Thursday 24th March 2016. I notice that there’s been a fashion development among young men, or at least the sort of young men who seem to think of themselves as fashionable. It’s now not enough to have bushy beards, along with hairdos that have a slicked-back quiff on top, while closely shaved at the sides. Increasingly, these men also have their earlobes physically stretched and distended, in order to insert a large circular ear stud.

Sometimes this earring is a wide and hollow ring, which makes me think of the woggles used by cub scouts. At other times the hole is filled with a piece of black solid plastic. In which case it makes them look like they’ve been attacked by a bad loser in a game of draughts.

Part of me wants to ask them why they do it. But then, they could equally ask me why I bleach my hair blond.

Taste can be so mysterious. At least these woggle-eared boys have the excuse of fashion. It’s the eternal priority of the young – to rebel against their elders, but conform with their peers.

* * *

Friday 25th March 2016. To the Odeon Panton Street to see Bridge of Spies. Directed by Spielberg in relatively compact mode. He eschews big casts and big messages and just gets on with telling a story clearly and fluidly. It could well be a classic film noir from the 1950s, were it not for the occasional f-word. Mark Rylance’s Russian spy is quietness and dignity personified. What with the depressing events in Brussels this week, it’s good to see a mainstream war film that concentrates on such things as basic compassion, preservation of life, and human liberty, without passing judgement on beliefs. And Rylance’s catchphrase of ‘would it help?’ works as a succinct piece of life advice, full stop.

* * *

Saturday 26th March 2016.

A day trip to Cambridge. Mum’s idea, though a foot injury prevents her joining me on the day. I’ve already bought the ticket, so I go up anyway. I’ve travelled so little in recent years that it can only do me good.

The beauty of the colleges and quads still impresses, with the screen and tower of King’s College taking the breath away in particular. Standing by the chapel door, I feel tempted to burst into a rendition of ‘Once in Royal David’s City’, but resist. I walk along the river. Lots of daffodils on the Backs, behind Clare College. A few brave tourists hiring punts (punters, I suppose) despite the wind and drizzle.

Kettle’s Yard is closed this year, so I spend a good few hours in the Fitzwilliam Museum, which is having its 200th anniversary. I find the lavish neo-classical architecture of the main entrance hall as inspiring as any of the exhibits; crammed with statues and gilded friezes, and now restored to an immaculate state. My favourite paintings turn out to be Gwen John’s The Convalescent (the painting equivalent of an Anita Brookner novel), Moreelse’s Allegory of Profane Love (the painting equivalent of an Angela Carter novel), Stanley Spencer’s Love Among The Nations (surely a contender for Most Hugs In Art), William Nicholson’s Flamingoes, and several Canalettos of Venice (more clean-lined architecture).

* * *

I buy the last print edition of The Independent. Its sister paper, the Independent on Sunday, bowed out the previous weekend with a rather nice detail in its masthead. Some of the letters in the words The Independent were highlighted to spell out The End.

The newspaper is still going to continue online, but as some of the readers’ letters indicate, this isn’t the same experience at all. Many people still like the physicality of paper, as evidenced by the popularity of free newspapers. It’s paying for news in any shape that seems to be increasingly resented.

The Independent website, like any commercial news site, has to pay for itself by cramming the screen with ‘clickbait’ content and adverts that break up the middle of articles. The end result is more ‘networked’ news, made to fit into the wider ocean of the Web, and then made to keep the reader clicking away on the website. The reading experience can only be more restless, diluted, even craven. There is a risk of diminishing concentration, and diminishing contemplation.

The last issue has lots of articles on its history, including one by the editor responsible for one particular story that made the newspaper stand out early on. In 1986, not long after the first issue, the Duke and Duchess of York had their first child. While the other British papers went with the usual lavish royal baby coverage, the Independent took a stance and listed it in its News In Brief column, a mere couple of sentences.

Also learned: the paper hadn’t made a profit since 1993. When it started, there was so much money swimming around – this being the mid 80s – that writers could double their income by defecting there from The Times or The Telegraph. By 2015, according to DJ Taylor in The Prose Factory, the Independent was paying some writers at lower rates than it did in 1986.

I leaf through the pop music reviews and read about the debut album from Zayn Malik, ex-member of One Direction. The review takes an unexpected slant:

‘The world needs Zayn Malik more than ever now, given the ghastly events of earlier this week… Though how much counterbalance, in terms of the wider public image of Islamic culture [he] can offer to such brutal, random killing remains debatable. But given Malik’s position as possibly the world’s most popular Muslim, there’s suddenly much more riding on his solo debut album than there was a week ago.’

‘Much more riding’ on it? Whatever one thinks about One Direction, it seems a bit much to expect their solo albums to address the aftermath of Islamist terrorism.

Still, if one applies the Bridge of Spies question to the Zayn Malik album – would it help? – the answer is: yes of course it would. In the sense that all art helps in some way. Or should help.

Tags: bridge of spies, notes on fashion, the independent, zayn malik