Fortunately at around midday the perfect hangover cure comes along in the shape of four impeccably dressed men on the Introducing stage. By way of distraction, the unsigned stage used to be sponsored by Top Man and curated mainly by Radio Humberside’s Raw Talent. With a new policy on new music, Radio One have, ahem, muscled in on the action and now wholly sponsor the stage, leaving Radio Humberside rather out in the cold, though Alan Raw still gets to present. Anyway, back to the music. The four gentlemen in question are Eureka Machines, Chris Catalyst’s (aka Robochrist, Sisters Of Mercy) latest and possibly greatest project. Their six song pop rock set, filleted from the new album, fairly cracks along, garnished with boy-band tight choreography, drum stool gurning from Wayne Insane, bass showboating from Steve Morricone and back flips (rolls) from Chris himself. It looks fun, sounds fun and carves a heart-shaped window in my skull-threatening headache when I scream “Eureka!”

Which is promptly filled back in by Mighty Boosh name droppers Robots In Disguise, three girls dressed as mimes who pretend to play instruments and sing over a Crystal Castles-lite techno track. It’s like Daphne and Celeste all over again – where’s a bottle of urine when you need one? Very disappointing and it is only the bizarre cardboard box robot porn that holds my interest long enough to get through the set.

I do hang around the dance tent for The Whip though, for which I will be eternally grateful. The beats are hard as nails, with each song rising to a Josh Wink crescendo while the bass pummels your internal organs aggressively. Through the blue mist on stage, Lil Fee plays drums that don’t quite match the beat as Danny Savage stalks the stage, rousing the rabble to frenzy for ‘Trash.’ Filthy stuff, so ideal festival music.

Holy Fuck are… different. Two guys (Brian Borcherdt and Graham Walsh) playing ancient synths face off, chucking mangled genres at each other until one flinches. Arcade thrash collides with jazz dance in an 8-bit Art of noise fashion. It’s compelling, watching these two techno boffins go at it, but lacks the focus and charisma of the Whip. Good for shoe-gazers who like to dance.

Intent on a double fuck fest, I dash over to the Introducing stage to catch Leeds’ duo That Fucking Tank play as the surprise band of the day. Andy Abbot is pulling porn faces and dropping to his knees on the stage in full rock god mode and James Islip won’t stick with a rhythm for more than two bars. It’s a fantastic confusing noise and many heads are nodding arhythmically in the audience trying to keep up. Throw in a cheeky Springstein for luck and you’re there. James gets up from his stool to announce the band: “We are that fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking fucking tank.” That might upset Radio One but do these rock god porn stars care? Not one jot.

After gorging myself on fat-rich, heavily-salted festival fare (oh the suffering for my art), I stave off immanent coronary failure and stagger back to catch the closing moments of Solus Locus, four smart young lads who made the switch from prog metal to post rock to lure in the ladies… because the ladies love post-rock. The sound is good, old fashioned PR, the way the canadians used to make it, but fair spirited despite the failing equipment, and the Yaffle-like synthesist Mike Jones even goes so far as to crowd surf in the closing feedback of the final song. Good to see that dour can be fun.

A huge crowd gathers and I have a horrible sense of foreboding as the people crowding around me start to mutter things about ‘Franz Ferdinand’ and ‘Foo Fighters.’ When a young attractive girl in a tight red dress (that sort of fits) and not a grizzled old rock veteran or Glaswegian indie fashionista strolls into the stage, the crowd are most disgruntled and start booing and exodising – rude idiots. Regardless of the battering to confidence, the show must go on and go on it does in a noisy, crass, riotous yet unusually static fashion. Like a blend of Babes In Toyland, B52s and Korn, it starts well but goes a bit one paced after Kate announces that they better than the Foo Fighters. Doesn’t go down well, but nice n noisy.

I lose track of time for a bit and the next thing I know I’ve missed a band entirely and find myself watching These Monsters – I’m finding it increasingly difficult to pull myself away from the Introducing stage; I tried to go to Pendulum, but so did everyone else. Still, These Monsters can be entertaining. Unfortunately, today they seem even more lost it than usual and though the sound is pristine (you can even hear the sax) they all seem to be playing different songs at the same time while drifting around the stage in a general daze. A bit disappointing.

A comedy band in support? Recipe for disaster in my books, but fortunately Jack Black is on stage doing what jack black does best… being Jack Black. In fact, it’s hootful stuff; Kyle dressed as a green furry dragon (“Wizards you idiot, not lizards”), a synchronised dance with ‘the metal’ and a songs whose sentiments are ‘ I really fucking miss you.’ Touching. Musically, it will never set the world alight, but for gosh darn entertainment, it’ll do.

