Incessantly fashionable and with its name dropping off every hipster's tongue, Sheffield has probably never had it so good. It's hard to believe just 12 months ago it was deemed as just A.N.other northern city with a university and a fair smattering of bands.

One of these would have been The Dodgems, recently signed to Alan McGee's Poptones empire. With a look and sound that could have been garnered from Richard's pool hall in 1973, the fact that they're so out of sync' with everything deemed credible makes them a joy to witness. While some wags would instantly dismiss them as the Razorlight of the north, there is an obvious depth to their material that suggests they've looked far and beyond Camden 2002 for divine inspiration, and in singing guitarist Phil Goodwin and bass player Nick O'Malley, they have the most insidious Mick'n'Keef duo since... well, I'll keep you guessing on that one.

Quite how the Five O'Clock Heroes still remain a relatively unknown proposition is beyond the realms of plain mystery - it's more travesty than anything else. If the first band get their kicks out of the early part of the 1970s, then this lot have studied the encyclopaedia of new wave til the print off its pages became embedded in their fingertips. Costello, Lowe and, yes, Sting lurk ominously as the goodtime jolt of 'Time On My Hands' and merciless twin-guitar assault of 'Skin Deep' sound nothing less than excitable. radio-friendly anthems that should be blurring out of office blocks and car stereos the land over. Add to that the primitive skank of 'White Girls' and you've got evident proof that caucasian reggae need not always come coated in thick, crunchy batter with a salt'n'vinegar makeover.

Musos turn away now, as you will not like what you are about to read.

I'm sorry to be the bearer of such blasphemous news but those forebearers of pop(ular) punk rock, The Paddingtons, are quite frankly one of the most exciting live propositions treading the boards at the minute. They may have been given a leg-up by tabloid acquaintances many moons ago, but these days they are a force to be reckoned with, make no bones about it. Once shambolic and possibly beyond the point of amateur, now they are tighter than Donald and his pals' collective backsides, and in frontman Tom Atkin they possess one of the most charismatic focal points in the game.

The likes of 'Worse For Wear' and 'Sorry', which may have started life as Strokes-influenced rehearsal "laughs", now resemble bonafide anthems for the wasted and disaffected, while the singalong to 'Panic Attack' and '50 To A £' couldn't have been bettered by the vocal appreciation shown down the road at Hillsborough this afternoon for the Steel City football derby. Loud? Nurse, fetch me the cotton buds please...

And as for those of you who thought The Paddingtons would crawl back under the stone they came from and disappear forever, it looks like a dozen Goldenlay eggs are making their way onto your mush as we speak if the new material aired tonight is anything to go by. Best of the bunch is the spunky 'Rat Race', which in keeping with the theme of the night probably owes more to late 70s terrace culture than the post-millennium safety zone of all-seater humdrum.

And that's how it ends. A night out with The Paddingtons is like going to the best party of your life: your head may be sore in the morning, but I guarantee you'll still be talking about it months later.