Ozzy Osbourne has taken tea at the White House, scored a hit reality TV show and is about to perform for the Queen, but even the self-styled "Prince of Effing Darkness" can do nothing about the weather. One fan's T-shirt reads, "God hates us all" - and indeed, the Almighty has decreed to lash Ozzfest with rain. By teatime, Donnington Park looks like the Somme.

Even in their heyday, Ozzy's band Black Sabbath were miserable, but never this miserable. Young and old metalheads sit shivering in mud. A few raise interest in Tool, System of a Down and especially Slayer, who have been placed suspiciously low on the bill, presumably so as not to slay the main attraction.

From the name onwards, Ozzfest is geared to Osbourne, but not the out-of-control Ozzy who once bit the heads off of bats, nor the Ozzy who can make the use of a television remote control the most difficult and hilarious thing known to man. Ozzfest is about the middle-aged rocker who sings bad heavy metal and says, "I can't fuckin' hear you" 157 times. Away from the glitz, it's back to the day job.

Except that Osbourne looks as if he would rather be any place than here. He keeps mentioning the temperature. The only thing heavy is his cold. He sneezes and squidgy fluid goes all over himself. It's not at all funny.

On television, Osbourne is arguably the funniest English comedy character since Basil Fawlty, with whom he shares much in common: both are powerless and bewildered in the face of simple daily life, and both are dependent on a strong, controlling woman (Ozzy's manager/wife Sharon is a more than capable Sybil). Here, though, Osbourne is wearily professional. "You're not loud enough," he implores again, looking and sounding as though he would rather be tucked up in bed with a Lemsip. He misses several opportunities for comedy when a succession of planes fly overhead, drowning out the band. There's no: "Whatthebloody'ellisthat?"

You feel sympathy for Ozzy; the whole Osbourne phenomenon is based on sympathy for Ozzy. But at nearly £40 a ticket you at least expect a show (plastic bats, flying remote controls, cannibalism), not tiny video screens and 10-minute decrepit guitar solos.

Maybe the Osbournes should have installed cameras in the dressing room. The probable scenes there - "Sharooon, do I have to go out there? It's bloody rayning" - would have been considerably more entertaining than this bleak, depressing event.