To start, this was the line-up:

http://www.isleofwightfestival.com/line-up.asp

From this, we saw the following, Goldfrapp, Prodigy, the Kooks, Editors, Primal Scream (who were very grumpy), Lou Reed (trippy) and Coldplay. I will no longer tolerate anybody slating Coldplay. OK, so they write songs by numbers, but I challenge anybody to get through one of their sets without singing, crying, punching the air, or all three. They're awesome live.

Only topped by Prodigy on Friday night. Who are brilliant and terrifying in equal measures. And they make people do the most monged out dancing I've ever seen. I'm surprised I left that gig with all my toes intact, so often were they jumped on by the bloke in front of me, who we'll call Brian, the clerical officer from Southbourne whose mum sends him off with a freshly pressed tie every morning. He was going mad fer it. He clearly had a lot of pent-up office frustrations to vent.

This was our camp site. It was full of girls that looked like they'd just stepped out of a salon. Where the hell can you plug hair straighteners in in a field?

We spent most days queuing for the suprisingly civilised showers, and the horribly primitive toilets, buying hippy shit from all the stalls (pipes made from the finest unicorn horns, clothes that clowns would reject for being too bright) and stuffing down deep fried somethings in the horribly hot sun.

On Saturday, we discovered the Pussy Parlour. We also bought a camera. This made us very happy:

It was just a big circular shed, but you could get a drink in under three hours, and they had a fabulous amateur circus act, the highlight of which was AMAZING GARETH. That was his stage name. He blew up rubber gloves and then used them to impersonate animals. They also had some women wearing not very much and not really knowing what they were doing with ropes and sticks on fire.

On Saturday night, Olly wanted to see the Foo Fighters. You had to conceal your drugs in your beard, or behind your eyelids, because they were searching everybody, so he stuffed his spliffs into his sock. By the time they reappeared, they were soaked in sweat and refusing to light, but he smoked them anyway. Then fell asleep on the floor, and missed the rest of the night. So Cath (sister, evil twin) forced me into the Bacardi tent, where we spent two hours dancing to what I think was Cuban jungle music and avoiding all the drugged up psychos who were circling the floor.

Danny came along too, dancing in his usual mid 90's raver style, clapping, stamping, blowing an imaginary whistle. He brought his mate Matt, who was as horny as a hound dog, and refused to reveal the secret of what really happened at Wayne's party unless Cath took her clothes off. So we'll never know what happened at Wayne's party.

Sunday, and spirits were starting to sag, as was the tent, which we had borrowed from Olly's sister's gypsy boyfriend. We had to sellotape the poles together. So we went to Camp Danny and begged sanctuary, where they were all horribly organised and had a kettle, a toaster, a three piece suite and a cleaner.

After an oo from Typhoo, we went back to the Pussy Parlour and got pissed and danced around a glo-stick, before going to the main field to sob and sing badly through Coldplay.

Then went to a Poi-Poi party, where some guy called Tom was going round telling everybody how he couldn't chill out because he'd taken 5 E's. He also hadn't had a crap in about three days, so Olly gave him some bog roll and his little druggy eyes lit up, and he scampered away to pass out in the nearest Port-a-loo.

Anyway, I think this picture sums up the entire weekend rather nicely