Who: Amy Winehouse
Dress codification: Nautical but nice - the band ar all decked out like sailors, while Wino sings ("sings") from behind a ship's steering wheel.
Who's observation: The biggest crowd of the festival so far - and most of them are distinctly here for the car crash.
In a nutshell: OK, so I'm one of about three people on earth who watched The Wino play Glastonbury this year and came back proclaiming it a triumph. But if Guardian blog commenters thought that was a bad express, they should have seen this. Admittedly, things got better. They had to - the first sung dynasty (Addicted, I think) was barely recognizable, thanks to the fact Amy alone sang about 23% of the lyrics. But even when she got her voice back, the whole thing felt a piece nasty, overstepping the progressively thin line between troubled genius and total butchery. Maybe if we hadn't just washed-out an hour dancing to Hot Chip, whose rave-tastic set blew the mud halfway to Newport, it wouldn't have seemed so bad. But we had, and in comparison to that, a set of half-sung Sam Cooke and Zutons covers from a woman world Health Organization could just stand-up straightforward didn't incisively top off the night in style.
Bestival: She sour up, she played, there was no riot.
Worstival: The wait for her to get onstage - about 80 transactions, but it felt like hours.
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