Afternoon, lovely day here at Latitude, pretty densely populated with singer-songwriters, it has to be said. I started the day at the lovely Sunrise stage in the woods(apparently, its strikingly mellow atmosphere was fractured yesterday when Les Rita Mitsouko got booed off). Right now, though, there's an angsty strummer called Karima Francis who looks a bit like a dreadlocked Justine Frischmann and sounds, I'm afraid, like KT Tunstall trying to do a Jeff Buckley impression. It's a bit grim, but the crowds lying in the undergrowth seem to appreciate such a politely fraught start to the day. Stephanie Dosen is next, a blonde from Milwaukee who could easily be mistaken for one of the elfin stewards who hang lurk in these woods. A certain overproduced preciousness blighted her recent album for me, so this is better - stripped back to acoustic guitar, cello and violin. Nevertheless, the pursuit of the ethereal, and a twee, tasteful aesthetic (in ten years of the Cocteaus-affiliated Bella Union label, they've never signed anyone so reminiscent of Liz Fraser) can grate a little. Maybe Dosen's songs could do with a little more of the curious wit she reveals in her rambling monologues between songs, even if the kookiness gets a bit Phoebe from Friends occasionally. "I dedicate this song to all the owls whose homes were ruined by this tent," she announces. Quite. A swift hike up to the Uncut tent is rewarded with the excellent Elvis Perkins. Perkins doesn't appear to be remotely precious or, here at least, interested in baring his soul to the suffering public. Instead, he writes and plays excellent, roistering folk-pop songs in a distinct Dylan tradition. Perhaps Willy Mason is the closest modern analogue, but I think Perkins - the son of Anthony Perkins, intriguingly - is better than Masdon. It's a swaggering, roistering show from the stealthy opening of "While You Were Sleeping" to the revivalist hoedown finale of "Doomsday". By then, Perkins has been joined by most of Cold War Kids and Alec Ounsworth from Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, while his drummer is cavorting round the stage with a bass drum strapped to his chest. All very jolly, and in the spirit of Michael's bizarre star-spotting here, I can report thatMartha Kearney from Newsnight seemed to be enjoying it, too.

Or, what I did this morning at Latitude. Despite feeling relatively delicate today (ah, bless the pear cider), a gentle stroll round the Latitude site does wonders for the constitution. It's getting really busy here already -- the Comedy Arena was packed by 1pm when Lee Mack came on. I like Lee Mack -- he's got an easy-going, engaging way about him, perfectly suited to the lazy Saturday morning vibe. He does some good jokes about Franz Ferdinand, predictive text and jugglers. Which makes me wonder: does every comedian at every festival do jokes about jugglers..? In the Film & Music Tent, there's Dunya Dinlemiyor, a Turner Prize nominated installation featuring a collection of Turkish Smiths' fans performing karaoke of their favourite Morrissey/Marr hits. It's quite touching, seeing these people sing their hearts out in front of the camera. Then it's back out, and another stroll. I see people dressed as cats, men in skirts, didgeridoo players and the usual array of colourful festival freaks. Farah got some great pictures, too. SOME FAMOUS PEOPLE SPOTTED AT LATITUDE BETWEEN 1pm AND 2pm ** Richard Curtis. He wrote Blackadder and Four Weddings & A Funeral. He is possibly richer than most A list rock stars. ** Don Letts. He practically invented the punky reggae party, don't you know. He was spotted crossing a bridge, sporting very impressive dreads. ** Pat Mills. The man who created Judge Dredd, which makes him a Cultural Legend. This is quite exciting, in a geeky comic fan way. ** The Hold Steady. Ambling through the site, carrying their equipment. And pushing a wheel barrow. This is rock news. Later, I hope to see Dylan Moran in the Comedy Arena, and Roger McGough is broadcasting a special edition of his Radio 4 show, Poetry, Please, which I'd like to catch. Off, now, to see Annuals. More later!

Or the stuff that happens after dark. I'm reporting on Latitude's nocturnal shenanigans, the prime focus of which is Sean Rowley and his Guilty Pleasures empire. Running across all three nights in the Comedy tent (very apt) from 10.30 to 3am, it's the mecca for prety much everyone still standing. Of course, you're either a fan or not. Look away now, if the following information is likely to cause offence: Five records played in the Guilty Pleasures tent between 12.20 and 12.40: Elton John & Kiki Dee -- Don't Go Breaking My Heart Irene Cara -- What A Feeling George Michael -- Faith Salt n Peppa -- Push It Starship -- We Built This City Crap, of course, but great fun -- possibly the perfect late night festival knees up. I also find some chaps in the woods, near the Sunrise Arena, pumping out House music on a rickety little stage. It's one of the great things about this festival -- it's deceptively small, and you think you've spotted everything there is, and then you just stumble across something enterprising happening somewhere you least expect it. Anyway, more later. Off to get some breakfast now...

Just got on site for my second year at Latitude. In some ways, not much has changed -- there's the familiar stroll down through the woods, passed the coloured sheep and over the lake -- but the crowd seems a lot younger this year. I guess this is due to the bigger acts they've attracted -- I'm really looking forward to seeing Wilco, Jarvis Cocker, and The Good, The Bad And The Queen, I've gotta say. There's even, I notice, a Speed Dating tent. Sadly, the next sitting isn't for another hour and I feel the need to wander in the direction of the Film & Music Arena. Maybe I'll try it out tomorrow... My final memory of the F&M Arena last year was dancing to dub-step at about one in the morning, after a particularly lengthy stint on the pear cider. This year, the arena has a much more genteel vibe. There's tables and chairs arranged to resemble, I assume, an arts theatre bar, with soft lights and table cloths. It kinda resembles a make-shift trattoria, I have to say. But I settle down and catch Carol Morley, director of the documentary The Alcohol Years, who's talking through some of her favourite films -- including the Maysles Brothers' Grey Gardens. I then see a bit of Ed Simpson soundtracking Wong Kar Wai's Days Of Being Wild. A great film, but the sight of Ed standing by the screen, occasionally pressing keys on his laptop, somewhat detracts from Kar Wai's majesterial, dreamlike visions. Off to the comedy tent where I catch excellent Kiwi comic Ben Hurley, who does a fine job of insulting Australians, Americans, South Africans and us Brits. His sharp, deceptively earthy sense of humour is engaging, and he's spot on, too, about music. "I love the Beastie Boys," he muses. "Nothing suits hip hop better than three Jewish guys in the 40s..." Anyway, John's just got back from seeing the mighty Tinarewen and is frantically battering away at his keyboard over the way, so check in for his blog. Back later!

Afternoon all. By some dark miracle, it seems that East Anglia may be the hottest place in the UK today. Which is pretty handy for us, since we're here at the Latitude festival, with the pastel-coloured sheep and the posh burger vans and the bijou dog kennels to sleep in. It's lovely, actually. I've just had a proprietorial stroll round the grounds. As I think Farah mentioned earlier, it's tremendously green, and the woods appear to be alive with drama students. Up at the Uncut stage, I just managed to catch a bit of Candie Payne, whose pretty nice '60s torch songs were getting a bit mugged by the foursquare indie manners of her band. As I type, anxiously waiting for power to return to the press tent, I can hear Two Gallants rattling away on the other side of the lake. Sounding good, actually, and I'll try and get over to see them once the power returns. Later today, myself and the rest of the Uncut team will be checking out Wilco, Midlake, Tinariwen, Bonde Du Role, Alberta Cross and anything else good that we stumble across. Don't be a stranger. . .