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It’s just after 9pm and lilac hues have spread across Dorset skies, shadows extending over a panorama of marquee tops. Perfect conditions for the first night of End of the Road, whose Friday headliners – Black Midi, Battles and Fleet Foxes among them – are minutes away from stepping on stage. Yet, rather than slipping through the masses to grab a good spot, I’ve been back at my tent for an hour already. Having unfolded a stool in the last of the sun, simmering lentils and a mug full of boxed cab-sav for company, my one-year-old daughter, Nancy, has finally nodded off in the tent, unaware of earlier negotiations between her parents. After an afternoon watching bands from a lower-decibel distance as a family, it’s my wife who’s out tonight, enjoying her child-free break for freedom. Although, with the Pixies – a band beloved since teen years but never seen live – top billing on Saturday night, I felt confident in my call as “White Winter Hymnal” carried on the breeze. We’re a day into our first festival as a family of three, an experience already proving quite a journey. As a sometimes music journalist, I’d covered events across Europe over the past decade, adept at negotiating stage splits, balancing reporting duties and life-affirming experiences with willing accomplices. Of these, End of the Road has remained a regular fixture, an informal end-of-summer meet-up with industry colleagues and friends – as well as my chosen stag-do destination. With a one-year-old in tow, this year would mark a stark contrast. From the freshly purchased family-sized tent – the subject of substantial research and investment, and an attempt to win over a camping-averse wife – to the travel cot, buggy, strings of fairy lighting, endless layers, toys and first-aid trappings for every eventuality, the baggage was endless. Shoulders ablaze, I’d carried it all in as my wife kept our daughter entertained. Stepping into my role as responsible dad, I’d practised the tent’s set-up at home prior to arrival and, with a tangible sense of optimism about the weekend ahead, started separating pegs from poles. Yet, with the tent almost up, something unsettled me. What was that smell? Unzipping the bedroom it hit me. My earlier garden practice run had provided the perfect sheltered toilet for a visiting fox –  evidence of which no amount of wet-wipe scrubbing could remove, resulting in a showdown with the reluctant camper and a smell that would accent a weekend in which expectations were continuously lowered. After my wife crashed back in on Friday night, earlier than anticipated and hamstrung by a fast-developing cold, we wondered if we were up to the challenge. Nancy was having a nice time, happy tracking insects in the long grass or studiously inspecting the contents of her snack bag. But could this equally have been any other field? Had we been too exhausted and distracted to embrace the experience? By contrast, our camping companions had brought their five-year-old, who enthusiastically shared stories about favourite bands and the wicker dragonfly he’d crafted, as his dad talked about the surprise sets he’d happened upon the previous night. Perhaps we’d just taken all of this on too soon. The next morning, I nudged Nancy’s buggy around the site, stopping at the kids’ area, where a neckerchiefed uke player offered up nursery rhymes with instruments for children, which were seized upon with pleasure. Various childless friends were never far away, entertaining our daughter in bursts. Later, after reuniting with my wife, a highlight was bobbing to Los Bitchos’ buoyant afternoon performance with Nancy held aloft, as was a brief glimpse of Jockstrap packing out a small stage in the woods. Yet other moments – flailing nappy changes amid aghast onlookers, straying too close to the stage with a buggy as the light faded and the crowd surged – presented a sharp learning curve. Still feeling under the weather, my wife headed back to the tent with Nancy as the Pixies arrived, Frank Black’s substantial presence now underscored by a pang of guilt. After checking in and being signed off to stay out, I’d joined an excitable crowd for an unannounced late-night set at the Tipi stage, which, after turning out to be one of the tiny handful of bands I’d already seen that day – again sounded another minor chord on my tiny violin. As the skies cleared, we’d discovered corners along the way we’d otherwise never have seen and met a similarly dazed yet determined community of parents With my wife’s health deteriorating further overnight – diminishing her perception of fox piss, at least – we made the call to leave on Sunday morning and I hauled everything back to the car. On the long drive home, and hours before Covid would be confirmed, it had to be asked: had this been fun for anyone concerned? Was this festival too aptly named for a new dad trying to reconcile past and present lives? This all happened in the summer of 2022 and, unfazed, we tried again this year – albeit at the even smaller scale and decidedly family-friendly Kite Festival in Oxfordshire. While Nancy’s advanced age presented new challenges – tentative first steps now a confident swagger – her inquisitiveness also marked her out as the perfect festival companion. Expectations now firmly in check, we let ourselves be led by circumstance and proximity, stopping for whatever drew the eye rather than dashing from act to act, allowing us to slow down and see the world through her eyes. Occasionally we tag-teamed the lineup, each picking a couple of acts to witness unhindered by short attention spans (my wife took former PM John Major’s packed-out talk in the big top, I took Suede). Under the hot sun, our meeting point at the shaded children’s area also helped keep Nancy from turning pink in the sun. Clapping furiously at the end of shadow chancellor Rachel Reeves’s morning debate, her grasp on Labour’s manifesto pledges seems better than most – although this mimicry of crowd behaviour proves an endearing feature at later events, too. An uncontrollable tantrum during Michael Gove’s appearance at a panel discussion saw us quickly extract ourselves from the tent, drawing smiles from an audience impressed by