That the "hall of fame" has to be about the most un-rock'n'roll thing in music.

I know I'm generalising but artistic types seem to be quite hung up on awards. I understand that it's nice to be recognised by our peers for work done but why does the whole world have to know?
The dullest part of the (otherwise enthralling) rock and roll hall of fame museum in Cleveland is the hall of fame part of it which is essentially a corridor with a load of plaques on it and a big room showing videos of the winners.

In questioning the point of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame you are demonstrating a depressing ignorance of this centuries-old musical genre’s lores, traditions and mythology.

The hall is a majestic building where those who have either lain down their lives, or else had their creative fires extinguished in service of the Rock and Pop section, convene to perform endless jams, or partake in watered-down collaborations that are invariably less than the sum of their parts.

The interior is decorated in the ostentatious style of the nouveau riche. The eves and lintels are fashioned from the charred and broken fretboards of guitars that died glorious deaths on stage, while the roof is tiled with gold and platinum discs. A large Rolls Royce-shaped swimming pool plays home to an artificial reef made from actual Rolls Royces and hotel TVs.

Atop the hall sits a mighty tree which was purchased by the artist Sting to save it from commercial loggers. The name of the tree - Læraðr – is also the title Sting’s new album – a double CD whose 36 songs are performed in the language of Congolese pygmies (generously supplemented with several new words from Sting’s private language, so as to do lyrical justice to his ideas). Beneath the boughs of the tree sits a white phone which allows rock artists to share their concerns about global issues with any world leader, while enjoying full tax-exempt status.

Those musicians who are not fortunate or talented enough to be welcomed into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame must descend to Helheim - a small basement club in Bradford, run by a brain-damaged ex-boxer called Frank and his awful peroxide-blonde wife - Tina.

Helheim is cold, musty and plagued by rising damp. Beer is served from cans, poured into brittle plastic cups that fracture into vertical shards at the slightest pressure, accounting for the perpetually sticky floor. The club plays host to Punk all-dayers, with bills composed of bands that allegedly formed the little-mentioned fifth-wave of punk in 1979. Inevitably these groups consist of one original member keeping the flame alive, supplemented by surly teenagers who can barely play their instruments and whose kneejerk response to criticism, however slight, is to remind you that they never asked to be born anyway.

A Hungarian bouncer called Gjoll prevents anyone from leaving. He is supported by a pair of Rottweilers christened Garm and Modgud by Frank and Tina’s hellspawn toddler – George.

Helheim is also home to Hraesvelg - a harpsichord with the head and wings of an eagle; it was manufactured by a Norwegian company whose key product is a Scandinavian version of Teflon known as Norflon. Hraesvelg resides in a dropping-strewn cage above the bar, lined with old set lists and rejection letters from record companies. He is an accomplished mimic with a talent for homing in on the most embarrassing and cringe-worthy lyrics of the performing bands and reciting them repeatedly in mocking tones.