Stage: John Peel

Time: 2.45pm

Dress code: Grim reaper goth. Black clothes, white shoes, waistcoats and ripped T-shirts.

In summary: After three days of mud, mud and more mud, at least the Horrors are here to provide some macabre hijinks. Sullen and styled to within an inch of their young lives, the Southend four-piece serve up perfectly good 60s psych-garage then allow singer Faris Rotter to verbally vomit all over it. Garbling in a gravelly voice that swallows words rather than sings them, Rotter's every move is hesitant. Looking furtively through his long fringe, he climbs a few steps up the lighting rig, bothers the crowd a bit and rips his t-shirt - but not completely. Like his band, he's too sensible, too tame, too fake to go all the way.

Highlight: Jack the Ripper, where the band's schlock-shock is at least fun.

Lowlight: Faris Rotter's interminable, incomprehensible, mutterings between songs.

Unusual occurrences: That lighting rig amble

Mark out of 10: 4

Where they'll be on the bill next year: Nowhere. They'll be at home, washing their hair.

Will be talking about this set until: We've stopped laughing.