I believe in a thing called Rock

I return from Leeds warmed by the sun, uninjured by the exploding gas canisters and aerosols, fatigued by the frantic walking between stages, overcharged and under/malnourished by the shitehawks who run the food stalls, bemused by the sight of The Sleepy Jackson's Luke Steele pretending to eat his guitar strings with a knife and fork - but, most of all, refreshed in the knowledge that over the course of three days I witnessed some tremendous rock action.

And over the next few days I'm going to review it.

I could tell you about the joys of alfresco urination; I could tell you about the over-amorous couple last night, rolling around on the empty cardboard pintpots and greasy polystyrene noodle dishes and giving each other "relief" whilst those in the vicinity tried their hardest to avert their eyes and block the whole horrific spectacle out; I could tell you about one of my co-attendee's inadvertent invention of "fucked chic" - simply take a turquoise and navy 1980s tracksuit top, a white Kiss T-shirt, some brown suit trousers with a studded metal belt and a pair of off-white trainers that are falling apart, and wear all at once, until you realise at some point in the late afternoon that you're "dressed like a tit".

But no.

What you REALLY want (well, maybe not, but what you're going to get...) is the Silent Words Speak Loudest guide to the bands that made it such a special weekend - for I feasted at the table of Rock, and I feasted well. Indeed, at times I feasted too well, and was in danger of becoming vomitous. It is now my duty to regurgitate what I have digested for your reading pleasure - a duty I will be performing to the best of my abilities over the next few days. Even if it involves sticking my fingers down my throat to force myself to write about Linkin Park.