So, 'The Bloodstock Experience' has ended for another year, and I sit here in the sudden stillness of everyday life, bleary-eyed in fatigue and withdrawal from the ritual poisoning so lovingly observed by thousands of Britons in the summer months. I'm asking myself what the purpose of this dispatch is. Does anyone really want to hear whether I thought Nunstabber had an off-day or that I preferred Goatbastard's earlier stuff? And even if either of these bands existed (which they probably do), how would I illuminate my appraisal to distinguish it from the slough of online opinion and playground argument between metal fans with marginally differing tastes? Ah, yes, I shall try to stir your senses and place you in the epicentre of my festival experience. When that fails, I will at least attempt to employ some rudimentary wit. And when that fails, you will at least know, possibly hypothetically, that Nunstabber sucked satan's balls and Lucifericum totally ruled. So here goes. Sorry, I'm knackered.

Bloodstock is a great festival. You can walk round the site in five minutes, and it attracts some of the most revered underground and cult metal acts across the whole spectrum of the genre, along with marquee sets from seasoned veterans of legendary status and a platform for up-and-coming acts. As a result, the punters are true fans who absolutely love a good chunk of the music that's on offer. They are generally friendly and look out for each other; loutish or violent behaviour is virtually non-existent. Yet these people probably get through more booze than both V Festivals combined (in our obsession with drink and antisocial behaviour, could it be possible that the person whom the alcohol enters may be a contributory factor?). There are whirling moshpits for many of the bands; those brave/daft enough to participate do so, others choose not to. No-one is seriously hurt. Eavis take note of the above. Metalheads just handle their ale better, alright?

Friday

I ease myself into the weekend with Swedes Wolf and their old-school metal charge. It's excellent entertainment and they manage to bring smiles to the faces of the crowd, even when introducing a song about the sinking of the Kursk submarine, and dedicating another to a roadie who had earlier sustained head injuries in an accident. Forbidden then ratchet the pace up with some heads-down Bay Area thrash. While some of the older songs have aged more gracefully than others, relative newie 'Forsaken at the Gates' scythes through the early afternoon drizzle and they manage to pull off a suitably breezy set. Over in the New Blood Tent, Rannoch meander through an extended prog-death saga in the vein of Opeth, with some unexpected twists and turns. It's when Triptykon take the stage that things get seriously heavy. The all-too-brief outing is divided evenly between Celtic Frost and Triptykon songs. 'Goetia's funereal misery rises from coiling dry ice; bass strings reverberate and it's all an astounding contrast to the 100mph shreddery that dominates the day. The crowd chant Tom G Warrior's name and he seems genuinely touched by the reception. Swiss compatriots Coroner are a surprise highlight; their complex thrash and incomprehensible banter is lapped up by the crowd. This only serves to wind up the many wasps on site who have been awake since the early hours, and they start dive-bombing us with their hideous dangly abdomens.

Kreator, despite the handicap of a pretty terrible sound mix, deliver an absolute stoater of a set. I'm drawn into the centre of the pit, dust flying, bouncing off topless beardy men, someone who looks like a fat Dale Winton and almost being impaled on a Columbian flag. They look comfortable in their position as the oft-overlooked pioneers of thrash, and the music has real presence, genuine threat. After that, The Devin Townsend Project seems like some sort of postmodern post-ironic joke that I have no intention of getting, with Ziltoid puppets and knowing references to metal clichés, although an enchanting 'Deep Peace' redeems things somewhat. I await W.A.S.P fully expecting a creaking, faded self-parody, of interest only to a vague sense of adolescent nostalgia. Well, stone me if I'm not proved bang wrong as Blackie Lawless grasps the sceptre of charismatic frontman, and the tunes froth with real rock 'n' roll excitement. 'Chainsaw Charlie (Murders in the New Morgue' has the place hanging on every word. W.A.S.P. cap the night off perfectly; they are sounding pretty damn great these days. Oh me of little faith.

Saturday

I have to say that Saturday appeared to be the weakest of the days for me, and so it proves. A surfeit of sub-Dio warbling and power metal gorgonzola holds little appeal. I try to get into the spirit of fun which these bands undoubtedly inspire in swathes of those present, but the more I drink, the more it all sounds like a migraine. As usual, I seek out Hammer of the Gods, who throw all the right shapes but fall victim to the Russian roulette of a shit sound mix. Uburen, on the New Blood stage, blast out some furious Black Metal, much more convincing than headliners Immortal, whom for all the fervour surrounding their appearance seem pretty tame and directionless. NWOBHM stalwarts Angel Witch take the spoils for band of the day. The guitar sound has so much more roots and feel, the songs so much more dynamism than the blanket monotony of much of the Saturday's fare.

The night ends with us dancing around in rubber skull masks to some eighties cock rock. People start to blur at the edges, so we finally draw the line at Bon Jovi and hit the hay.

Sunday

Oversleeping somewhat, we arrive to catch only the last 30 seconds of 1349's set, which was, by all accounts, excellent. Sorry. Primordial put the jump leads to our afternoon, massive-sounding folky thrash and booming vocals executed with taste. However, just as they turn heads and people begin to flock to around the stage, calamity strikes. Frontman Alan Averill completely loses his voice after two songs. The rest of the band plough on gamely and with good humour, but I feel gutted that their big moment has been so cruelly abridged by a poisoned twist of fate. They'll be back, though. Over on the second stage, Evil Scarecrow chug through a cover of the 'Thundercats' theme and a goth/emo piss-take called 'Blacken the Everything'. It's worthy of a chuckle, but I have to dash to the main stage again.

“For those of you looking somewhat nonplussed at the violent noise assault...we are Napalm Death from Birmingham.” Barney Greenway introduces songs with disarming Brummie congeniality, then Shane Embury's bass thunders out a wall of fuzz and total grindcore anarchy breaks out. During 'Diktat' I find myself bouncing, grinning, screaming and frowning at the same time. A band that stands for something positive, but still pummels the shit out of the competition. Exodus, by contrast, struggle with a tinny, windblown mix and the force of the indistinct bluster is blunted. Norway's Hellish Outcast impress more, a sparse turnout in the tent becomes a sea of windmilling heads, in thrall to their belligerent thrash/death hybrid. I'd been looking forward to At the Gates arrival all day. Though they too suffer sonically, lead guitar barely audible, there is enough energy and conviction emanating from the stage that concentric circle pits reel joyously throughout.

Morbid Angel are such an intense proposition that I wonder whether the darkness and complexity will translate well to a lofty festival billing. They don't simply succeed; they conquer with the set of the whole weekend. 'Angel of Disease' is a moment of such extreme potency that I become unaware of my surroundings; the music consumes all as if Trey Azagthoth is weaving some kind of hypnotic charm. The new songs have been on the end of some fairly scathing criticism, but they don't sound at all out of place in a live environment. David Vincent has us in the palm of his hand, and by the time 'World of Shit (The Promised Land)' grinds to a halt, they have left a smoking crater in the Midlands.

Alas, Motorhead fail to catch the momentum and deliver a rather sluggish, half-arsed set. There are interminable delays between songs and the whole thing drags on despite the headliners only playing for 55 minutes. It'd be patronising to use their longevity and Lemmy's iconic status as an excuse; they are still capable of incendiary performances but this is just pedestrian. A huge let-down after their triumph at Sonisphere, it's a somewhat messy conclusion to a class weekend.