Forty years into The Wonder Stuff’s existence, Miles Hunt remains gloriously unchanged. He still swears with the precision of a craftsman, still laughs like someone who’s seen too much to take anything too seriously, and still talks about music with the kind of unguarded affection that makes you remember why bands matter in the first place.
When we meet, he’s nursing a cold, a souvenir from a rare trip to London. “I live rurally and I don’t see many people” he says, half‑laughing, half‑complaining. “But I went to London and spent a fucking hour on the tube in rush hour. Exactly 72 hours later, I’ve got a cold.” It’s classic Miles: observational, irritated and amused, all at the same time.
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