Picture the scene: There's a heated discussion taking place in the middle of a record company board room. Execs are hotly debating the release date of a new single, so that it can gain maximum exposure, reach as many ears as is humanly possibly and therefore drive people to the shops - real or virtual - in order to spend, spend, and once again spend.
The song plays quietly in the background, although it clearly has not been made with quiet play in mind, which is proving to be a distraction. It is a boisterous, Caribbean-flavoured thing, boasting a childishly simple, sing-song chorus.
It also boasts a man called Laza shouting incoherently about seizures and propellers, and a relentless skull-crusher dancehall beat, played as if a Troll was attempting to swat a swarm of cocky gnats off the EastEnders drum kit with his fists. It is deliriously happy, to the point of being simple-minded, and conjures up instant images of warmth and sunshiney freedom in everyone that hears it.
And it is this last point which is causing the trouble.