It’s a curious thing, cancel culture. Most left-leaning media have unanimously agreed that liking Morrissey is a Very Bad Thing, and yet one of the biggest secret draws of the weekend is Blossoms and Rick Astley, performing their set of the Smiths covers for only the third time ever. The Woodsies tent – once named the John Peel tent, and playing Kasabian on the pre-show playlist, no less – fills a good 45 minutes in advance, and nobody seems to be wringing their hands with dilemma or having any terse chats about separating art from artist. At Glastonbury, and in the safe medium of full-band karaoke, we can apparently all ease a collective sigh, comfortable in the knowledge that although Mozza will surely be recouping his fair share of royalties, we’re not really paying directly in. (Or are we?) With this logic, singing along with giddy delirium to Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now is not only morally permissible but actively encouraged, in the spirit of having a good old festival time. Packing my soapbox away in order to properly review the show in hand, it’s easy to see how one might feel comfortable in the easy camaraderie between tonight’s performers, allowing any of Morrissey’s problematic rants to feel very far away. Blossoms and Astley may seem like an unlikely friendship but they share an affection for well-spirited cheese; a love of throwback fun and a freedom from needing to prove any hipster credentials. And what could be a greater RickRoll than the idea that Astley can so convincingly portray these dour anthems of self-loathing just as smoothly as he did Never Gonna Give You Up on the Pyramid hours prior, nailing registers both nasal and falsetto? What with the quiff, boxy suit and gladioli-wafting gestures, anyone outside the tent might be forgiven for thinking it was the real deal … or at very least a particularly compelling episode of Stars in Their Eyes. Though they arrive nearly 25 minutes late, we get all the hits: This Charming Man, Bigmouth Strikes Again, Ask, Panic and more. Blossoms, a band who don’t always get the most critical cred in their day job, can reap it here for being extremely tight musicians, with drummer Joe Donavan deserving particular mention for making lightly dextrous work of the material without showboating. It’s clear that this is Astley’s ship, though, and in the spirit of the occasion, he proceeds to speak of festival libations an awful lot, contemplating the weekend’s future drinks with all the joviality of a generous father of the bride. “Blossoms and I need to pause to take a small snifter,” he remarks at one point. “I need alcohol in my system to be more present in the moment ... I thought I’d have a beer, but look, Tom’s bought on the Jager. Oh fuck!” When he chides himself for coming in too early on Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others (“Not yet Richard, not yet!”), his playful gentleman theatrics are not a million miles away from one Alex Turner giving his best bowling strike on the Pyramid the night before. And when he jokingly implores us to “undo the tent pegs and take the fucking roof off” before launching into the utterly sombre Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want, the irony is genius, reminding us that this is all an inside joke gone far beyond “either mine or Blossoms’ wildest dreams”. In truth, Blossoms and Astley may have happened upon a winning formula in the age of artist scandal. A Kanye West covers band is surely only two willing participants and a thorough legal dossier away. This show is glorified karaoke but, tonight, by granting a big field full of 6 Music dads and Mancunian lasses the permission to revel once again in these songs that so strongly feel like the soundtracks to their lives, Blossoms and Rick Astley get to themselves revel in the joy of being everyone’s unproblematic faves; a guilty pleasure without the guilt. Some lights, it seems, will never truly go out.