Loqui are also in for gosh darn entertainment, though the two parts Richard O’Brien one part Willy Wonka figure of Rob Paul Chapman is a bit… disturbing. Fortunately, he is countered by the curiously alluring Sarah Niven as mistress of the night. I say nothing as I am standing next to her beau. Musically innocuous but performed with gusto, songs are pretty dad rocky with punk pretentions… pretty broad really. They are, however, enjoying themselves, as are the two top-hatted fans behind me and the guitarist appears to be on fire. Music, meh, performance gooood.

Which brings me to Metallica, last up on the main stage. I meant to go and see CSS, but something about these crousty ole red necks is more compelling than the concept of nubile female Brazillians. I must be losing it. Metallica, however, have got it back. Plundering and thundering through their back catalogue (‘Ride The Lightning,’ ‘Sanitarium,’ ‘Justice For All,’ ‘Master of Puppets’ – mmmm good), staying light on the new stuff and looking like they actually like each other, the set is more incandescent than the flame throwers belching over the crowd – Robert Trujillo has definitely brought something back to the band. ‘Enter Sandman’ is of course a huge crowd pleaser (duh), ‘One’ is air guitar mosh heaven and though it isn’t loud enough (the crowd at the front look strangely still) it does remind me what it was like to be sixteen and alienated again, especially when a whole side of metal fans sing ‘Nothing Else Matters’ – it fair brings a lump to the throat. As a gift to fans they encore with ‘So What?’ ‘Last Caress’ and ‘Seek and Destroy,’ a song that reminds you how great a riff can be. No ‘Unforgiven’ or ‘Battery,’ but I think that their set could quite comfortably be called a triumph, albeit a quiet one.

So Dan Hawkins, 2^nd bassist Richie Edwards, Toby MacFarlaine and Ed Graham all got an unquenchable thirst for rock n roll and decided to keep it real by forming their own band. Only problem is, it sounds like a typical half-arsed project engaged in by middle-aged men (like me) to stave off responsibility and realisation; it’s crisis rock. Oh, and they forgot to bring any songs of their own.

This sounds really harsh, but to be honest one of the best things you can do with this album is play ‘spot the riff-off.’ ‘Burn The Witch’ boosts Iron Maiden’s ‘Aces High’ and Skid Row’s ‘Monkey Business,’ ‘Don’t Drink The Water’ lifts the intro from Rush’s ‘Spirit Of Radio’ so blatantly you’d expect to see Geddy Lee packing heat and heading for Lowestoft, ‘For Whom The Bell Tolls’ is stolen… twice! See how many you can spot. If this album were a shop, it would be that dodgy exchange place full of ‘honestly sold’ TVs. There is some semi spirited guitar work from Dan Hawkins, but he loses interest and goes for the easy option, slapping together some easy chromatics or brief tri-tonics, leaving you teased and tormented in the worst of ways. The rhythm section show little or no flair, being content to plod along and push out the beat like a metronomic sausage machine. But the worst is yet to come. Avert your eyes, those of an easily offended disposition.

Those lyrics suck the arse of Beelzebub! Misogynistic, xenophobic and just plain crass – if you get through the first two tracks (“the flames are gonna lick around your wizard’s sleeve” has to be the worst lyric since “I’m as serious as cancer”) you will not be rewarded for your determination. Trying to ape ACDC’s effortless lasciviousness requires the usage of double-entendre and wit, not single entendre and swearing: “you’ve brought a knife to a gun fight… so fuck you!” Oh, how awfully drole. I can see what Richie is trying to achieve, I think; it’s grittiness, but all he acheives is clunkiness. And as for doing a protest song in the name of all-day drinking? Right, so we all get annoyed at musicians doing politics, but this is moronic and I LOVE to drink. You might be thinking this all sounds a bit Spinal Tap and Spinal Tap are funny, but that’s the point: Spinal Tap are funny; these guys are serious.

To hold off from the scathe for a moment, this album is undeniably catchy. I mean, it’s got to be if you’re using so many half-inched riffs. But it’s let down by such amateurish delivery. If The Darkness was all about reviving the pomp and glamour of the seventies, this is about seeing a tired old 80’s/90’s rock band trying to revive the worst excesses of that period in a pub playing to a group of aging rockers too drunk to care anymore. I know this will upset some people who think that rawk should be raucous, but there are so many other bands doing it so much better who won’t get half the attention. If you want something musically saucy, check out last year’s debut from ‘The Films.’ If you want something filthy, get ‘Moist Boys IV.’This? A vague shadow of something that could have been so unashamedly old school but just ended up being embarrassing.