Alright?

Kitty, Daisy & Lewis were wandering past, so I snagged 'em, and forced them to blog for me. "Write about your day, you life, your thoughts, your feelings," I said.

They did. After fifteen minutes of pondering this is what they came up with:

Hello, we are Kitty, Daisy and Lewis. It is a nice small festival so there is no trucking around for drinks and food joints. Good food. Lasagne was very nice. There is a good mixture of people and they are all up for a boogie. The crew aren't fuss pots like the usual ones.

KDL

So now you know. I like the use of the phrase 'fuss pots'. And 'boogie'. They played another killer set, by the way.

We're evacuating the site now, 'cos transport is scarce. As a final love token, I give you my top-five bands of the weekend:

1. The Law
Are going to clean-up. If Dundee is to give the world one grot-punk successor to Doherty, then I vote it should be The Law, and The View should be banished to eternal night, and the door to eternal night should be bolted shut. Agreed? Good.

2. We Are The Physics.
Look like The Proclaimers. Sound like very little. They’ve carved out their own world based around a kind of super-punk: very distorted, very choppy, but with vaguely folkish melodies peeping through whenever the squall subsides. A bit like The Ramones played at double-speed on a dirty tape recorder.

3. Robots In Disguise
Record-breakingly sexy. Unbelievably fun. They grinned saucily, playfully flung each other around the room by the scruffs of their necks like a pair of naughty schoolgirls, and despite playing to approximately two people and some lint, still had the nerve to clamber into the ‘pit’ by song three. It was their party. We were invited. We were honoured.

4. Calvin Harris
Yeah, me neither. But sometimes, something happens in a tent that changes you forever. Sometimes it’s the loss of a favourite limb. Sometimes it’s the so-dumb-it’s-Einstein chunky funk of a beanpole in a bad tracksuit. Can we have more dance acts with full bands please, God?

5. Ash
More hits than Shane MacGowan’s crack pipe. When you look at Tim Wheeler and imagine him to be a grizzled rock survivor, remind yourself that the man’s only just pipped 30. When 1977 broke in ‘96, the title refered to the band’s year of birth. And it was their second album. Kung Fu, Girl From Mars, A Life Less Ordinary, Goldfinger, Burn Baby Burn, Free All Angels, Oh Yeah, and on and on and …

For the first time all weekend, the bands enclosure of the site has been roped off from the hacks and hangers-on. The reason? Primal Scream probably. I was standing in the entrance to the paddock when the entire Scream Team sauntered past, fresh offstage from their award winning headline slot. Some sultry blonde stuck out her hand and Bobby kissed it. He is very thin.

Now listen here. “I Fought The Law And The Law Won” may sound like a vaguely amusing headline for a feature article on The Law right now, but trust me, six months from here, you’ll be so sick of Law puns you'll want to vomit down the neck of whoever makes one. Why? Because The Law are undoubtedly going to be everywhere by November.

On paper, another band located deep in trad-indie of the Stone Roses, Beatles, et al sounds like a good excuse to nip off for a piss, but The Law have got something.

Speak of satan: the guy from The Law has just tried, unsuccesfully, to order a taxi from the production office phone. “It’s not a payphone, y’know?” the organising dragons inform him. They’ve got a bit of a spat going on. They’ve got a lot of spats going on, actually. It’s kinda hard to keep up.

Hold the front page. British politics is about to be unravelled to you via the medium of Carl Barat.

Carlos has a sore throat. Smoking. A headcold. He needs a bit of TLC from some medics before tonight.

But the medics want nothing to do with him. Why? Yeah, good point. It's something to do with the fact that they're only contracted to deal with proper emergency cases. The site's Chief Medical Officer has just explained this in painful detail to the site supervisors. Sample dialogue: "If I did that I'd be bypassing my obligation to NHS Direct." So Carl's case will have to be billed separately, via the NHS, as an on-site call out.

Bring back Maggie, etc etc. etc.

