Righty ho, then. Issue 2. The reiteration and consolidation one. It may look the same as Issue 1 but it's different. Oh yes. Mainly because we had months to do the first one and only a few slender, wilting weeks to cobble this one together.

Of the first issue: Someone told us their mate picked the magazine up, skimmed through it and put it down declaring, "I'm not reading this. I've never heard of any of the bands." Not so much missing the point as failing to realise there is any point at all.

Pulp are running their Auto festival at the Magna plant in Rotherham in December. Chances are it'll be the last hurrah from a fine band whose ambition, at the outset, outstripped their ability. And when they caught up with themselves it took the public a good deal longer to catch up with them. We suspect at some point Pulp may have been a) crap and b) unknown. Now they are so famous Jarvis Cocker gets to hang off lamp-posts on telly and we can read about them everywhere. Isn't it as interesting to wonder about what might happen as to know what already has?

Ian MacKaye, Minor Threat, Fugazi and Dischord man, who knows a thing or two about doing things on the quiet said recently, "I'm always interested how people get to exalted positions. Did God's helicopter fly them there? We're just putting the spotlight on those on the lower rungs of the ladder." We like that, and like to think that's what we're doing.

Mind you, you'll have noticed the Polyphonic Spree on the front cover. What's going on? They're about as Sheffield as Sushi. Aren't they? Yes, but as a gig in Sheffield they were a lovely moment of epiphany and that's what music can do. Sudden startling moments of joy. Funnily enough there are local people who have or will have exactly the same capacity as 23 nutty Texans. Like Pulp. Who were, let us point out again, at one point, unknown.

You turn the television on every night of the week and are treated to the drooling spectacle of common folk humiliating themselves in the trample for a seat on Waterman's chopper. An industry so full of hubris that it can play judge and jury live on telly and dictate what you consume. Why go along with it?

Good things this month: The sight of Sandman snapper, Enoch stumbling through the front door after a day with Hoggboy. Hair wild, eyes glazed and an open but un-watered pot noodle clutched in his hand. A trail of pot powder on his chin suggesting his motor skills were on the verge of meltdown. He claims he was fine, 'just tired.'

Missing the JSBX might not sound like a good thing but it meant Sandman stumbling on the Wilko Johnson Band down at the Boardwalk. Now the combined age of the three-piece is around the 140 mark but they make The Vines et al look bloated. Wilko, we salute you.

Babies: Bethan Mia Norris will be a few weeks old when you read this. Nice one Ian and Ju.

Bad things: Last train back from Nottingham is Twenty to Ten. Mind you, fuck the idiot guitarist who insisted on playing 53 notes for every one of Ray Davies'. We never thought we'd be glad to leave a Kinksman's gig early.

Last thought: We're skint. For £15 we'll deliver this issue of Sandman to your front door wearing tuxedos and clutching an acoustic and a Casio keyboard. We'll cover any two songs by any two Sheffield bands you care to choose. For a tenner we'll tidy your garden and for a fiver we'll strip. G'night.