I have just been reliably informed that I am a miserable so-and-so.

This is the considered opinion of my wife, on account of turning down her request for me to take her to the pictures.

We still call it ‘the pictures’, by the way, because we reject the idea of ‘the movies’ for being too American, ‘the cinema’ is too bland, and ‘the flicks’ is right out.

But it hardly matters what I call it, because I seldom go.

To tell the truth, I have only been once in the past decade, and that was a mistake.

It must have been ten years ago that I went to see a then-new Star Trek film that turned out to be such a disappointment that it put me off the cinema for life.

It was dominated by action, completely turning its back on the spirit of the original TV series and its even better sequel, The Next Generation, which were all about respective captains Kirk and Picard using their brains to bring about an ingenious and almost exclusively non-violent and bloodless solution.

It is probably the worst film I’ve ever seen, apart from Mamma Mia, and I nearly walked out, which would have been quite something because I am not usually somebody who leaves anywhere without getting every penny’s worth out of it.

Suddenly it seemed that just about every film being produced featured wall-to-wall action for action’s sake, and/or formulaic plots, paper-thin characters, embarrassingly corny scripts or Adele singing the theme tune.

Just as sour as the films was the experience of going to the pictures itself, which was partly because I was getting older, but mostly because the magic had simply worn off.

Not only did a night at the cinema seem like nothing special, but it became an ordeal.

I am one of the millions who are irritated by almost everything about it, from being force-fed adverts and trailers for things I don’t want to buy and films I don’t want to see, to people who have no idea how to behave in an audience, and the ludicrous price of the pick ’n’ mix.

Call this being ‘miserable’ if you like, but it is perfectly reasonable to lack enthusiasm for any activity that brings you no joy whatsoever.

My wife, however, still considers it a treat, hopes for a change of heart from me and seizes on any new film containing any element or theme that she thinks will tempt me.

Two or three years ago she was excited to discover there was a film called A Street Cat Named Bob, and knowing how much I love cats, started leaning on me to take her to see it.

So I caved in, and two hours later did my best to conceal how underwhelmed I was by the experience.

And now there is a new film about Queen, called Bohemian Rhapsody.

Everybody likes Queen, and I am no exception, so the pressure has been building for me to overcome the fact that if it is as awful as the trailer, I am going to find it a very long film indeed.

Unfortunately, my son and his fiancee have already been to see it, and reported to my wife that not only did they love it, but it MUST (in capital letters) be seen on the big screen, and Dad will have to take Mum. And I feel like the victim of a conspiracy.

I’m caught in a landslide, with no escape from reality, so I’ve got to go. Gotta leave you all behind and face the truth.