Gig played on 20/08/06

There's good news and bad news. The good news is that the V Festival's no longer a boringly sensible, family-oriented affair. The bad news? The families have been replaced by lairy, drunken thugs.

Nonetheless, Sunday gets off to a bright start, thanks to a greatest hits set from Britain's most reliable hit factory, the Sugababes. Realising that their trademark surliness won't work at a (temporarily) sun-drenched festival, the 'babes instead opt for high energy and enthusiasm as they skip through every single from "Overload" to "Push The Button". Yet despite Keisha's beaming smiles, there remains something scary about the Sugababes - and delightfully so.

Imogen Heap's pretty scary too, albeit in a terribly polite, middle-English sort of way. Dazzling us with her white ball gown and pink mohican, she delivers a set of crazed folktronica and octave-leaping howls from behind equipment bedecked with flowers and foliage. "I'm going over there to have a little dance now," she announces, pointing stage right. Then she does!

If Southampton's Delays were any more middle-of-the-road, you'd get points on your license for listening to them. Still, there's something stirring about their mid-afternoon set. Maybe it's Greg Gilbert's split-level vocals: grainy and anguished one moment, soaring and majestic the next. Maybe it's their infusion of melancholic rock with rave music's hands-in-the-air euphoria. Or maybe it's just poor competition.

Take James Dean Bradfield, whose solo career seems intended to cast the last few Manics albums in a good light. Today he turns in a set so relentlessly morose and lethargic that you feel like prescribing it an exercise regimen and course of multi-vitamins. Throughout, he sounds worryingly like an ageing rock star bemoaning his easy life, so he'd better be careful he doesn't turn into Paul Weller, whose blustery main stage set is awash with macho blues-rock and caterwauling guitar solos. "Let's 'ave it!" he bellows at one point. Actually, let's not.

There's an amusing moment during Starsailor's set, when James Walsh smugly introduces "Alcoholic" as a festival winner only to have his mic cut out during its opening line. Despite this, the band's spirited attempts to salvage their career seem to bear fruit, despite the heavy reliance on early tunes and the suspicion that they're turning into the Waterboys.

The look of the crowd watching Faithless suggests that the nation's high-security prisons have emptied out for the day, and enjoyment of their set is further hindered by the live instruments being comically out of sync with the programmed beats. With "Insomniac" and "God Is A DJ" failing to cohere and the atmosphere resembling a rough night at West Ham, even Rufus Wainwright's whining piano balladry seems a decent alternative.

The festival concludes with the spectacle of a middle-aged man claiming to be ugly and unloved before a sea of adoring worshippers. What's striking about Morrissey these days is his sheer gracelessness: tonight he sees fit to 'rebelliously' berate Virgin Radio for not playing his boring new single, even asking us to text a number projected on the big screen.

Later, he gets his shirt off and plays "How Soon Is Now", driving the punters wild. But there's no escaping the conclusion that Morrissey has become very unpleasant and trades on reputation. As a headliner for the V Festival, he's perfect.

by Niall O'Keeffe