Sheffield new boys take to the Main Stage.

This is the Arctic Monkeys' first major festival season since they exploded so spectacularly onto the music scene. Swamped by the vastness of the Main Stage, they resemble punters who've leapfrogged the barrier and picked up guitars - which, in essence, is what they are.

The arrogance of youth is an amazingly appealing thing when coupled with some genuine talent and a great turn of phrase. It's easy to wax lyrical about the Monkeys' way with witty observations and cutting remarks - very much in evidence in 'Mardy Bum', every word of which the crowd seems to know inside out.

'Fake Tales of San Francisco' never fails to raise a smile (was there ever a more crushing putdown than the classic "You're not from New York City, you're from Rotherham"?). Alex Turner's rapport with his admirers is so effortless, so lacking in pretension, it's difficult to imagine how the Strokes plan to follow this.

Obviously, the massive hits 'When the Sun Goes Down' and '...Dancefloor' go down best, inspiring chanting so loud their mums in Sheffield can probably hear it.

Everything seems to have gone right for the Monkeys this year. Like most rock 'n' roll experiences, it probably won't last forever. But while the sun is shining the boys are rightly basking in their moment of glory.

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