J ust when we thought we were out, they pull us back in. Seventeen months after it huffed off in its Toyota Omertà, This City is Ours is back for a second series of high-stakes gangland bastardry. Which means, all things being equal, or at least Liverpudlian, we can expect more of the following: convoluted drug deals conducted over congealing ragu; shouting; tiny-skulled henchmen with chests of astonishing bulbosity, as if someone had squeezed their legs like tubes of toothpaste and all the meat had been forced up to their armpits; beards. So yes, it’s back. Go tell it on the mountain. And bring a shovel while you’re at it. A shovel? Yes, a shovel. Now stop asking questions and start digging; this corpse won’t disappear by itself.

“’Ee’s gone,” whimpers Cheryl (Saoirse-Monica Jackson), blinking weepily in the Marbella sunshine as troubled mobster Michael (James Nelson-Joyce) manoeuvres the decomposing remains of her late husband into a makeshift grave. And ‘ee has. Gone that is. Poor Davy (Stephen Walters).…