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Beyond all the hype and razzle-dazzle beaming from all corners of this bright-light epicentre in the middle of the Nevada desert, what Formula 1 needed from their new flagship event on the Las Vegas strip was an entertaining race. Especially after starting on such unimpressive footing a few nights ago. And contrary to many of the processions in this one-sided season, the entertainment capital of the world did deliver on Saturday night. Don’t be fooled though: the top spot of the podium was no surprise. It has got to the stage now where Max Verstappen is simply inevitable. In this breed of Red Bull car, he remains lightyears ahead of the other 19 drivers behind him. On Saturday night – on a circuit he described as “National League” standard after qualifying – he was hit with a five-second penalty. Then he, unusually, spurned his first set of tyres as pole-sitter Charles Leclerc retook the lead. The Dutchman then collided with George Russell in the midfield. Yet no circumstance is too damaging to recover from and, by lap 36 of 50, Verstappen was in the lead and clear. “Viva Las Vegas!” he screeched over team radio at the end, his mood unsurprisingly glowing following an 18th victory of the season. But at least Leclerc gave the 105,000-strong crowd something to cheer at the finale. In front of hospitality boxes at the Bellagio Fountains costing $12,000 for the weekend, the Ferrari man boldly dived down the inside to take second place from the helpless Sergio Perez on the final lap; the second race running that Perez has dropped a spot at the death. It was the absorbing end Vegas executives craved. And needed. A race week so long amped up to the max, from Wednesday’s opening ceremony to UFC ring announcer Bruce Buffer’s cringey driver introductions before lights out, made headlines for all the wrong reasons on day one. The fallout from a loose drain cover on the mesmerising strip section of the track eight minutes into practice was mammoth. The reaction from F1 and LVGP did not help their image either, given their refusal to dish out refunds which should have been obligatory. But to some extent, it was all about the main event. Much like memorable fight nights at the MGM Grand and beyond in this city, 10pm on Saturday night is when the curtains are finally drawn back and the sporting show itself delivers its masterpiece. F1 provided its usual jolt of stardom in the build-up, with David Beckham, Usain Bolt and Kylie Minogue among the numerous A-list celebrities on the grid. But when it came down to the racing, this 17-turn circuit with the second-longest straight on the calendar did not disappoint. There were two safety cars – a usual tool of adding intrigue – after Lando Norris’ early crash and Verstappen’s collision with Russell. There were three leaders, all of whom had time to dream that they would be the first Vegas winner since Italian driver Michele Alboreto won the Caesars Palace car park race in 1982. Safety car No 2 – ironically caused by debris on track following Verstappen’s tangle with Russell – derailed Leclerc’s chances as he stayed out on relatively new hard tyres, while the Red Bull pairing pitted for fresh rubber. The process of heating the tyres afterwards came too slow for the Monegasque and it looked as though another Red Bull one-two was a formality. But, just in time, he found the requisite grip and speed to make one of the overtakes of the season just before the chequered flag. His emotions, he admitted afterwards, were mixed. “On one hand I’m extremely happy with today’s performance, I didn’t leave anything on the table,” Leclerc said. “On the other hand, obviously disappointed because I really believe without this safety car the win was ours.” TOP-10 - LAS VEGAS GRAND PRIX 1. Max Verstappen 2. Charles Leclerc 3. Sergio Perez 4. Esteban Ocon 5. Lance Stroll 6. Carlos Sainz 7. Lewis Hamilton 8. George Russell 9. Fernando Alonso 10. Oscar Piastri Leclerc’s wait for a first win since July 2022 – and he’s had eight pole positions in that time – goes on while Perez secured second in the world championship despite that final dropped spot: the first time Red Bull have ever claimed the top two positions. Further down the order, Esteban Ocon secured an impressive fourth place for Alpine from 16th on the grid while Lance Stroll completed the top five. The Mercedes duo of Lewis Hamilton and Russell came only seventh and eighth respectively as they draw to a close a season to forget, with just one more unlikely attempt to salvage a win in Abu Dhabi next week. But for Vegas – a city completely changed and reordered for this first race of a scheduled 10 – the final act was, finally, worthy of the hysteria. It was up there with the best races of the year, alongside Singapore and Austin. There are plenty of features to be improved, though. The top three drivers all spoke in the aftermath about an earlier start time, as well as perhaps a change of month given the ludicrous time-zone switch now to the Middle East. Logistically, the smoothness of proceedings has been questionable. Yet the glistening glow of the views overhead sparkled and, on race day, the action on the city’s streets matched it. All Sin City, and the sport, needs now is a proper battle at the top. Read More Lando Norris explained issues with Las Vegas circuit before crashing at Grand Prix F1’s Lando Norris expresses Las Vegas Grand Prix track concerns moments before crash Lando Norris endures heavy crash at start of Las Vegas Grand Prix F1 Las Vegas Grand Prix LIVE: Verstappen wins as Leclerc overtakes Perez on last lap What Charles Leclerc needs to claim victory from pole in first Las Vegas Grand Prix Charles Leclerc lights up Las Vegas to claim pole position for Ferrari

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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CINCINNATI (AP) — Christian Encarnacion-Strand homered in the ninth inning, and the Cincinnati Reds beat the Toronto Blue Jays 1-0 on Friday night in the opener of an interleague series between playoff contenders.