Who: CSS

Mark out of five: Thr ... oh, go on then, four.

Dress code: The Band: Lord Mayoresses of the town of Whatthefucksville accompanied by a 1970s trucker on bass. The Crowd: Mud.

Who's watching: Big up to the guy directly in front of me who, in a ram-jammed Big Top tent, refused to take off his backpack. In the gloaming, everyone assumed that there was a big gap between us to squeeze through. There was not. Apart from that knobber, this was the last performance of the night before people got the inevitable first-night tiredness and started niggling at each other. Populated by the last true party people of Friday night.

In a nutshell: They played a mixture of new and old stuff in a very solid, professional manner – we know they're a solid live outfit, but sadly, the new stuff just doesn't stand up when mixed with the old. I'm not saying they've run out of ideas, I'm just saying they might have used up all the good ones. This new disco stuff just doesn't feel as exciting as the stonking tunes off their first album. Case in point: their new single of disco fluff, followed by Music is My Hot Hot Sex, which still sounds as fresh as Tim Westwood's last pair of sneaks.

Bestival: I fell swooningly in love with the guitarist; with her mesmeric stage presence, guitar chops and Korg skills, and hair like Adam Sandler in The Wedding Singer. At the point when she swapped her guitar to bash the stuffing out of a cute little drum-and-cowbell combo, I thought my little heart would burst. Also, the introduction of a keytar during any set is good, closely followed up by the bassist's swarthy 'tache.

Worstival: Backpacko Baggins and the fact you couldn't move, stay upright, dance or really enjoy the set due to the superfluity of muddy bodies inside the arena. Even putting it like that makes it sound more exciting than it was.