the effectiveness of her heckle. Further priceless memories included dancing together at Candi Staton’s sundown set, Nancy with a brioche in each hand – ear defenders askew – visibly finding her feet. The following day the skies suddenly broke, with an electrical storm closing all stages, sending Birkenstock-clad families sprinting for cover. The one attendee thrilled by it all was Nancy, who careered around cackling as security attempted to keep punters from the marquee’s lightning-conducting metal poles. As the skies cleared, we’d discovered corners along the way we’d otherwise never have seen and met a similarly dazed yet determined community of parents. We still hadn’t nailed the performative kids-at-festivals thing – there was no trolley adorned with decoration or whimsical outfits – but felt comfortable that we’d struck the right balance, fulfilled by a shared experience led by the spontaneity of a child’s impulses. It marked a shift from any naive attempt to carry on with our lives as normal. An alternative, of course, is to leave your family at home. A couple of weeks ago I joined 250,000 others at Glastonbury, my own spontaneity given breathing space once more. Thrilling, yes, but also a weekend that at times left me seeking my small festival companion among the other attendees. I was temporarily overcome watching a daughter on the shoulders of her father as he introduced her to a favourite band, excitedly explaining each musician’s role. “How old? I’ve got one a similar age,” was shared with various others. Yet it was also at Glastonbury, as the temperature nudged into the thirties, that I spotted another dad – fixed grin but dead behind the eyes – pushing three irritable kids in a trolley up a shadeless slope. I nod my solidarity, before skipping off to the bar – relieved, this time, that’s not me. Bumping into Joe Goddard from Hot Chip, whose bandmates collectively call their kids the Micro Chips, he says that of all the children he knows, it’s those who have always been dragged to festivals who have proved the most rounded. Something that resonates with me as the Glastonbury hangover subsides and – reunited with my family – I start looking forward to carving out new shared experiences in crowded fields once more. 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Kim Kardashian initially planned on attending the 2023 Met Gala with a very unusual plus one – the late Karl Lagerfeld’s cat, Choupette. During an episode of The Kardashians, the 43-year-old reality star made the revelation about who she’d be attending the fashion extravaganza with. “I am going to the Met with Karl Lagerfeld’s cat as my date, and I’m so excited,” she said while on a trip to Paris, documented before the 2023 New York event which was in honour of Lagerfeld. While she said her trip to Paris gave her the “perfect” opportunity to “come and meet Choupette”, she confessed that she was “nervous” about that introduction. “I feel like I’m going on a blind date,” she added. As she reflected on her time working with the late fashion designer, she also acknowledged what “an honour it is to bring his baby” to the Met Gala. As Choupette was brought over to Kardashian, she gently petted the animal and called her “beautiful”. However, Choupette started to hiss at Kardashian, who responded by moving her hand away. “It’s OK, I act like that sometimes too,” she added. Kardashian also acknowledged that the cat may take some time to cosy up to her. “I think Choupette is playing hard to get,” she said during a confessional interview. “Maybe she just has to warm up, you know?” After The Kardashians star described the pet as “feisty” when they were meeting, she also shared her concerns about Choupette not being comfortable around her at all. “Choupette is really key to my whole vibe for the Met Gala this year,” she added during the confessional interview. “So if we don’t vibe, I don’t know what I’m gonna do. I just hope she warms up to me…cause this wouldn’t be cute.” When Kardashian tried to pet Choupette, and said “please don’t bite me,” the cat once again hissed at her. “Choupette, can I touch you?” the reality star asked, while gently putting her hand toward the pet. “Okay, we’ll chill.” After the cat proceeded to hiss at Kardashian multiple times, the KKW Beauty founder made her decision. “I’m getting a little bit nervous, and I think I just fully wanna pivot,” she said. “There’s so many factors that I think could be negative, especially with the cameras and the people, even if she’s scared of the camera and not me.” She added: “I don’t think it’s fair for Choupette. So I think I realised really quickly that…Choupette, we’re not a match. So I am not bringing her to the Met.” When Kardashian had the opportunity to actually hold the cat in her arms, Choupette once again hissed at her. Back in April, Kardashian shared her first selfie on Instagram with the cat. “Had a date with @choupetteofficiel in Paris. We then spent some time at @karllagerfeld’s office to get a little inspiration for the Met,” she wrote in the caption. Although the Keeping Up With The Kardashians star didn’t bring Lagerfeld’s cat to the fashion event this year, she did walk the red carpet in an extravagant outfit. For the occasion, she wore a nude bodysuit and was covered head-to-toe in a series of pearl necklaces. The look – which was designed by Schiaparelli’s creative director, Daniel Roseberry – was also completed with a white, floor-length coat. To follow the theme of the Met Gala, many famous faces honoured Lagerfeld by dressing up as Choupette, as actor Jared Leto wore a giant white fluffy cat costume. Doja Cat also wore cat-inspired prosthetics on her face, cat-eye make-up, and a diamond hanging on her forehead. Read More Geri Halliwell says Spice Girls fan Kim Kardashian would be called ‘Smart Spice’ Kourtney Kardashian jokes about rows with Kim in birthday message North West announces she has dyslexia during a TikTok livestream Kim Kardashian ‘scared out of her mind’ to tell Kanye West about male nanny The blunt text Kanye West got from Julia Fox when he tried to get her to sign an NDA ‘A healthier addiction than drugs’: How Elton John got hooked on photography

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