It’s the Other Stage that has grown a pair of Baphomet’s horns this year, but the hard rock invasion’s prime assault target remains the Pyramid stage. Following last year’s headline set from Metallica, Ian Fraser Kilmister marches on to the smoke-clogged stage looking for all the world like the undead Nazi cadaver of Robert E Lee, surveys a crowd noticeably diminished from Mary J Blige’s set, slurs “we are Modderead and we’re ’ere to play rock’n’rooowll” and sets about tearing the Pyramid stage a new hypotenuse.

Despite Lemmy’s increasing resemblance to Iron Maiden’s mascot Eddie, Motörhead, of course, were never anything as crass as head-on metal. They’re filthy, gnarled pub punk rock’n’rollers on a 40-year diet of bad amphetamine and worse whiskeys, and the ride has taken its toll. At 69, Lemmy is a slurring, gargling rock wreck, a shrunken Biker General of the Damned, and the band’s formula, unrepentantly, shows little sign of evolution.

From totemic opener Motörhead – an eternal band promise to “shoot you full of noise” from a band “born to kick your ass” – through Metropolis, Over The Top and Dr Rock, complete with a Terminator-worthy drum solo from Mikkey Dee, they play greasy full-throttle roadhog punk rock with occasional swerves into “nice slow blues” on Lost Woman Blues.

It’s predictable but effective; Ace Of Spades has a field of Florence’s flower children pogoing gamefully along and Florence herself peering out as if deciding how metal to pitch her set. Glastonbury certainly prefers its hard rock unthreatening – why harsh a 45-year mellow? – but a mild mid-afternoon mosh is no longer out of the question.