The last time I saw English Jon in a club it was at one of the very few that I can bear to go to these days; a long-established one with resident band which has had a variety of North London venues over the past three decades or more and whose continuing aim is to present the best available artists, from the fiercely traditional to the frankly eccentric. Even the shit acts are class, not that I mean Jon is . . . er, I think I'll stop . . . right . . . there . . . (hehe).

Except to echo Brian P's puzzlement at 'trad dominance'. Eh? If only, at some of those that deserved to be killed off. Many people blame fRoots for the most unlikely things, from the street price of crack to the decline of attendance at Matins, but I really don't recall the mag ever exhorting people not to go to Little-Snoring-In-The-Marsh come-all-ye. Listing one ot two infinitely more exciting things to do, maybe . . .

What kills the clubs (but won't let them rest in peace) is blindingly obvious; it's the dreaded good-enough-for-folk brigade: never mind tuning or timing, we've always done it like this and if you don't like it, stay . . . out . . . of . . . our . . . club . . . because . . . we . . . know . . . better . . . than . . . you . . . (whoever you are). Another generation of 'clubs' is emerging though that the old farts (of whatever age) know nothing about. There's on in the Essex Road and another on a boat in Bristol. Shhhhush, best not tell them.

(PS Jon, you were fab. Really).