Sunday is in many ways the best day. We are all embedded, sort of just here, in festimode, tops off, boots on, so many layers of sun block and dust it starts to feel like skin. And this morning we have the leader of the Yeovil Town Brass Band declaring that his part in their performance, first up on the Pyramid, is not just great but the greatest half hour of his life. Some claim but I know how he feels. And he doesn’t want it to end. Luckily he decides to stop chatting and leave the stage before the man in black shorts and black baggy t-shirt with the walkie talkie pulls the plug.

He is followed by Paloma Faith, whose song about New York (yes, another one) causes the second tingles of the day (first was the Town Band’s rendition of The Great Escape). She sings tied to two giant balloons, almost floating off her gold-top mules.

Then after a slight diversion, the football on a big screen that looks small, engulfed by at least 50,000 faithful, , we leave at half time to witness Grizzly Bear on the Other, who proceed to give us the result and the inevitable sinking feeling via a radio held up to the mic when one of their machines malfunctions. They, unlike our great team, play magnificently, weaving harmonies in and out of those drifting guitar melodies and off beat drums.

The Park provides more surprise highlights. Beak, who, they inform us in languidly ironic style, have travelled all the way from Bristol on the motorway and everything, to entertain us with their brand of experimental Krautrock. Frightened Rabbit entertain in acoustic solo mode in the Crow’s Nest, the smallest bar at the top of the hill, near the wall. He asks us first if Jesus exists, then if he is here at the festival. Well, I haven’t seen him, but I have seen Dr Who so anything is possible actually.

Back down in the valley a mellow MGMT impress with their youthful, beautiful arrogance, but then give in and do a version of Kids, complete with tambourine wielding groupies.

But they are no match for LCD Soundsystem who simply rock with their layered build of rock and roll, funk, New York disco and arrogance and fuck-you screaming energy. “It’s not raining,” quips James Murphy, by way of introduction, “but it still smells of human faeces.” And it does, but it really doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t.