Credit: Nichola Nichols

It’s difficult to remember that far back, but I seem to remember arriving on site on Thursday evening. And looking in dismay at the amount of kit we had: PA system, BBQ, Tent Village. We were fortunate enough to bump into someone we knew in production in a Landrover. He was so tired he couldn’t form words, but was still driving through seething crowds, so we loaded up with everything we needed to run a bar for the weekend.

We got inside and down to the Hospitality/Pyramid Stage compound, where we were booked for a Beef Warehouse DJ set. After a few hours of ferrying kit in, and a couple of moments of despair at the lack of anywhere to camp, we found a tasty little spot just opposite Lulu’s Café.

Mud wasn’t all encompassing on the Thursday, and we went for a late night wander round site, trying to find open bars and venues - of which their weren’t many. Lost Vagueness, usually the bastion of open all hours rebelliousness, was shut: The old diner not in form? Or in field? A big fire and some crusty ska band later, and the grey rise was upon us, as we went against the masses headed up to the stone circle.

Friday saw rain, more rain, and more rain, Real Ale, god-fearing hippies, and the Music Towers posse befriended one of Pete Doherty’s drug buddies. So as our nice healthy BBQ slowly turned into an opium den that would make Fu Manchu jealous, we planned out the evening’s acts.

Arcade Fire are renowned for their spiritual performances, but tonight it isn’t happening to me. Don’t know whether it is the buckets of rain, the muddy hippy bloke kissing me endlessly, or some lady called George that keeps stroking my hair, but the Arcade Fire aren’t delivering me from evil. Although the band seems to be hammering it out – it doesn’t seem too loud. Muddy hippy guy is scaring our Doherty cohort.

Head over to the Queens Head to find some slap bass band playing – might be Chicane? Stylistically it is all awful, but the energy and volume is desperately needed after the Arcades Fire’s wet delivery.