After the Seventies saw the Booker taking its tentative first steps, stumbling here and there, occasionally landing on a genuine classic but more often than not serving up curiosities rather than solid-gold genius, we venture into more solid ground in the Eighties.

There’s a sense here of more self-awareness, of the need for winners to feel “important” and make a statement of some kind. There are certainly more hits than misses, and even the latter are perhaps in some ways more interesting than those of the previous decade.

The Old Devils is about the lives and relationships of a bunch of old men (and their wives, to a lesser extent) in Wales. Central among these are Peter - mainly notable for being larger than before; Malcolm - likes jazz and talking about his bowels; and Charlie - I honestly can’t remember but not especially pleasant either. Their routine of going to the pub, getting slowly larger, and seemingly not a whole lot else, is interrupted by the arrival of their former friend Alun, back from “that London” a minor TV celebrity and writer, largely peddling a quaint and simplistic touristified version of “Wales” that his erstwhile buddies don’t recognise, and in thrall to a thinly veiled Dylan Thomas proxy.