Once again, we've been ear-wigging for words of wisdom from Latitude's great unwashed... 1. "I'm not paying that much for cod. It's hardly an endangered species." 2. "Yeah, everyone's happy now, but sooner or later it's going to go all Lord Of The Flies. Mark my words." 3. "I'm less pissed than I was last night, because I can remember this." 4. Heard over a security walkie-talkie: "Child Control to the Poetry Arena!" 5. "Don't squeeze that, it's my mother's." 6. "How many times do I have to tell you? Starsky was the other one." 7. "Asylum seekers are an important part of the local eco-system." 8. "Check my mouth. Do I still look like I've been eating poo?" 9. "What kind of parent takes a toddler to a Marcus Garvey reading?" 10. Man walking away from the cabaret tent: "I'd rather be at a Michael Barrymore pool party." TERRY STAUNTON

Crazy Suffolk weather here at Latitude today (July 19): Fiercely hot sun, followed swiftly by fast paced mini 'storms' of rain, plus a rainbow! Plenty of running back and forth to tent to switch from wellies to flip-flops! The festival is being swayed by the sounds of Sigur Ros, Elbow and The Coral, but here are a few snapshots to give you a taste of what it's been like...

Guest blogger Terry Staunton has been eavesdropping on the conversations of others to discover just what Latitude punters are talking about... 1. "You'll love Franz Ferdinand. They're like Talking Heads with just the right amount of Herman's Hermits." 2. "She's bawling her eyes out and queueing for cider - like that's gonna help." 3. Woman on phone telling her friends where to meet her: "I'm directly beneath the cloud that looks a bit like Cyprus." 4. "Daryl would be the perfect employee if he wasn't so unreliable." 5. "The problem with buying wine from a tent is that you've no way of telling if it's at room temperature." 6. "I just wish we could turn the clock back two hours. It's not like I'm asking for a big miracle. 7. Come on, we're off to see Russell. Make sure you've got the Santa hat." 8. "If Girls Aloud were here, I reckon at least two of 'em would have shat themselves by now." 9. "If anyone here was gonna freak out and go on a killing spree, I'd put money on it being Sebastian." 10. "Pimms me up to the power of two!" More to come later in the weekend... TERRY STAUNTON

Back here at Latitude, then. We’ve been burned today. We’ve been drenched today. We’ve accidentally seen a bit of Beth Rowley as well. But – and this is purely my personal opinion – I’ve also just seen the best band of the festival thus far. As any regular readers of my Wild Mercury Sound blog will have heard from me too many times to mention, I’m a very big fan of a quartet from Kendal called Wild Beasts. Without regurgitating the dozen blogs I’ve previously written about them, they’re a delirious hybrid of brittle early ‘80s UK indie and the lusher, more exotic sound of The Associates. I’m reminded constantly, listening to their awesome debut “Limbo, Panto”, of The Smiths; the strange and romantic side of The Smiths, plus the hesitant, fey dabbling with funk that opened up certain possibilities circa “Meat Is Murder”. This is how Wild Beasts sound today: an immensely self-conscious, but immensely successful take on the English eccentric pop tradition. The singer, Hayden Thorpe, looks like a Brideshead Revisited extra who has inexplicably come to the ball in a pair of shorts. He has a gravel-tinged falsetto, your tolerance of which will depend on how much of this extraordinary band you can stand. Marvellously, there’s another great singer in their ranks – bassist Tom Fleming – who has a soaring croon which would be praised to the heavens if he were the lead singer of any other band. He, incidentally, is wearing a vest and some kind of scarf wrapped round his head, like a half-hearted pirate. The guitarist has a waistcoat and no shirt, and plays like Johnny Marr at his most fragile and experimental. The drummer favours bounce and clip-clopping rhythms. The whole thing is preposterous, but wonderful; an extravaganza of sexual intrigue in non-league football, with lyrics like the discreetly infamous “chips with cheese as an offering of peace”. Songs waltz, twist and generally amaze. Some of them – “Brave Bulging Buoyant Clairvoyant” – could be hits, though possibly only if they’d be released to a hitherto unacknowledged clutch of indie kids in 1935. Oh, and they sing “For You’re All Jolly Good Fellows” to us, which is very kind, and charmingly affected. Simply thrilling, honey.

