It really doesn’t seem like a year since the last of Lord Henry MC’s summer hootenannies. Can it be a twelvemonth since U2’s unforgettable double whammy by the banks of the Boyne? More importantly, is this year’s less-than-spectacular line-up an implicit confession by the Slane organisers that you just can’t top Bono & Co.?

Leave that for now. We’re en route from the perimeter to the hill itself, a longish walk which takes in some fabulous scenery and a gauntlet of blissful teenagers polishing off their scrumpy while The Revs are on. We lose count of the amount of times our bags are checked for illicit bevvies. Hey, Mr. Security Man, is that a ‘confiscated’ naggin of Paddy in your pants, or are you just pleased to see me?

The Doves are mid-set as we arrive, and at this early stage the population is split 90/10 between idlers sprawled on the grass, chewing the fat and swigging a variety of authorised and unauthorised brews, and fans up the front, singing along and giving it loads.

During Ocean Colour Scene, whose lacklustre set suggests they’re not quite the festival band they’re rumoured to be, the sky makes a few half-hearted attempts to open. Eventually it just gives up altogether, and the rest of the day is as dry as a bone, God be praised.

Counting Crows are next, with a hirsute Adam Duritz looking quite at home on the Meath hillside. They trudge through ‘Mr. Jones,’ ‘Omaha’ and umpteen other mid-tempo middle-American ho-hums. Crowd-wise, the ratio of the loyal to the uninterested remains the same.

But hold! Who’s that radar-eared anachronism lurching on stage? Why, it’s Chad Kroeger, which can only mean that Nickelback are about to do their meaty, shouty, superannuated thang!

In a semi-ironic way, I suppose you could say that they rock. They certainly give live cojones to their singles, and to ‘Hero’, that awful collaboration with Josey Scott. A wag in the fourth or fifth row shouts, ‘We love you Spiderman!’ at which hilarity Chad merely smiles.

The Charlatans are their usual reliable, enjoyable and largely uninspiring selves, doing lots of recent Wonderland stuff plus the requisite old favourites. They finish up with a spirited ‘Sproston Green’, which means (deep breath, bon courage, best foot forward etc. etc.) it’s Time For The Stereophonics.

On the plus side, it’s dark at this stage, so

there’s a bit more atmosphere. The Stereophonics soldier on with ‘Mr. Writer’, ‘The Bartender And The Thief,’ ‘Just Looking’ and ‘Have A Nice Day,’ with Kelly Jones’ voice in fine raspy fettle. But despite these valiant efforts, people are beginning to lose interest.

Maybe the place is just too big, maybe the sound’s too low or the songs too weak, but rapt musical attention is giving way to inflatable chair fights and beery boredom.

By the time they finish up, most of us are already heading for the hills. What a beautiful venue Slane is. And what a pity 2002 couldn’t offer any acts of U2’s calibre to do it justice.