Imagine, if you will, an achingly normal day in the life of Manic Street Preacher Nicky Wire. Apropos of nothing, Mike Skinner rings on his doorbell for a friendly chat. Wire, aghast, takes his dog and Mr Skinner for a leisurely stroll around his locale. "Look," seethes the Welshman. "This is what I hate about Newport."

But Skinner takes a different perspective. He's lived the life the Manics rallied against - the banality of nights on the town, cans of Special Brew in takeaways, herbal highs behind the bikesheds - and, on returning to his Secret Lair later that evening, he sets about creating a band to tell his side of the story.

Enter stage left, Goldie Lookin' Chain. A collective of lads from South Wales, dressed in shell suits and rapping about nights at the rollerdisco. Big tings gowan on? Well there's patois, to be sure, but it's about taxis and Maccy Ds not bullets and babes.

Far more astute than So Solid Crew, GLC entertain Leicester with tales of leisurewear from Aberdare, Jeffrey Archer and Dragon Taxis. Maybe it's because they're the first band ever to rhyme 'Aguilera' with 'Ford Sierra', these Newport lads go down a treat, much more smoothly than Special Brew ever would.

And while there is something wistful and existential about listening to The Streets, with GLC it's full blown hedonism. The music may reference Sting, but the lyrics are about making the most of every rubbish situation you could never wish to find yourself in. And while Nicky Wire couldn't bear to live that way, he couldn't contemplate leaving it behind, either.

As mad scientist Skinner's cyborgs exit the stage - having sung of genital afflictions we cannot repeat in these family quarters - they've proved their weight to the audience, who have already added to their vocabularies a smattering of GLC catchphrases. One of the best new bands in Britain? You knows it.