Friday morning finally sees the main stage splutter into life. By this point we have already had two nights under canvas and are beginning to feel like we are in some Kafkaesque nightmare where we are perpetually doomed to roam the wastes of Catton Hall. It may well be quarter to eleven, but Foetal Juice are determined to make as much nasty primal noise as humanly possible. This is metal at its most puerile and putrefied, and they do a grand job of sending all those hangovers packing.

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