In other news, The Paddingtons have been using two pears and a banana to simulate male genitalia and photographing each other with this appendage hilariously gilding their crotches.

Day breaks. The weather mellows.

And with it, Skye has relaxed a bit. Everyone's amiably bumbling about, checking out Scottish dancing on the side, and a human jukebox at the back.

Last night, Carl Barat played an 'hilarous' prank on Chris The Promoter, pretending his stand-in guitarist had gone loco in New York and wouldn't be able to play. Chris, longtime Carl buddy and ex-axeman in 3 Colours Red, was going to have to step-into the breach for DPT.

That Carl! He's such a card.

Upcoming: We Are The Physics, The Paddingtons, Dirty Pretty Things and Primal Scream.

Will keep you posted.

Bitterly cold, horifically wet, a primordial sludge of mud from which wild-eyed Gollums occasionally emerge singing Calvin Harris tracks. This is Skye on the messy side of midnight. Yet even in temperatures that would freeze the balls off an Arctic Monkey, you still see the odd headcase wandering around without a shirt. If there is ever a war in a deep freeze, Scotland will win.

Right now, I’m blogging from the festival nerve centre. A marshall has just come through to say that Robots In Disguise are demanding a fresh rider. Someone’s swiped their beer.

“Hmm. How much do we love Robots In Disguise?” the site honchos query. Enough, it seems. Fresh beer is despatched.

Elsewhere, Kasabian have retired to their tourbus to polish off their own enormo-rider. The Low Miffs are panicking because they’ve not read the fine-print in their contract and turned up without amps. And just behind the portaloos, Calvin Harris is wanking over pictures of himself. Possibly. Calvin Harris sure does love Calvin Harris.

But right now, he seems to be getting away with it. Leave aside the brainfart of Girls, and this pole-thin Scot in a bad tracky delivered a set thick with gloopy, magnetic whiteboy funk, music so dumb that it’s gone right round the IQ clock and turned into Einstein. Throw in a meaty live band all pogoing in-line, plus a rammed side-tent, and you’ve got something pretty mega.

He’s fresh. He’s utterly committed to giving it some. Calvin Harris is Mylo if Mylo danced like an evangelical crab. And wasn’t boring. I wanted to give him a kicking as much as you, dear reader. Truly, I did. After all, anything that trades so heavily on The Eighties must be as nutritive as yet another ‘hysterical’ David Hasselhof email from Janice in accounts. But I just can’t. Not right now. Give it a few months…

Other treasure:

Robots In Disguise: holy flaming fuck in a cardigan. RID are so sexy they make me feel like a teenage Beatlemaniac. I nearly wet my knickers.

Kasabian: enormous and tiny. Now that the Blair era is drawing to a close, historians will doubltess paw over Tone’s legislative programme. But the law that will draw stiffest debate is the one that states that wherever there are two or three people gathered in a field during the British summer, Kasabian are legally obliged to play there. It’s regal stuff, high pomp, but tonight the Tennants seemed to be muddying rather than focusing their set.

Tom really is the Michael Jackson of indierocknroll, though. Anywhere you see him, he’s always going “You guys are the best. The B.E.S.T, you hear me? You people rule… We love you guys, like, sooo much etc. etc. etc.” Tonight, he was bigging-up Scotland like it had just cured cancer.

Then he goes all Mr Hyde, gets gladiatorial during LSF, and starts mooing: “C’mon you fookers. Hit me. Hit me. Break me. C’mon. C’mon.” Yes, that is a real proper quote. You have no idea how it feels to stand in a dark, icy tent scribbling down other people’s swear-words. Tom is actually a Fast Show version of Liam Gallagher. Discuss.

What else?

Echo & The Bunnymen: yeah, um, whatever.

Ash: that new album is going to make your eyeballs stand out on stalks like some Tom & Jerry cartoon. They closed with six minutes of densely-layered swishy bleepsome feedback, more Sigur Ros than Sex Pistols. Not entirely convinced, but very intrigued.

Right. Time to die.