Flashes of green pole spikes and the odd two foot dreadlock poked out through the stream of black hoodies shuffling along Mountjoy Square waiting for the bus, their owners donning a vast array of stripy tights, eyeliner, knuckledusters and foundation worthy of any Morticia. This was the morning of reckoning. The mighty mighty Ozzfest was making its way to Punchestown Racecourse, Co. Kildare, and promised to be the most spectacular show of distortion and rabid howls to hit Irish shores for eons, dragging the likes of Tool, System of A Down, Slayer, and Ozzy Osbourne himself along for the trip.

Being a metal fan, particularly in Ireland, is a tough break. Parents think you’ve succumbed to the wicked ways of Lucifer, teachers think you’ve got an “attitude problem” and your peers think you’re suicidal (not to mention crazy for even considering a piercing there). Aside from that, your combats get soaking every time it rains, your wallet chain rattles when you walk and maybe, just maybe, that lip ring is getting infected. However, this suffering pales in comparison to the resounding heartache felt by every music fan on this island when your favourite band is doing a European tour – but with no Irish dates. The pain! The horror! The aching disappointment. It’s almost enough to make you wish you liked Westlife (well, at least they play over here).

We arrived at Punchestown at about 1.30pm, greeted by a lengthy and seemingly solid queue of thousands and thousands of System and Slayer t-shirts, snaking their way around labyrinths of barriers to the final checkpoint, a destination that took us a good hour to reach. It was here that we first heard the news of Ozzy’s cancellation, a disappointment to say the least. However, the feeling amongst the troops wasn’t too melancholic since most people had come to see System Of A Down, Slayer or Tool anyway (besides, Ozzy’s no show could only lengthen the sets of the other headlining acts – hardly a bad thing).

Circling the perimeter of the venue as we entered were the usual suspects – food stands, beer stands and inflatable chair stalls, as well as the daredevil Team Xtreme half pipe show, featuring boards and BMX’s engaged in jumps of precarious heights (not one for the faint of heart). The second stage was tucked away in what looked like a giant warehouse, playing host to local acts Skindive and Superskin, while the main stage resembled a cross section of a giant silver mushroom sprouting up through the tarmac.

Gracing the main stage were the impressive Drowning Pool, a band whose heavy bass end frustration was unleashed upon the unsuspecting crowd without mercy, delivering an impressive performance laden with energy and angst. Next up were Welsh pop tarts Lostprophets, bringing up the softer end of the metal spectrum with their blend of soaring guitars, anthemic middle eights, three-part harmonies and Transformers t-shirts.

I caught the tail end of the Therapy? set and half of Ill Nino before being whisked away backstage for interviews, and upon my return to the gig, was rather pissed off to find that I’d missed all of Slayer in the process. However, I am assured by trusty members of the audience who were lucky enough to catch the show that King, Lombardo and Araya were indeed on top form. “They were amazing,” raved one onlooker. “It’s great to see Dave Lombardo back.”

Ill Nino, feeling rather chuffed with themselves considering their bumping up from the second stage to the main, gave a cracking performance and were cited by some as the surprise highlight of the event – all tribal beats and Latin melody, with a distinctive hardcore edge.

However, System Of A Down were undeniably the crowd pleasers, thrashing out older hits such as ‘War’ from their self titled ‘99 debut as well as more popular charters – the title track from their latest release Toxicity, ‘Chop Suey’ and a rather unexpected cover of Dire Straits ‘Sultans Of Swing’. System’s wildly energetic and somewhat hyperactive stage show won them copious amounts of applause, along with legions of newly converted devotees.

As the set was changed for headliners Tool, I made my way down to the pit; dodging the chicken bones, mushy chips and miscellaneous other discarded snack foods that had smelted themselves into a treacherous sludge on the ground thanks to an extra lashing of rain. Maynard James Keenan strode onto the stage covered in blue body paint. Puddles on the tarmac trembled with the rumblings of the bass as it resonated through the venue like an approaching T Rex, and as the guitars unleashed, my chin hit the floor. This, ladies and gentlemen, was the most astounding gig I have ever witnessed. Noises flew in every direction with no particular origin, visuals entranced, hypnotising and mesmerising guitar lines rang out the high end, Keenan’s voice soared under the visceral, combusting layer of sound scapes as he writhed and flailed. Two hours later, we walked away.

The crowd began to file out in little rivers of sunburnt Goths and bleary-eyed metallers, many decorated with smudged eyeliner and the remnants of one wash hair dye trickling down their necks, exhausted, damp and hollow from the final blast of euphoria.

Ozzy who?