Formed 17,000 years ago in a pub that won’t be built until next Thursday in Manchester, Real Job transcends both time and spatial logic. The four members — Sir Susan, Elbow Jon, Granite Sheila, and The Infinite Intern — emerged simultaneously from a spilled pint of bitter and a minor theological disagreement between Odin and the Moon.

Armed with supernatural abilities that defy physics and confuse local zoning laws, Real Job has only one mission: to deliver funk-infused redemption to the spiritually dehydrated, in the name of God (who occasionally roadies for them on tour). Their instruments are forged from pure moral certainty and haunted steel. Their riffs cause minor earthquakes in regions that deserve it.

They’ve played Mesopotamia, Atlantis, a Wetherspoons in Huddersfield, and once inside the collective unconscious of everyone named Carl. Napoleon was a fan until he tried to join the band and was turned into a tambourine.

Unfazed by the collapse of empires or the rise of algorithmic playlists, Real Job remains committed to their righteous cause: liberating souls, disrupting time, and making sure every gig ends in spontaneous communal enlightenment or at least a decent curry.

They are not a phase. They are not a memory. They are Real Job, and your reality has already been influenced.