There I was, enjoying the increasingly rare pleasure of a moment free from Paloma Faith, when an email dropped into my inbox.
That's right, Paloma will be on the 1s and 2s on the final day of Ascot, dropping beats for pissed up toffs and women in stupid hats. I assume it's a good crowd for her, as I doubt this demographic will stop shuffling to neo-jazz to ponder the horrors of the universe, like how God took Lennon and not McCartney, or Winehouse and not Paloma.
What continually confuses me is Paloma's ubiquity. I understand she's a musician, but I've never heard any of her music. She has three platinum albums, but I couldn't even imagine what sort of person bought them. If you asked me to name one of her tracks I'd stare at you blankly, say "a cover of 'Je ne regrette rien or something???'" before realising neither of us have any idea nor care. Because I'm not alone on this, am I? Can you honestly say you've ever met anyone who owns a Paloma Faith album, or streams Paloma on Spotify, or has seen Paloma away from the confines of an unfunny panel show? I sure as hell can't.
I guess that's why I find her so infuriating. Like UKIP or Bernard Manning, she's another curious British entity to fill a hole that smug millenials - people like myself - never knew existed. Apparently, there was a space for a singer who looks like a diarama at the Imperial War Museum, and she gobbled it up.
Maybe it's a yearning for nostalgia, or a love of tradition; but whatever it is, it makes sense that she's being paired with horse-racing.