It took a wee while for the dust to settle from our pulverising achievements at The Font Bar, but sooner (and later) we were ready to take our deadly brand of goodtime entertainment nearer the scabrous bloated heart of Manchester's dickhead community.

We needed back up, and so we looked south, down the A34, beyond Winchester, into the county of Dorsetshire, where the forest fires burn for centuries at a time and the hares carry flick-knives. There was an element of reaching for the greatest hits so far, and we thought we might have found a new home - but it turned out to be a one-off. Best of all, it was an excuse to get True Swamp Neglect up and let them slip their hounds.

Robin Nature-Bold also planted a future seed with a "masks'n'masks now" performance, which climbed into frequencies largely unheard by any punters. And the punters at that time were few. Too few by leagues of legions to witness the cloudy genius of Dutch Husband stoop down and wash our spines of misfortune. Guitar strings pulled as far as our hearts could take. As a sizeable press release, written on the underside of flagstones, visible only from inner space, noted at the time: "Hear the sound of Autumn touching you in the lungs while you were thinking about the sunshine".

It was also the first public appearance of Delicate Hammers, v 1.1, that had been tickled together by Ringo, Loopol and CocOen with bass station support from Christian of the Vatican. No Master Egg present as yet. "Hammertheme" charmed many, lyrics read from a piece of envelope, but remains un-re-performed to this day. It was pure shonk, with relatively little backing, and even a drumkit betimes; but the shrub was now a tree. History would always smell a little different from now on.

It was around this time that the untarded management began to dribble mammals from the corners of their mouth, even as more acolytes came to kiss the swollen circles of Der Hug. Coc Oen's equilibrium on the wheels of MP3 destruction was tilted by requests for Oasis from "regulars", though his momentum never dulled. The vegetable of a soundman only looked up from his chips when Adonis' "On & On" loped about him. The air was so full of toss, you could hardly tell the bell from the end.

This indie worship continued with one bathplug of a whippet asking the mighty Thought Universe, as the Dave Grohl of sub molecular thermo-acoustics alchemied the Universe to diamonds, where he could get a good curry. Where was Thor to strike the infidel upon the death points and like as not kill him? In his space slippers, listening to the Universe, in truth.

Up The Swamp, my friends. As always, it was like watching the Iron Man rise to his feet and demolish Ted Hughes' greenhouse, only with pedals and horse-dancing. Here was the ambition achieved: to bring the toast of the coast with the mo(a)st to the hole with no soul. And they introduced the medieval technology of gunpowder to Manchorlton. It was a delicious bill, rather like that of a roasted toucan. The digestive once again dripped from the pits of the twirling, high-fiving caballeros, Team Cut 'n' Paste, who killed us with glitter cannons of sheer exuberant rave thunder.

The Hammers shook each other by the hooves, counted our money again, spat on the memory of Sound Garden and strode mischeviously into the night.

The final page in a deliciously charming chapter in the Book of Hug: the final Font sessions. The bar with the lift that never quite worked, and the echoey stairwell which doubled ineffectively as an area for musical recreation.

Loopol finally drew back the curtains on himself after months of tease, thick velvety curtains. The sweat rivuleted southwards down the crack of his goatish arse. Coc Oen offered some athletic support, skipping from toe to freakish toe; but the Goatboy unwound his packet of soulful, Waitsy disillusionment to the wonder and delight of the assembled. In the future, Loopol will rise again, accompanying himself with a digital, choral projected version of himself, a less pukesome Jamie Lidell. For now, we have to crouch in the ditches of our soul and wait for the seeds of dawn to be scattered in our eyes once more.

There was also the standard issue Group Hug misunderstanding regarding the line-up, this time regarding the redoutable skills of the Texan troubadour Micah P Hinson.  A friend of the management we were asked to add to the bill, a name that got City Life very excited and Group Hug bigged up therein, a guy who was actually in Texas on 13th February.  Ah, well.

Tommy Walker III was an enigmatic laptopeer, slumped with glazen eyes locked on the screen, mouse flopped by languid paw, home-made baseball cap perched like a sieve on a boulder. Champion sounds! It seems that his Human Shield brethren have now taken residence above a shop on Wilbraham Road, thumping out parabolas night after night. Too cool for school and easy invitations.

Harem Pilots were a rattlingly noisy bunch, that much I remember. Guitar noises flying in from all angles, a carpentry workshop of indie rockstuff. The rest has been swept away by the sandwaves of time, eating away at the watercastles of my memory.

