With a mushroom-mullet which looks aerodynamically impossible, and the same strain of bumfluff moustache Ice Cube had in the N.W.A days, Chris roams provincial Loughborough sneering at teenage girls who like "chart music", complaining about capitalism as he chows down in Wimpy, and taking fishing trips to toxic brown canals. The rest of his time is spent South of Heaven back in his Kerrang poster-covered bedroom where he delivers sermons about "you vegetarians", "you greens" and "you old bastards" to the camera as he sits slumped on the floor in his underpants, or lies half-naked in bed under a Manchester United duvet with his cocaine-white pigeon chest gleaming through the video pixelated dinginess of his darkened dungeon.
Where In Bed With Chris Needham trumps Dream Deceivers is that its horrificness is all too relatable. Nobody reading this post has ever blown their own head apart with a shotgun due supposed subliminal messages in a Judas Priest song, but we've all felt the sheer discomfort which hangs in the air when Chris and his monosyllabic girlfriend Jane sit uncomfortably together on his Altar of Sacrifice exchanging Christmas gifts in one of TV's best depictions of the awkwardness of teenage romance.
Whether you're versed in the minutiae of Thrash Metal or familiar with the specifics of U.K geography is immaterial in this instance - In Bed With Chris Needham is one of the definitive documentaries about the grotty Gung-Ho tragedy of male pubescence and the most unintentionally hilarious 50 minutes of television you'll ever behold.