So, as ever with Latitude, there's as much fun to be had after the official events of the day have wound down... Guilty Pleasures has become something of an institution here, taking over the Comedy Arena at 10.30pm for three hours of Queen, Dolly Parton, and your auntie's favourite soft rock classics. You can argue, of course, that there's no such thing as a guilty pleasure -- hey, what you like is what you like, regardless of consensual opinion, right..? Certainly, there's plenty of people who were doubtless earlier sampling the multifoliate delights of, say, Julian Cope, Franz or Black Kids, who're now kicking back to Salt-n-Peppa or the Pointer Sisters. And a bunch of semi-naked men of a certain girth strut their stuff on stage. If Guilty Pleasures has become a branded event here at Latitude, it's the smaller events lurking in the woods that offer the most surprises -- in the Sunrise Arena, or the Aspall Cyder area, or just something random that you stumble across, like Brigadoon, that's vanished the next morning. I find, variously, three different parties in the woods, each playing entirely different music (one indie; one drum 'n' bass; one techno) to a bright-eyed, smiling crowd who meander merrily from party to party. The trees are lit up in yellows and greens, calling to mind the sleeve of Echo & The Bunnymen's Crocodiles album. Talking of sleeves, word also reaches us of a Sleeveface party on the Lake stage. The Literary and Poetry Arenas are also still running late into the night -- I catch the end of John Niven reading from his scabrous music industry satire, Kill Your Friends, and Irvine Welsh, who treats a post-midnight audience to some excerpts from his new novel, Crime. There's even a poet on late, who begins one ode: "Heather Mills McCartney, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love the way you walk..." Anyway, it's started raining (though John confidently predicts it'll blow over), and I'm going to head off in the direction of the Radio 4 Arena. Later, there's Just A Minute -- and I wonder whether Nicholas Parsons is here yet..? Maybe he's camping..? Maybe he was at one of the woodland raves last night. Ah, probably not.

Since, with a fairly grim inevitability, I'm the first of the Uncut massive to be up and about, the first highlights top ten of the festival falls to me, it seems. Doubtless some of my colleagues will hack in later in the day and change this. But as of 11.10am, here's our favourite things about the first day here: 1. Julian Cope's preposterous set. When the sound cuts off, he memorably yells, "Children, tell your grandchildren that men like me once walked the earth!" Unbelievable. 2. Ross Noble leading several thousand comedy fans in a riotous conga to a veggieburger van. Crowdsurfing ensues. 3. Franz Ferdinand, chipper in the rain. We especially loved the '40s-style cartoon backdrop and, of course, the deathless "Take Me Out". 4. Crystal Castles. Last year it was New Young Pony Club, this year the Canadian electropunk duo bring the rave to the tranquil Sunrise Arena in the woods. 5. Black Kids. An immensely popular Clash/Cyndi Lauper hybrid. Who knew? 6. A wet and rampant crowd storming the comedy tent before the Guilty Pleasures club officially opens. Sorry about disrupting the dance routines rehearsal! 7. Boat rides on the lake. Still lovely, and we're admiring the Pimm's bus parked nearby, too. 8. Michael Nyman playing his score to "The Piano" and looking like Sam The Eagle from The Muppets. Tremendously classy. 9. Radio 4's fancy lightshow on the lake at night. Advertising isn't usually so aesthetically pleasing. 10. Paul Merton eating a baked potato. Truly, the Gods are human. . .

There’s something vaguely ironic about a group from a predominantly arid country like Mali attracting a massive crowd because it starts raining. But Amadou & Mariam deserve nothing less. Over on the main stage, Franz Ferdinand are battling on as the rain gets steadily heavier. A good few of their audience, however, are speeding into the Uncut tent, where the blind Malian duo are just beginning to get into the swing of their set. If you’ve never come across Amadou & Mariam before, they’re a married couple who have taken the serpentine guitar lines and ecstatic chants of their indigenous music and given it a flash Parisian makeover. On their last album, “Dimanche A Bamako” - which I believe sold more copies than pretty much any African record ever in Europe, possibly – their lovely tunes were occasionally smothered by the cosmopolitan over-production of Manu Chao. It’s still pretty slick here, but the glorious songs and the amazing guitar playing of Amadou really come into focus. You can hear traces of the same Malian-blues crossover that fires up the mighty Tinariwen. But Amadou is a magnificently exuberant show-off, and one you suspect aspires to the sort of solo virtuosity of Eric Clapton rather than being measured against his Malian contemporaries. It sounds a bit hairy, but trust me, it works. I’m always wary of that school of thought which demands African musicians should stay in some way culturally ‘unsullied’ by Western influence, even if I’m not always enamoured with the results. The great thing about Amadou & Mariam is that they basically make pop music which transcends any hoary and patronising concepts of ‘world’ music. A good way to end a weird but satisfying day, I reckon.