While I was in Britain, the world went mad. A puppet, Bob the Builder, beat French disco kings, The Supermen Lovers, to No. 1 on the U.K. singles chart; across the Atlantic, a puppet, George W. Bush, was not an idiot anymore, but a national hero; and, after 10 years, I'd suddenly become allergic to my dad's dog and sneezed my entire vacation away.

Thank God, I'm on this plane heading back to Tokyo and some punk-rock bands. I hope they kick my ass back into normalcy because everything in the world has gone pear-shaped. Am I the only sane person left?

I'm terrified of flying, so I pass the time dreaming about if Bob were Bush and Bush were Bob or, even better, Bob were Bush and Bush was my dad's dog. Bob would build homes for the world's poor, not take them away, and I could keep Bush chained up in the yard, out of harm's way. Bob the Builder for president! You know it makes sense.

Seiichi Yamamoto of the Boredoms (top) and Phew

Back in Tokyo, I'm rooted to a spot 3 meters in front of the stage for Beijing punk band Hang on the Box's entire set at Shibuya's Club Quattro. Literally mesmerized. Both by singer Wang Yue, who's every punk kid's wet dream -- like a teenage Siouxsie Sioux -- and, of course, by her band's brill tunes. The headliner, all-girl Tokyo band Lolita No. 18, is great, too, so things are seeming almost normal.

The gig and half a bottle of tequila have left me on a massive high, so at the after-show shindig I hit upon a fantastic idea: Start a food fight. On the plane, my reading material was journalist Lester Bang's account of a Clash food fight in his book "Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung" and a story in Q magazine about the Rolling Stones' pie-fight at the launch of "Beggars Banquet." In my fuzzed-up mind it seems the logical punk-rock thing to do: Add Lolita No. 18 to the hallowed hall of food-fight fame.

So I toss, grenadelike, two spring rolls at the next table, and one of them hits Lolita singer Masayo on the top of her head. Being the punkiest punk-rocker Japan has, she instantly hurls the food back at me, and before you can say "Anarchy in the U.K.," the place is a war zone Bush would be proud of. Everyone's splattered in kimchi and sticky rice. And then we strip naked, and I'm investigating Wang Yue in the bathroom.

Of course, this doesn't happen.

Masayo doesn't join in. In fact, nobody joins in. The room falls silent and everybody stares at me. What the hell's going on? Masayo, head bowed, looks like she's just been hit by a cruise missile and is about to burst into tears. Her friend demands I apologize, and tail between my legs, I hobble over and beg forgiveness, even offering her my drink, which she refuses. There are murmurs of violent retaliation, so I mutter one last sorry and swiftly leg it out of the place.

Next morning, I wake up to find Wang Yue next to me, and then I wake up to find Bob the Builder in bed with me, and then I go to the bathroom and throw up. The last thing I want is to be in bed with Bush.

Then I really wake up and remember the spring-roll incident. Oh, God! Allah! Bob the bloody Builder! Anybody! Help me! These rock 'n' roll shenanigans just don't seem to be making sense anymore. Have I gone bonkers like everyone else? Who knows? Who cares? Two days later, I'm still eaten up by paranoia and suffering major chest palpitations. And, on the verge of a massive coronary, how on earth can I possibly enjoy Most at Shinjuku's Loft?

Most, which boasts core Boredoms member Seiichi Yamamoto on guitar, sound monstrous on their self-titled debut album. Immense Thee Michelle Gun Elephant-like riffage with a Yoko Ono-sounding chick screeching on top. The guitars wrap around each other like tight, vicious S&M lovers, channeling an immense arsenal of unstoppable sound into my brain. It's not Boredoms' noise-rock, it's punk rock. Live, it starts sounding more like the Sex Pistols. A Sex Pistols who might not look cool, but can actually play.

But there're a few problems I have with Most -- namely, a baseball cap, a beard, a Nike T-shirt and no hairstyles. If five bondage chicks were up there, I'd adore this band. If they looked like The Strokes, I'd be begging for an interview.

Appearance is vital, especially live. You get average-looking dudes making music, but musicians are mostly way above average. It's no coincidence. Record company personnel harbor intense fantasies about shagging musicians, so they'll sign up an average band if they look great, rather than a slightly superior band fronted by a hunchback with three eyes. And we, the record-buying public, buy into this nonsense, not just the music, unless you're a Travis fan.

Or, a Number Girl fan, who are second on the bill. But Number Girl, who've picked up where the Pixies left off, is one of the best bands in Japan right now, so it almost doesn't matter that singer Mukai looks like a salaryman with his nonhaircut, his dime-a-dozen spectacles and clothes presumably handed down by grandpa. In fact, Number Girl are so ace that, as well as overlooking the clothes, we forgive the appalling reggae song they attempt mid-set.

DMBQ headline. These guys obviously watched "Spinal Tap" and thought it was 4-real. Thank Buddha that Mukai invades the stage 12 minutes into the lead guitarist's 115-minute nonstop virtuoso solo and strangles him with a guitar string until his eyes pop out and roll into the mosh pit, where they are pocketed by confused and desperate fans.

That's my fantasy, anyhow. Sadly, DMBQ are the ones that get away with murder. Why these Led Zep-worshippers even get to share a stage with punk bands is beyond me. Punk was supposed to blow this prog stuff away. But then, everything's out of whack.

The next morning an e-mail arrives from Lolita No. 18's record company. Thankfully, there's no mention of spring rolls, but it's even worse. Lolita No. 18 are to split up. Guitarist Ena and bassist Kim-Rin have quit. There'll be three farewell shows in December and that's it.

Apparently, they'd announced they were splitting during the gig, but I was so out of it, I didn't hear it or notice the slightly downbeat atmosphere at the party. I'd been like a drunkard at a funeral, leaping over the casket and hollering at the top of my voice, while tossing incense sticks in the air.

Like a love affair, when you start a band, you hope it will last forever. And, like a love affair, when it ends, it can be devastating. Like your whole family has walked out on you. You're alone. Seemingly with nothing. The last thing you need is to be pelted with spring rolls.

Lying in bed I tell myself: Bob might never be Bush, but when I wake up, I just pray he's me uncle.