Ange Postecoglou does not currently feel worthy of the Tottenham fans’ support but has promised to try bring them joy after being inspired by Australian singer Nick Cave. It has been a difficult 2023 for Spurs after the club’s trophy drought extended and record goalscorer Harry Kane departed on the eve of the new Premier League season, but there is overwhelming support for Postecoglou. The new man in the Tottenham hotseat was this week reminded of football’s significance to supporters when he listened to a podcast between Louis Theroux and his compatriot Cave. “It is not about making the fans happy, it is about giving them joy and joy comes from suffering,” Postecoglou said ahead of Manchester United’s visit on Saturday. “I am saying that because I listened to a podcast during the week and I thought it was a great description of what football is about. “I am at that funny stage where supporters have been very, very supportive but I don’t expect that nor do I feel worthy of it. “I still need to prove myself to our fans and the people at the club by our deeds rather than our words. I haven’t yet delivered anything. Hopefully when the day comes that we deliver as a team it will mean something different then Ange Postecoglou “Hopefully at the moment we are giving them sort of belief in what we’re trying to create but we need to back it up on a weekly basis. “We need our supporters behind us. We want the Tottenham ground to be a place where the energy is all on our side, so hopefully that happens tomorrow.” Postecoglou was serenaded for a number of minutes by the away fans at Brentford last weekend and a tifo display is planned for his first competitive home match in charge. But he admitted: “It means a lot but I’m not comfortable with it. You love what it means because for the most part it’s blind faith. “I haven’t yet delivered anything. Hopefully when the day comes that we deliver as a team it will mean something different then. “I don’t dismiss it either, that’s people taking a huge leap of faith on me as an individual and I appreciate that. It’s a really good reminder of the responsibility that I have.” While fans will get behind the team for the 5.30pm kick-off with Erik Ten Hag’s United, a protest will take place hours before arranged by Tottenham Hotspur Supporters’ Trust over the club’s decision to increase matchday ticket prices. The ‘Call to Action’ from THST will ask for the club to reverse the increase – which they insist will price out loyal fans – and Postecoglou backed their right to “express their emotions” during Friday’s press conference. He is also acutely aware of how important home form can be, adding: “It’s a beautiful stadium, absolutely, but as much as opposition teams enjoy playing in the venue, what we have got to make sure is they don’t enjoy the experience. “What makes grounds difficult to play on is the experience you give teams, whether that’s the environment the fans create or the football you play against them. “If you want to make it a place where we see it as an advantage, you have got to make sure the experience for opposition clubs is not a pleasant one.” Former Manchester United boss Sir Alex Ferguson made sure teams did not enjoy travelling to Old Trafford and Postecoglou reminisced about his meeting with the managerial great this week. Postecoglou was in charge of South Melbourne when they lost 2-0 to United in the Club World Championship in 2000. And more than two decades later he will try to secure his first Premier League win against Ferguson’s old club. “I don’t think I take elements in my own game but people like Sir Alex, whether it’s consciously or unconsciously, they have an effect on you,” Postecoglou acknowledged. “It’s not just football managers. I’m a pretty curious kind of guy and you learn things from all sorts of people and events. “I’ve always tried to constantly nourish that part of my brain that is constantly curious about things. “It was significant for me because we were coming from nowhere playing at one of the world’s most iconic stadiums, the Maracana, against one of the greatest teams at that time that football had seen, against one of the greatest managers. “I had five or six minutes with him and apart from saying hello, I just listened. That’s the best way to have interaction with people like that. There’s no point me talking for five minutes, he’s not going to learn anything off me.” Read More Charity boss speaks out over ‘traumatic’ encounter with royal aide Ukraine war’s heaviest fight rages in east - follow live Manchester United’s new-look midfield must click quickly – Erik ten Hag Big transfer fees no guarantee for Chelsea starting spot – Mauricio Pochettino Top seed Iga Swiatek fights back to reach Western and Southern Open semi-finals

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. Read More The earthy magic and lawless energy of being a child at Glastonbury festival Too cool to love these acts 10 years ago? This year’s Glastonbury is for you Music festivals have saved me so many times Demi Lovato says she still struggles with vision, hearing impairment after overdose Marina Diamandis says she has been diagnosed with chronic fatigue syndrome Should I keep my windows closed or open during a heatwave?

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