James Innes-Smith

You could smell the stale popcorn and rancid carpet from the other end of the high street but that unmistakable Odeon odour always set my pulse racing. That was before we lost the vast art deco interior to corporate greed and short sightedness. The carving up of the beautifully ornate auditorium into three miniscule screens ruined the 'going to the pictures' experience. It became a sad portent of things to come.  A couple of years after the needless vandalism, not one but two hangar-sized multiplexes landed on the outskirts of town rendering the old inner-city Odeon obsolete. For several years, my beloved fleapit stood like a towering 1930s headstone to a lost era.

The death of legendary axe grinder Eddie Van Halen is a sad reminder of how far rock music has fallen since those heady, head-banging days of the 1970s and 1980s when hairy, denim-clad blokes bestrode the earth, power-chording their way into our collective consciousness. Once the foundation of any self-respecting rock anthem, the obligatory guitar solo was where musicianship took flight and Eddie was a master at his craft. From speed metal to prog, album-orientated rock to epic ballads, soloing gave rock music its backbone. Unlike boring drum solos, everyone could appreciate the excitement of a well-crafted guitar break. So what happened, why did we fall out of love with one of rock's founding principles?

'Diversity' and 'inclusion' have become sacred doctrines within many of our major institutions, a religious fervour that has only increased since the senseless death of George Floyd. All across the globe, panicked corporations, desperate to be on the right side of history, have been rushing to meet demands for 'systemic and structural change', whatever that might mean in practice. Not surprisingly, the BBC has been busily doubling down on its efforts to change perceptions of racism from within its own ranks. This week, director-general Lord Hall announced that the BBC will invest £100 million of its TV budget over a three-year period to produce ‘diverse and inclusive content’.

This year's International Conference on Men's Issues was due to be held at St Andrew's Stadium, the home of Birmingham City Football Club. But at the eleventh hour the club pulled the plug on the event after it was decided that a conference on men's issues wasn’t something a football club should be aligning itself with. This isn’t the first time the organisers have run into trouble. Two years ago, protesters fought for the conference to be cancelled, with some even reportedly threatening to burn down the venue if demands weren’t met. No wonder the organisers of this year's event decided to keep the venue details secret until the last minute. But one thing seems surprising as I enter the conference at the ExCel centre: the number of women in attendance.

I had been in Los Angeles for less than a month when I received the call from a concerned neighbour back home in London. ‘Why are there men queuing up outside your flat at 3 a.m.?’ It was a good question. ‘And are you aware that a locksmith came over the other day to change your locks?’ I had no idea. ‘Oh and by the way, your tenant has put some kind of security camera outside your front door.’ Concern turned to panic. ‘And there’s been rather a lot of … erm, activity, you know … to-ing and fro-ing. That tenant of yours certainly has an appetite for the ladies.’ My neighbour must have been mistaken. I had rented my apartment to Alan and Ada, a respectable young Chinese couple.

On the anniversary of the Manchester Arena bombing all the talk has been of hugs and hearts; of healing and hope; of handholding and heroism. Newsreaders have spoken in self-consciously faltering tones about the resilience and defiance of those who have suffered so much. A choir sang Somewhere over the Rainbow. A minute's silence, followed by a mass sing-a-long. Trees were decked with messages of hope as Dr Rev David Walker, the bishop of Manchester observed, somewhat obtusely, that “Part of the horror … is that [the arena] appeared to have been deliberately chosen as a venue full of young people”. On Radio 4's Today programme, Nick Robinson sounded in almost jovial mood as he spoke to grieving victims, Mancunian roots ratcheted up for maximum empathetic effect.

'Na-zi scum!' Na-zi scum!' 'Na-zi scum!' Who? Me? How come? I'm on my way to a genteel picnic in St James's Park and appear to have strayed into the path of a virtue-signalling tsunami. A wall of raggedy demonstrators clutching anti-fascist banners inch their way towards me, faces contorted with self-righteous fury. 'Move to the side NOW' a truncheon-wielding cop leaps to my rescue, manhandling me to the safety of a tourist-laden Whitehall pavement. 'What's going on?' I ask, as a pot of humus spills from my Sainsbury's bag. 'Freedom of speech rally,' he replies, handing me the broken tub of dip. 'The anti-fascists aren’t happy about it.' 'Why?' I ask. 'Dunno mate, I just want to go home.

Revisiting cherished childhood memories can be dispiriting; everything appears diminished and one leaves questioning the nature of perception. Were we more open as children or less discerning? Happily, the village of Matlock Bath in Derbyshire, where I wasted so much of my youth and pocket money, is as delightfully dotty as when I last visited 30 years ago. Situated on the edge of the Peak District at the bottom of a limestone gorge, this enchanting mix of faded Victorian grandeur, tatty 1970s tourism and dreamy, Tolkien-esque landscape was once a fashionable spa resort where ladies in crinolines came to ‘take the waters’.

You have probably been hearing a lot about doorsteps recently. Politicians love to demonstrate how much they care about ordinary, hard-working voters by banging on about how many front doors they’ve knocked on. Standing on a doorstep, preferably in the driving rain, proves how dedicated you are to getting your message of ‘hope’ and ‘change’ across. An hour or two pounding provincial avenues, camera crew in tow, pays dividends back at the TV studio where you can then boast about how many of the electorate are on your side. Of course the reality of doorstepping is much bleaker.