Sorry, did I say Paul grew up in my last comment? Not entirely. Puerile is fair. I think in the end even Paul realised that just because he could write a song about anything, didn’t mean that he should.

Hip to be square. A travesty. Still, you gotta respect the chutzpah of anyone even attempting a song with that title.

Emotional Rescue. I don’t remember it being that bad, but that’s probably because I was distracted by Charlie Watts’ “who the fuck is that guy jumping around in front of the drum kit” facial expressions.