It was playing the idiot that got Wheatus here. But although their paean to the adolescent underdog, Teenage Dirtbag, was pop by numbers, it was a work of subtle brilliance compared with the sneering offerings on this second album.

Confusing sarcasm with spite, irony with ignorance, they mix secondary-school humour and rampant misogyny. After whining at his ex-lover for cheating, gasping singer Brendan B Brown wistfully asks: "Do you remember how it was for us, before the blow jobs on the bus?" during the vengeful Lemonade.

There is no escape from the infantile banality. Freak On's female protagonist is accused of acting like a prostitute, while the central figure in Anyway is blamed for failing to excuse her man's shortcomings. Then there is the misguided travelogue of American in Amsterdam, which would leave even Bill Bryson bristling with embarrassment.

The music is equally muddled. There are melodies that replicate the pre-programmed irritants on Casio keyboards and guitars that either screech or saunter, trying to be heard among the effortful hilarity, while fleetingly lovely harmonies are sullied by the omnipresent nastiness.

Wheatus amuse no one but themselves.