This is Somerset --Rolling Stones
Emerging out of the smoke on the left-hand corner of the Pyramid Stage stood a choir dressed in all black.
The Rolling Stones had left the stage moments earlier with an unconvincing 'goodbye' to the swollen mass gathered on Saturday night.
What followed was a memorable moment for festival-goers, Rolling Stones fans and, I hope, the Rolling Stones themselves.
As soon as the first notes of You Can't Always Get What You Want rang out from the all-female troupe, the crowd of tens of thousands erupted into song until they got what they wanted – more from Sir Mick and the boys as they returned for a stunning encore.
The gig had been a long time coming. But as Mick Jagger put it "they finally got around to asking us, cheers Michael [Eavis]". They had a lot of ground to make up and did so with a two and a half hour set packed with hits. Starting with the energetic Jumping Jack Flash and finishing in a shower of red confetti falling to (I Can't Get No) Satisfaction, the 60-somethings showed they had not lost their stamina. They showed the vigour and energy you would expect from 20-somethings. Mick strutted his usual trademark steps while Ronnie Wood and Keith Richards were far from static. In a sea of raised hands the Stones finally earned their Glasto stripes.
Palma Violets
They – they being South London four piece Palma Violets – come on stage to The Damned's New Rose, and that might tell you all you need to know about them.
They storm through their songs with a ferocious energy the Sex Pistols would be jealous of, throwing themselves around the stage and shrieking into the mics. At some points it's a little overwhelming, but the band manage to save it before it becomes too uncomfortable. The crowd shrieks along to traditional set closer '14' – it's an ode to the 14 bus route in Lambeth, and consists of one line; 'oh 14, oh 14 take me home' – before it all goes bonkers.
Completely ignoring the 'no encores unless you're headlining' rule, they run back onto stage and all hell breaks loose as bassist Chilli Jesson and pianist Pete Mayhew throw themselves into the crowd, drummer Will Doyle climbs up the stage structure and drops his drumsticks, and all the while lead singer Sam Fryer stands in the middle of the stage and sings a cover of the Hot Nasties' Invasion of the Tribbles (no, me neither). Punk's not dead; I've seen it on the Park Stage at Glastonbury.
Dizzee Rascal
He played in front of the world at the Olympics opening ceremony but here in front of 100,000, Dizzee Rascal, the grime artist-turned-establishment pop rapper, got all naughty and sweary.
As he bigged up London as 'his city' as he introduced a recent release paying tribute to the nation's capital, the irony that when he performs in Stratford in front of the BBC's cameras, he's as good as gold, but he comes down to Somerset, the F-word bombs come out again.
But perhaps that's Glastonbury all over – everyone is free to be what they want to be – and for Mr Rascal and his wingmen, that means getting 100,000 people to chant "Let's go **** mental", before storming into his biggest hit to date, "Bonkers".
He was, despite the clunking gear change of rockers the Arctic Monkeys ahead of him, preaching to the converted – Dizzee's tunes have seeped so far into the nation's subconscious that the crowds bounced and rapped along like they were all from the mean estates of Bow, rather than Exeter Uni students or IT consultants from Berkshire.
All credit to him, Dizzee has established himself as a Glastonbury favourite, a party-starter to get the crowd in the mood – the perfect Friday support act.
Public Enemy
They are the original hip hop kings, and even after 25 years, they are still angry. American rappers Public Enemy bounded onto the West Holts Stage one man down and fighting back.
Flanked by two marching wingmen in soldiers' uniforms, frontman Chuck D announced that his sidekick, the large clock-wearing eccentric Flavor Flav, had been prevented from leaving the US by immigration authorities.
For a man already angry at institutional racism, capitalism and The Man, generally, having to play Glastonbury without his oppo sent Chuck D almost over the edge. He shouted about the morals of the Government's mother, name-checking Julian Assange and Edward Snowden in a hip-hop rant equivalent of John Lennon imagining there is no countries.
