Stephen Fry advertising Twinings. Tim Westwood being shot… but not killed. Being forced to smoke soul-curdling Richmond fags because you're out of cash. Friends re-runs. Tom Cruise pretending to be straight. Trannies who tell you at the last moment. Some things in life really really piss me off. Usually breaking two of my toes is one such item of dismay, but when aforementioned toes are broken because of the world's best live band (and possibly the most violent crowd seen since Matisyahu was accidentally booked to play Skinhead Fest 2006), I'll lump it.

Yes, The Bronx are back: bad, bloodied and bulldozing The Astoria tonight. This is punk-rock how it was meant to be. No pretension. No pyrotechnics. No piss-poor hair-gelled Billie Armstrong pop-punk clones. From the opening roars of the sub-one minute hardcore specimen supreme 'Small Stone', their intention is obvious. This is a band here to crush, kill and destroy everything that has ever stood before them.

Mangled limbs, random fists and cups of beer erupt from the pit like some sordid anarchic volcano as the band powers through a set that takes in almost every song off both their self-titled albums. Let's not forget both albums barely touched in at 30 minutes.

As always, it is singer Matt Caughthran who is the star of the show. To put it in the most fastidious of vernacular, he is… fucked. Bantering between songs, he ironically adopts a hillbilly Southern accent the entire show – “Ahhhm just a boy frawm the paw side of LA” – quite possibly as a witty repartee to their white trash-baiting song 'White Guilt', but most likely because he is… fucked. That aside, he is one of the best frontmen EVER. His voice is that of a buzzsaw grating a blackboard, whilst his ability to spend more time off stage “keepin’ it real with the peeps in the crowd” is more than admirable.

GG Allin shitting on stage: peanuts. Iggy smearing peanut butter over his bollocks: child's play. Matt swan-diving into a crowd of steel cap-wearing hardcore punks, with beer in one hand, mic in the other, whilst shouting “Motherfucker I want your BLOOOOOOD!” mid air: priceless. This is the band every other punk band wish they were.

Photo taken from The Bronx's MySpace