Clothes make the man, which is why charity shops are such creepy places.

The suits on their dusty hangers are haunted by ghosts of givers past, whispering to the ghoulish bargain-hunters that feast on the detritus of the recently dead.

Dairy Milk’s offbeat new opus has the usual glass and a half of Fairtrade vigour, but its heart is as dark as Bourneville. Empty jackets waltz with discarded granny pants in a macabre ballet that hints at the hollow men cast off by coalition cuts to loll in the gutter, stinking of turps. Its slogan speaks of joy but the 1980s pop soundtrack rings out like the mirthless laughter of the damned.

This bold political allegory is fitting tribute to the departed of Somerdale.

Buy a suit from a charity shop and there’s a good chance somebody died in it. Dairy Milk here reminds us that every dance is somebody’s last.

More from this column