After introducing the band to the sound of gunfire – a bullet for each – the beat dropped and the thousands in the crowd bounced appreciatively. They had room to, for only the devoted had turned down the chance to see the Rolling Stones. "We're the Rolling Stones of hip-hop, we've been around so long," exclaimed Chuck D. "But I'm not sure if I'm Mick and Flavor is Keith or what."
Johnny Marr
The Smiths only ruled the world of indie rock for a few brief years in the 1980s, but their legacy lives on, even surviving David Cameron describing them as his favourite band recently.
But while singer Morrissey has gone on to attain cult icon status of the alternative rock world, it's only relatively recently that the other half of the creative genius of The Smiths – guitarist and songwriter Johnny Marr – has been slowly re-evaluated and appreciated.
So he came to Glastonbury for the first time in years, and the worshipful adored, but were fearful that his own solo stuff wouldn't quite reach the foothills of the peaks achieved with Morrissey.
First obstacle overcome – Marr can sing, and his stuff is good, too. He dropped in a few Smiths classics, before striking up the killer shimmery guitar hook from How Soon Is Now? to send the crowd wild.
The finale of the emotional There Is A Light That Will Never Go Out was too much for some: grown men left in tears. This transcended the festival, this was redemption: for years Johnny Marr has been wrongly unappreciated while Morrissey continued carrying The Smiths' torch. By singing himself the songs he wrote, that Morrissey originally sang, he was reclaiming the mantle, taking his rightful place back at the top.
Men blubbed as they staggered away from what the uninitiated onlooker would have thought was a religious experience. It was perfect. Every Smiths fan longs for the day when Morrissey and Marr are reunited (something Marr said would only happen if David Cameron's Government fell). Those seeing this now know it doesn't need to happen quite as much.
Example
Imagine if, at the early Glastonbury Fayres of the 1970s, the headline band the hippies, rockers and crusties were presented with was a group of pensioners playing all their hits from the Roaring Twenties, doing the Charleston all the while.
Because, to the kids at the Other Stage bouncing around to the bass-heavy dance rhythms of rapper-producer Example, that is exactly how irrelevant and dated The Rolling Stones appear now.
After repeatedly thanking the crowd – which was huge, by the way, contrary to reports – for not going to see The Rolling Stones, the young singer suddenly realised he had no need. "Hands up whose Dad told them to go and see the Rolling Stones?" he asked. Thousands of hands shot up, and a cacophony of boos echoed around the festival.
The kids absolutely loved it. The average age was pushed up to around 18 by some party-hungry 20-somethings, but this was where the young generation were at – not seeing a band whose last meaningful hit was a generation before they were born.
Example's music stood the test of a massive arena – using a live band rather than the production-heavy studio dance music – it was beefy, with a pounding bass, furious rhythms and catchy melodies. He can rap, he can sing soulful R&B and everyone knew all the words.
He showed there was more to his music than its presence on the stereos of hundred boy racer modified cars cruising around your town centre, or pounding from the waltzers at a fairground.
Example might not last long enough to play Glastonbury in 50 years' time, or probably even five years' time. But for his legion of young fans, his is the music of now, rather than the music of the last century.
Arctic Monkeys
At the Glastonbury Festival, I have seen things no person should ever see (old men topless and sunburn and dancing); I have to do things no person should ever have to do (the toilets). But all that became worth it when, at half past eleven on a Friday night, Alex Turner of the Arctic Monkeys began to strum the opening chords of Coldplay's Yellow on an acoustic guitar, and the whole crowd began to sing along, in unison, arms aloft.
Turned out he was joking, and the band weren't really going to do Yellow at all. What they did do was so much better. They did Mardy Bum, a song they very rarely play (with four albums worth of material, it's hard to fit everything in). And not only did they play it, but they used strings. Mardy Bum is beautiful and melodic even when hammered out by a group of spotty teenagers on electric guitars, but on strings? It swoops and soars and is so brilliant it brought tears to my eyes. To be in that field, at that time, singing that song with all those people – it makes even the toilets worth it. Reported by This is 21 hours ago.