Then, more Red Right Hand, setting the wallpaper's hairs on end, glacial guitars pulling the wings off passing flies; before Cut'n'Paste set off delicious Christmas fireworks, packed with partyraveblastronical entertainments. Synchronised dancing behind the decks. It was all so sweet and right. They pulled vinyl nugget after vinyl nugget from their hat of many nuggets, and no early nineties bucket was left undrained.

Then the Hug signal went dead...

More Anglesey imports, like olive oil from Corleone. A great fish soared over the Mancunian skyline, unrecognisable as it was at the time, opening its arms like lightning conductors and looking flash in its crisp brown stripey suit.

We had plans for this night: a whole heap of plans, some of which opened like origami soliders, some of which were crushed like origami soldiers. We planned for Free Beer to crumple the Font floor in his meaty vinyl fists, but he failed to show, the chubby gimp.   We planned for Loopol to unleash his soloistical styles on an unwitting populace, but it was not to be.  I forget why not.

But.... Plenty of things worked in a very pleasing fashion indeed.  Filthy Pedro, exiled from the island of druids for his self-beliefs, plugged himself acoustically into hearts and groins.  This was in the dark days before T-Mobile's Transmission, before he was calculating Rock'n'Roll Points or buddying up with Gilgamesh and crusing the Nile, back in the days when MySpace was a knocking shop for dollybirds in the Valley.  He had lovely silver boots and a great joke about Michael Jackson.

Onto Moon.  Rachel That Sings and Larry That Picks combining to make Moon That Moves.  More evidence of the shadowy digits of Edmundo X. Barton, stirring the pond of the Manchester night.  The microphones were straining to capture the murmuring eddies of the oceans, the lapping of brainwaves against heart valves.

The Gods kicked once more against the skies, before charging into the Mediterranean basin to embrace their destiny.  They weren't to make a third appearance.  Eventually fracturing into shards after a nasty traffic accident, some of them finding a home in Band(ism), later to make their own Hug stand.

Then Thought Universe challenged the pouring waters to a duel of relentless beauty, his electronic rapiers fencing and parrying lightning like a bearded Touche Turtle.  There was meat on those electro-bones.  The world opened out like a friendly laptop, pearls of sound rolling around in its sweaty guts.  The evening grew dark and reflective.

Coc Oen took on the form of a 50 Cent Jesus, and he and Loopol clambered about like drowning donkeys.  Clutches were taken with baby-finger intensity.  The set was very slowly turning in a Hammer direction.  Once more it felt great to be almost alive.

Round Two of the great Hammers v Manchester face off, and things got a little uglier and little strenous.

Already kicked out of the womb by angry consequence, the infant Hug sought new pastures for its second flowering and chanced upon a grotty room above a cheap restaurant, where many good times had obvious been enjoyed in the past. This was also where encountered our first unHug obstacle, a midget chef de cuisine by the name of Kevin.

Oxford St welcomed us in with a bountiful crowd and we responded with a promise of richly mixed tunes at low, low prices. Unfortunately our cretinous friend double-booked the room with a salsa class, so after sound checking we had to remove much of our gear to allow the spirito di punto to swarm along the carpets. We took a look when our rage allowed, and no-one seemed to have having a good time. Meanwhile, ex-Anglesey boy, Bill Lee span his sound system with legendary grace and good fortitude on a single turntable until the swirling couplets were cleared.

This new timetable also meant that CO&LP's second outing was a most short one, only lost classic "Mental Indigestion" slunted along, and beset with minor agonies as my Statue of Liberty mask drove my glasses into my skull. Words fell out of my mind, clouded by demands of orchestration.

Sundowner were next, following from an incendiary performance at the Ducie a couple of weeks before. Big, big noises from scrawny wee Mancs. There was also a big hat.

Seven Sisters was yet another of Young Warren's beat combos, swanning out from under the nocturnal cloak of Ed Barton Industries to chant and charm us with their chickabilly rumble. I spent much of the set on the door, ineptly flirting with any woman foolish enough to make eye contact.

Proto-Ringo's third attack on Hug sensibilities saw him hit skins with sticks for Red Right Hand, a Valentine's Night cocktail of pink metallic death. There were a band with many pedals, and a Group Hug staple in earlier times. Wailing of both voice and guitar.

Finally, the exquisite electro-acoustic engineering of Thought Universe, who took cheeky little fragments of electricity and bid them dance dense about us. He launched himself at his plastic boxes with armfuls of relish and bottles of gusto. He was a bearded star commander, and the heavens were happy to hear his sounds.

Another success, pulled off against many odds. As we left, cash in our wet pockets, we told Kevin we'd be glad to come back again, when our balls catch fire. How we laughed!