Three days on the town in Manchester and it starts to catch up with you. Lethargy sets in and laziness can be forgiven. The Ordinary Boys come at just the right time and make perfect sense. Though the jury’s still out on the wholesale past robbery that ensues through the likes of ‘Week In, Week Out’ – their undeniable standout, there’s no denying that the Brighton boys have a solid hardcore fanbase after months of touring. They lap up every Smiths-slung phrase, and dance wildly through the likes of ‘Talk, Talk’.

And if you can get over the fact that it’s Billy Bragg fronting The Specials, shooting Paul Weller,and dancing on his grave, then all is fine. Frontman, Preston certainly has enough ugly/rough charm to make pretty teenage girls strip on the spot, but it leaves the more cynical among us a bit confused. The word ‘ordinary’ is certainly banded around by much of the crowd, but it’s quite charming indie, nonetheless.

Nothing’s quite as weird as The Beta Band, however. Having slowly wormed their way into the populous from humble, experimental beginnings, we still wonder whether anyone here has heard the excellent new single, ‘Out-Side’ which, like most Beta Band songs, is succinctly compressed melodies burstng at the seems with originality and ideas. The crowd seem unmoved by this brilliance however, put off by the three-way percussion and looping keyboards, it’s almost like the Scots’ perfect pop goes over their heads. Never mind.

Because for everyone who ignores The Beta Band there’s that 1976 rebirth in the form of the New York Dolls, who apparently were punk before Punk was even born. It shows. Now, we’re sure that by ‘70s standards this shit was good, but frankly Mr. Shankly, frotnman, David Johansen resembles a Mick Jagger look-alike more crinkly that the Stone himself. If that’s possible. Prancing around like Nicky Wire, with a feather boa and a belly piercing, fearful mothers can be heard crying "Cover up your stomach!". All the DIY dads meanwhile, are having the time of their lives. Age gaps mean that one person’s shit, tuneless Stones pub cover band is another’s generation defining punk heroes. Sometimes things are meant to stay in the past.

Like Morrissey for instance. You don’t come back. Again. You don’t return having been in the Most Influential Band Ever, having left, had bigger commericial success on your own and then having incited racism among your Linda McCartney worshipping disciples before being exiled. You simply don’t have your biggest hit at the age of 44. You leave writing polemic, biting brilliance like finale, ‘Irish Heart, English Blood’ and poison acoustic pop of ‘First Of The Gang To Die’ to the likes of… And there’s the void. For every new Coldplay (™ Q Magazine) there’s never a new Morrissey. Fuck Franz Ferdinand.

Within seconds of arriving it’s clear his at his best and wryest. “Good evening, Weatherfield. I’m a local boy made bad,” booms Morrissey, before splintering through ‘Don’t Make Fun Of Daddy’s Voice’ in front of huge lights spelling out his name, in a nod to Elvis. With crowd spilling over into the grandstands, from the very start, it’s one of the best festival appearances of all time. “It’s a filthy job, but someone’s got to do it, so I hope you’ll all trundle down to Woolies”, he writhes, ahead of ‘First Of The Gang To Die’, before dedicating ‘The Headmaster Ritual’ to ‘a horrendous mausoleum called St Marys’. “Thankfully the headmaster, Vincent Moss is dead,” he adds with a smile.

“This is our version of Nancy Sinatra doing Morrissey” he says, ahead of new track, ‘Let Me Kiss You’ (covered by Nancy at Meltdown) which takes on a beautifully anthemic splendour. Naturally, when ‘There Is A Light That Never Goes Out’ comes up all hell breaks loose, amid the kind of euphoria not seen round these parts since United did the treble. It’s followed by ‘Everyday Is Like Sunday’. Go figure.

It would be very easy to take a swipe at Tony Blair, and after the obligatory cheer we get ‘The World Is Full Of Crashing Bores’ a mournfully bleak piece of perfect balladry from the king crooner of doom. Taunting the front rows, it’s only a matter of time before someone makes a play for the stage, and during ‘I Know It’s Gonna Happen Someday’, security is breached before the young offender is caught and ejected.

While delivering history lessons on the nearby buildings where he used to work, and the old venue where he nearly saw the New York Dolls play, Morrissey is clearly moved throughout. The same kind of beaming enjoyment that made the Pixies so mesmerizing is here in spades and hauling out classics like ‘Shakespeare’s Sister’, Morrissey brings the house down. Move just stepped up a gear, it’s gonna be hard to top this next year.