Time to link Bathtubgirl up front again. The lady's got the right sort of craziness in spades. Drink from her delicious net chalice, it's Suds Not Scuds and open for business. While you're at it, go Playlouder for opinions on your independent rock, dance, popular and not so popular. Old muckers The Charles Napiers recently got a letter from the no-nonsense, grizzly Russ Meyer star they're named after.

Finally uploaded a 'What Is?' page, Over there. Top left. Intriguingly basic. Correspondence as further notes for anyone remotely intrigued.

Archway bunker (below) - goodbye. Shouldn't be sad to leave such an uninhabitable spot and, anyway, most of the third CD is in the bag. Indeed, on an imaginary round-table 'Late Review Cutting Edge MP3 Special' occasionally tuning in, I'd say "flight to virgin space should underwire the

emotive and somehow slyly juxtapose the overall themes of the closer, Mark. As Nabokov's Lolita was his mixed feelings for the America that rescued him. But, y'know, above the Super Suds laundrette in Archway."

It'll be difficult not to remember draughty bunker as a guitar, a laptop, bewilderment as 'Gas Mask' took off like a dancing hamster, it's six weeks at number one on UK MP3 charts. Christelle - tHis websight won;t reed haff aS go0d with!out yeWr cheking it fursT. Goodbye et bon chance.

This week - an evening of mixed avant garde and 'microhouse' hijacked beautifully by 'electrostalinist' and chum Vic 20 (below) who stood out from the Wire-magazine fare like a gum-chewing smashed thumb. His conspiracy theory synthpop, peppered with verbal assaults on Zoot Woman, had audiences flummoxed and delighted in turns. Long may you point your libellous Moog finger at the rich and influential, Mr Twenty.

Then a lastminute.com weekender to Sweden with Vic and chum Dermot. "Why come to Stockholm?" several of the natives pursued us with curious gravity. As we dropped precariously back into Heathrow, gurgling heavily on the old

Bachs Rescue Remedy and power-chilling to Michael Nyman's score for Gattaca, my mind rifled through pleasant memories of an anti-G8 rally we joined for the ride, mountains of gravad lax, the Strokes and 'Transformer' up loud in the Indigo Bar, the Restaurang bar and the Moderna Museet's monsterously cool The Path Of Resistance exhibition. And the chomping of wild strawberries and the throwing about of beachballs in a Socialist utopia with healthy packs of Timotei lassies and dumbbell-brained Dolphs in an Expose - Deep Inside The Brass-Necked Nudist LoveKamps Of Gottenburg (1963 v.o. 26 mins) style. No - fact.

Porno 4 Potheads, a high five to your kind link.

I found myself on a railway platform in a remote yet affluent part of Surrey this week. Train problems. I saw a man descend the steps through the slats of sunshine that reached right across the station, for it was late afternoon. From the distance, he seemed to me like a recently retired, self-made sort of cat. Blue blazer with gold buttons. Deep tan. Cricket jumper slung across his shoulders. Mobile phone. But as he got closer he started resembling a cheat. A cad. A huckster. The tan was sunbed, the gold tooth a bit garish, the furtive glance more that of the common weasel. I imagined him roaming the Home Counties seducing rich widows. "Oh Lillian, (chink of champagne flute) a very special lady. I'm so glad that we found one another, even if it may be the autumn of our lives. Lillian, what's wrong? You look suddenly unwell. Lillian! (tap tap tap of mobile phone) Yeah Rick? It's Baz. She's croaked, get the truck." As this - probably harmless - gent passed I was smiling apologetically for this appalling thought, listening to the White Stripes on the discman.

One More History Of The World A Poem. Apollo 8 takes off for photographs of sand and rock on the moon. On impulse, a fluke almost, they take one of the Earth rising. Suddenly the challenge for us all is not only to remove divisions but also to maintain our diversities in safety. Far below, riots are about to shake Belfast. Things go up and down the popularity charts. Hip-hop happens. People buy bits of the Berlin wall. Once people can afford them, they start websites. Things go up and down the popularity charts. Yugoslavia goes nuts. The music industry is worth thirty six point nine billion dollars a year. The media says the popularity charts need a new punk. At The Drive In sing who's in charge in here cos I'd really like to meet him. The industry says we need a new punk. Riots in Bradford.