Colin Freeman

Built in the 1840s, St Giles’s Church in Camberwell bills itself as south-east London’s ‘most stunning Neo-Gothic performance venue’. A niche category, admittedly, but when it comes to hosting events, it’s certainly a broad church. Downstairs, the crypt serves as one of south London’s best jazz clubs. Upstairs, in between services, weddings and funerals, the pews often double as cinema seats, with a film screen erected in the chancel. Jesus Christ Superstar, perhaps? Conclave maybe, with a trigger warning about papal scheming? Far from it. The latest offering was the 1973 horror classic The Wicker Man, all about the remote Scottish island that rejects God’s message.

Back in 2007, I went to war-ravaged Guinea-Bissau in west Africa to report on its rise as the continent's first narco-state. Latino cartels were using it as a staging post for shipping cocaine to Europe, bribing its rulers to turn a blind eye. So much product was being landed that local fishermen would catch stray bales of coke in their nets – a modern twist on Compton Mackenzie’s novel Whisky Galore. Guinea-Bissau’s new drug lords would go on to inspire a novel of their own. Back home on the Telegraph foreign desk in London a few months later, I got a call from no less a figure than Frederick Forsyth. His next novel, he told me, was going to be about the cocaine trade, set in coup-ridden west Africa: Narcos meets The Dogs of War.

In Alex Garland’s new film Warfare, one detail stakes the film’s claim to be the most honest depiction of combat yet. Not the severed foot left lying on an Iraqi street after a bomb blast, nor a wounded US soldier’s screams as a medic bandages up what is left of his leg. Instead, it is that throughout the film’s 20-minute-long gun battle, only one insurgent is shown being felled by a bullet. In real-life combat, enemy fighters do not obligingly linger centre stage – they lurk behind cover, as hard to get a bead on as possible. This was particularly true of Iraq, where most of the fighting was against a hit-and-run foe that was forever vanishing around the corner. Yet in Warfare, it is not just the baddies who do not follow the standard Hollywood script.

Once at my old local paper, the Grimsby Evening Telegraph, a trainee made the mistake of sniggering when asked to cover the allotments sub-committee. ‘Don’t ever fuck with allotment holders,’ the news editor warned. ‘It may not matter to you, but they take those little patches of land very seriously indeed.’ Like most of the news editor’s salty words of wisdom, this advice was forged on the anvil of bitter experience. Grimsby’s allotmenteers guarded their marrow and runner bean patches with a Balkan-esque blood-and-soil passion. The slightest mistake could generate no end of angry phone calls and green-ink letters. I am not sure allotment coverage was quite what King Charles had in mind when he lavished praise on local newspapers last week.

Years ago, newly triumphant from getting my first book published, I went to my parents’ house for a celebration dinner. Having duly toasted their son’s modest literary success, they then revealed that I wasn’t the new author in their social circle. An old university friend of theirs from Holland – we’ll call him Jörg – had just sent them a copy of his new book, ‘a sort of travel memoir, a bit like yours’. This was not a comparison I welcomed. My book was about quitting my job as pot-holes correspondent on the London Evening Standard to freelance in post-Saddam Iraq – not exactly Michael Herr’s Dispatches, granted, but more gripping, I liked to think, than writing about roadworks on Streatham High Road.

At the start of the new Bob Dylan biopic A Complete Unknown, Dylan’s protest-singer mentor Pete Seeger implores him not to swap his trusty acoustic for a newfangled Fender Stratocaster electric. ‘A good song can get the job done without the frills,’ says Seeger – who, for all his progressive views, wasn’t very hip to the new sound of rock ’n’ roll. ‘Yeah, but sometimes they sound really good,’ retorts Dylan. It’s a brief exchange, but it shows how the times were indeed a-changin’ – and Dylan’s own music with them. Comercially, abandonment of his folkie roots in search of his inner Rolling Stone was to prove an astute decision. His debut electric single, ‘Subterranean Homesick Blues’, became his first single to chart in the US.