Whereupon we find our Mancunian maniacs still keeping their Drugs Against Rock campaign in full swing. *I smell dope/I smell dope*, shouts Ryder (Shaun never sings - he either talks or shouts!) and you don't doubt him.

This album doesn't turn at 331/3 revolutions per minute - it spins on 331/3 drugs per minute! But can these cartoon fallen angels with ugly faces deliver? Well, pharmaceutically speaking, 'Pills...' does. And it does so with the sort of wind, here's-shit-in-your-eye abandon that marks the best work of all rue genital-fixated low-life. *Can I take you from behind/and hold you in my arms*, croons Ryder during 'Bob's Yer Uncle', an offer I'm sure no insane woman could refuse. Do not take this record home to meet your Mum.

There are many immaculate moments on offer here, the stull-saw-inspiring 'Step Out', the recent (t)humper 45 'Kinky Afro', and the closing free-for-all groovyness!) here that envelopes the whole album in a panting, pulsating, Pop-eyed (hello, Bez!) cockiness. Rude boy darlings of the English music press The Mondays are currently being hyped as the modern-day Rolling Stones but you get the impression that it would take more than a Mars-a-day to keep these Mondays happy.

On the down(ers) side, there are inevitably moments of over-indulgence - ham-fisted, club-footed (as opposed to niteclub-footed) slouchers that long outstay their welcome. 'Grandbag's Funeral' gets all hot-and-bothered over a heavily-burdened guitar riff that might as well be Simple Minds rockin' out. But then their looseness is often their saving grace. When the album finally collapses into the closing free-falling 'Harmony' all heaven breaks loose. Gospel choirs ring out, the Hammond organ switches to overdrive and guitarist Mark Day plays his favourite childhood guitar riff, Lou Reed's 'Sweet Jane', the whole thing swirling in a melting pot of sin and redemption (well, maybe not redemption).

Even though The Mondays' world can often seem to be full of holes (their decision to patronise Donovan is a mite suspect), you still get the impression that their collective heart is in the right place, even if their heads rarely are. This isn't exactly the album of the year (it has neither the pop sensibility of The La's eponymous debut nor the streetwise dancability of The Stereo MCs' Supernatural), but it is a great party album. Pills'n'Thrills And Bellyaches belongs to right now.

Just don't be surprised if it's not there when you wake up in the morning.