The film with this year’s best title is a slight but still worthy portrait of Nottingham’s Sleaford Mods, whose cathartically rude, lo-fi vision of Britain in collapse has made unlikely stars out of the supercaustic duo.

They’re as suprised as anyone about that, and filmmaker Christine Franz captures the air of general incredulity backstage at Glastonbury or, more poetically, in shots of the uncomfortable-looking pair dwarfed inside a vast dressing room at the O2 in London. Even though you’d probably cross the street to avoid these not-very-pretty 40-something men, beatmaker Andrew Fearn emerges as thoughtful and warm. Vocalist Jason Williamson is more distant, though his very English gift for inventive swearing and livid gutter surrealism obviously starts at home, as when his wife refers to Williamson’s bouts of post-tour moodiness as “cunt flu”.