In the early morning light, the campsite doesn’t look too healthy (neither do I, for that matter). Cans, cigarette boxes and various other discarded items have, in conjunction with Friday night’s rain, condensed into a two-foot-deep muddy paste – a veritable flytrap for orphaned shoes.

Tents, sprouting from the ground like clusters of multicoloured mushrooms with feet poking out, stretch over the horizon and deep-sleeping bodies line the perimieter of the fence.

To be honest, it’s a complete fucking mess. Gladly, no-one seems to care too much since we’re all about as filthy as we can possibly get anyway (some of my cohorts arrived on Friday and are planning to stay until Monday morning: fucking hardcore). But, as they say, it’s all part of the charm. One thing’s for certain - I’m not looking forward to the bill from the launderette.

Most dreadful singalong: the twats with the acoustic sitting on top of a pile of wood chip oat 7am,singing ‘Sweat’ by Inner Circle.

Most authentic Mud Men: ‘Tony’ and ‘Fearghal’ who caned it a bit too hard in the pit for the Chemical Brothers and wound up looking like brown versions of the Incredible Hulk.

Most irritating lost person: the girl who stood right outside our tent shouting ‘Adrian!’ for about 20 minutes.