Peonies Are Impossible throbs with the vascular rhythms that flow irregularly between a damp and very English queerness and the traditions of its working-class avant-garde. Like some sort of ecstatic kitchen sink melodrama, its lewd, lurching theatrics conjure ugly delicious pantomime magick in which characters dream themselves onto the page in real-time.

Look closely enough and you might even remember it as the intricate shed-dwelling diorama about which you caught a short documentary on Channel Four in the early-1990s, a labour of desperate love shining from a small town cul-de-sac, lost in time.