What's left of Sister Sledge (Joni and Debbie) is nothing short of brilliant. While musicOMH lifted a snotty journalist's nose and nodded our head tentatively, everybody else was shaking it to the likes of He's The Greatest Dancer and Good Times, proving you can wear a poncho and wellies and still be groovy. One of the performances of the weekend, and that isn't including their dance tent headline slot later in the day.

"Glastonbuuuury!" hollers Ana Matronic two hours later. Scissor Sisters have drawn the first sizeable crowd and lifted everyone's spirits immediately with Take Your Mama Out. Matronic reassures us the sun will come out, even if they have to heave it out of Jake Shears' ass. Which looks to be happening, as the frontman's eyes bulge like a speed freak and body contorts in his halfway tap/go-go dance routine. Ironically however, the worst shower of the weekend proceeds.

Lord this has to be taking the piss? The Scissor Sisters don't care, and neither does anybody else as Filthy Gorgeous and Tits On The Radio send thousands bouncing. The Sisters do remarkably well to keep such momentum going, chucking in some bsides before blasting us back with Laura, Comfortably Numb and a conquering Music Is The Victim. By the end Shears and Matronic are as wet as we are, and loving it too.

It's mid afternoon and everybody seems content to see Keane. On our way to Jazzworld, we catch the perennial soppers at their most depressing, which seems to depress whatever god is above so much, that he puts his schlong away and lets out the sun.

We're at Jazzworld for two reasons. First, Amp Fiddler is up soon. Second, this is the only place onsite we know of to buy a delightful pint of Pear Apple Cider. With the latter going down a treat, we find another in the form of Asere. With the sun out, the Cuban seven-pieces' deluge of beats would have you almost mistaken to be in Havana, with a sizeable group at the front lapping up the atmosphere. The compere then drops a bombshell: Amp Fiddler is still stuck on the M4. To the bar it is!

Back at the Pyramid Stage, morale hits a new low with Lostprophets. They blew their trumpets as the heaviest thing of the weekend (have you been to the Glade boys?) and that they were fuckin rocking (wait for McCartney lads). I wonder who booked 'em. Couldn't they could have at least gotten the real thing and asked Incubus to play?

Several hours later the rain is threatening again. By now OMH is happily lean and joins the exodus across a marsh to the New Tent for The Killers. The interest is staggering. We're standing about twenty deep outside the tent. The benefits of twenty-twenty vision and six-feet come into play. Looking to the back, the interest must be about a further 150 deeper. The Killers should've been on the main stage. But only to make things easier. I can't understand what all this fuss was all about.

The Black Eyed Peas have enjoyed incredible success from their ace Elephunk album. Although many were getting a good spot for Sir Paul, few would have expected how rousing BEPs would be. Aside from the singles and some hippie talk, fantastic break dancing and a superb freestyle cover of Seven Nation Army made this an astonishingly set. If anyone had pigeonholed BEP as the traditional pop act at Glasto, they better think again. They were the real thing.

I recently slated McCartney in a review. I hold up my hands. Sir Paul is no fogey and was unbelievably brilliant tonight. He may act like a drunken uncle at a wedding, and talk like a geordie Rocky Balboa, but, unlike Bob Dylan last week, McCartney carried the songs by the coach load: The Long And Winding Road, We Can Work It Out, Eleanor Rigby, Penny Lane, Get Back, Back in the USSR, Let it Be, Hey Jude, Helter Skelter; need I could go on? No one has a repertoire like that. And he played em. He played them all. Including a blistering rendition of Live And Let Die, complete with pyros, so loud and so visually stunning, even the deoxidised craniums being drilled by Squarepusher over at The Glade would've looked up. A five-song encore extended a terrific set into the early hours, which left the na-na-na-na-na na's of Hey Jude joining the 5,6,7,8's Woo Hoo as the anthem for the evening. It didn't stop the Rooney chants though.