There was a time in the dim and distant past where real men didn’t wear pink shirts. Now, they’re so ubiquitous we’re avoiding them in order to stand out a little. Real men, of course, don’t refer to anything as the ‘new’ anything. So we’ll just point to the sudden acceptability of floral prints, and leave you to draw your own conclusions. Many thanks to George Barnett, drummer of our band-of-the-moment These New Puritans, for showing how it’s done.

If you’re going to make a carbon footprint, it might as well be in Prada lace-ups. That’s the thinking behind Arena and premium moisturiser Nivea DNAge’s search for the most luxurious city on Earth. Each week for the next eight weeks, we’ll be revealing our shortlist for the international destinations we consider to be in the premium league. Vote for your favourite and you could win a weekend in our first highlighted city, Dubai.

Finally, with Iron Man, there is a superhero for the truly geeky to get excited by. Not a man born with super human abilities, or the victim of a power inducing spider bite / radioactive experiment gone awry, but a self-made superhero. And chicks dig it, apparently.

There are two main reasons why I like Fraser Nelson. Firstly, the man can really rock a polo shirt. Secondly, he’s a very good writer. This month it’s the latter that interests me. His piece in the June Arena about the exercise epidemic down Westminster really got me thinking. Not about the likes of Jack Straw getting hot and sweaty in some airless sardine can below the House of Commons, because that’s almost too disgusting for words. But about the similar occurrence within my own social strastosphere. Which actually, isn’t much more pleasant.

Manchester United versus Chelsea in the Champions League final then. First things first: huge apologies to the good people of Moscow. When the Russian powers that be gave the OK for Luzhniki Stadium to host the game, they no doubt had a glorious festival of football in mind: the cosmopolitan teams of, say, Barcelona and AC Milan fighting it out on the pitch, cheered on by their beautiful, cultured and well-coiffured fans. Instead they’re stuck with a load of Manc scallies and West London chavs being sick all over Red Square and shinning up the Kremlin’s drainpipes to steal lead from the roof (that’s based on the dubious assumption that the Kremlin has a lead roof - or even drainpipes for that matter - which I must confess is not something I’ve looked into that closely.)