It seems to be, semi-unofficially, Crap Graf week this week, while we ready the big hitting articles coming your way – thank you Mr Fuchs and Mr Nice – so here’s another classic straight from the gallery…

Summer Holiday by Britvic 55

Straight away, the legendary Britvic 55 has you in a double bind. Is he the artist, or did mum’s favourite Cliff (Mitchelmore and Lazarenko both quit jockeying for that distinction a long time ago) do this himself? Would Cliff, in a moment of clarity, tag his own advert, perhaps in revulsion that his famously age-proof looks are starting to fade? Did someone nick that picture of Dorian Grey from out of his attic? But Britvic has got stock in the game, and a reputation for bringing a glock to the game. Which game? Tennis, where he takes pot shots at Cliff every time he tries to make a rain break at Wimbledon even more stultifying by leading a fucking singalong with a load of lesbo former tennis players. Not our words, those of Britvic 55. Not even his words, just his magnificent art. Which, admittedly, takes the form of words. Could the original graffiti pioneers, those out for fame legends, have ever thought their nascent artform could take on such beauty and levels of complexity? Could they have predicted the pungent wit, the use of colour, the sheer middle finger of a piece such as this? To which the only possible answer is: “Dunno”.