructional materials?

The video closes with a view-from-below of the tower and a big digitally processed puke-coloured sky. It's true; pimpin' ain't easy, especially when YOU'RE FROM ESSEX.

CUTE FACTOR: not much. Dave and Graham are solid.
VIDEO QUALITY: wacky, but not really. more confusing than anything else. It's all very off the cuff and feels very unrehearsed.
FUCKED UP FACTOR: extremely probable for everyone except Dave, who is having good clean fun.
OVERALL GRADE: C