The teenager taking my chai order wore a pink sweater with the words zed is dead. Upon noticing it, my mood brightened and I want to salute her, pleased to encounter a sense of humour I also identify with. She looks confused when I tell her how great it is and with some pity for the strange older man, she says it’s the slogan of an artist. Her serious look says obviously I don’t understand. This is worse than when my daughter was five and heard a dancing hippo belting out Don’t You Worry ’bout a Thing in the film Sing. At least when she eventually heard Stevie Wonder’s original version she was impressed, but now I’m made to feel delusional for suggesting there ever was a film where some brothers were going to go medieval on sexual predator.