Magnus Carlsen, the best chess player in the world, turned up for a tournament in New York recently wearing jeans. Smart jeans (he’s a smart player), but jeans nevertheless. 

This offended the organisers, who had a dress code. Carlsen offered to pay a fine, but the organisers insisted he went back to his hotel and changed. Carlsen withdrew from the tournament. Checkmate. 

Who is at fault here? I should declare an interest in that I play chess and, more to the point, hate dress codes. I rarely wear a suit, almost never a tie, and have never trusted anyone who has a handkerchief in his (or her) breast pocket. 

This attitude has not served me well in life (except in telling me who not to trust). It has been stated that “the easiest and least stressful path to success is to adopt the status quo viewpoint without question”, and the status quo – apart from anything else – seems to be that looking smart means you can be promoted. 

This may be why so many idiots end up in charge of vital areas, where they see their role as preserving the status quo, particularly the system that has enabled them to reach the heights they are not really qualified to reach, and to get rewarded for failure. 

This is why the National Health Service is so hopeless, and why the scandal in the Post Office destroyed so many lives – though not the lives of the people “in charge” – the cover-up merchants who dress well and charge large fees. 

This sickness affects the whole of society, from the refusal to repair potholes to generally moronic management that can affect whole cities. Sadly, it affects the Church too – the very place that you would think ambition and status quo should have no role at all.

Thus, instead of focusing on preaching love and forgiveness, the Church is obsessed with looking good and making fatuous gestures, like promoting the idiocy of net zero, constructing columns of ineffective waffle on safeguarding, and earmarking money for meaningless slavery “reparations”.  

 I could go on, but I have to get dressed. I seem to have mislaid my jeans.

If you want to kill something, bring in management consultants. You may think this statement a little sweeping, but we live in a world where it seems almost routinely true. 

In fact the management class has taken over to such an extent that everything that makes life worth living, which expands our experience or promotes freedom, is at risk of being stamped out by people whose only real motivation is to promote their own wellbeing.

Amazingly, this is true even of the Church. 

Historian Peter Hennessy once said: “If management consultants had drafted the Sermon on the Mount, there would be no Christians anywhere.”

Happily, management was not consulted by Jesus at all, which is what makes the Kingdom of God so attractive. But the current leaders of the Church of England – with some notable exceptions – lean ever more towards solving problems by implementing management “solutions”, often combined with fashionable groupthink. 

Why does this happen? Well, managers as a whole – including lawyers, politicians, administrators and consultants – are grossly overpaid; so naturally they want to preserve the status quo. Therefore every solution they come up with aims to avoid disruption of any kind: in the words of Joseph Heller, they routinely “distort reality for the sake of neatness”. They want to smooth things over; keep things quiet. 

Which is why inquiries are largely a waste of time, unless they are conducted by an independent spirit who can not only see through the fog but withstand the pressure. Not many of those about.

Of course, the Church of England has never been perfect. Back in 1978 Canon John Collins was saying: “I can assure you, after nearly 50 years in its ministry, the Church of England is riddled with, if not obsessed by, questions of status and precedence.”

This is a very human trait – even the early disciples occasionally fell prey to it – but it is destructive, especially when those caught up in it have real power. And it has nothing in common with Christianity. Quite the opposite.

Of course the Church at a local level contains many people who actually believe, who are self-effacing and want to do good. So against all the odds, I am optimistic. After all, individuals make a difference in the real world. 

And then there’s Piers Brandon, who summed it up rather well: “Anything is possible in the C of E,” he said. “Even  Christianity.” 

At some point in your childhood you and your friends went out to play together for the last time, and none of you knew it.

I read this sentence out of the blue recently and found it profoundly sad, without knowing quite why.

I suspect that this supposed event – I don’t know when or where it might have occurred, or who the other characters were – had been given some previously unthought-of significance by being commented on. And since it now had significance, I wish I had been aware of it. It obviously must have happened.

In fact it would have happened several times, with different characters in different places. After all, I moved house at the ages of five, seven and ten, and two of those moves were to different cities.

We often do not know when something is going to happen for the last time. Some things happen like a bolt from the blue; most things creep up on us. 

Those of us fortunate enough to live in a relatively comfortable part of the world at a relatively comfortable time proceed through life often in an unthinking way: no-one is going to drop a bomb on us, probably, and if we had fish and chips last Friday, we will doubtless have it again next Friday. 

Then something happens that changes everything. My father died when I was ten. Obviously I did not know this was going to happen. It wasn’t my fault. 

But should I have been aware that some of my friends would soon disappear out of my life? Did I blink and miss it? Was that my fault? 

It should go without saying that those living in a war zone like Sudan, Ukraine or Gaza  will be all too aware that any day could be the last time they see their friends, their family or their house. I can hardly envy those people, or see them as morally superior. 

We all live in our own worlds. I have to deal with the world I have been placed in, but maybe I should be more aware that those tiny regrets sneaking from the distant past into the present are too trivial to be significant.

Maybe. But that sentence still hit me in the heart.

I met a guy in a wheelchair yesterday. We were at a funeral, and he had driven down from up north to Norfolk on his own, in his specially adapted van. I attempted to give him my place in the refreshments queue, but he would not permit it. He was, he said gently, perfectly capable of looking after himself.

He was right, too. Despite his disability (legs and lower back), he was cheerful and positive. He spoke about the place where he lived, and how more people were coming to worship with the community there. It was a tonic speaking to him.

Obviously I am going to make the point that most people pursue the negative in their conversations. If it’s not the weather (it’s turned cold; winter is here and the nights are drawing in), then it’s road conditions. Or technology. Or the Government. You see? It rolls off the tongue.

In my part of the world, roads are a special problem. Potholes? Yes, of course. But more irritating even than that are the constant road closures, where work takes months to finish, and the result is often worse than the road was to start with. Part of the problem, I believe, is that the council is given money for special projects that really don’t need doing – and they aren’t allowed to use the money for anything else. They certainly don’t want to give it back; so…

I don’t think it’s malice – just incompetence. 

I give a friend a lift home after church. The route goes along Angel Road, which you would think would get preferential treatment at Michaelmas. But no: it has been closed for weeks and weeks, together with adjoining roads (you have to guess which), and you find yourself bumping along excessively road-humped residential streets lined on both sides with cars until you reach another street that has been closed.

Some of these streets have 20mph limits. Obviously this is wonderful. Twenty is plenty: coin that phrase and you get an award. Except of course it’s not plenty: in many places it’s not enough, and often where it is plenty, you would be hard put to drive faster even if you wanted to, which you wouldn’t.

Who decides these things? People like the gentleman I drove past the other day, who shook his fist at me and made slow-down signals. At the time I was certainly doing less than 15mph round a tight corner, and he was walking in the road. 

Any kind of accident brings demands to lower the speed limit, but in fact slowness itself is dangerous. Dithering motorists are a risk. If people didn’t drive too slowly, overtaking would be hugely reduced. I would like to see 30mph raised to 35mph and 20mph raised to 25mph, where you can drive much more easily without losing concentration. Twenty-five keeps you alive. How about that? A knighthood at least, surely? 

All very negative, I hear you say. What would the man in the wheelchair say? Well, surprisingly, he said roughly the same thing. In a very positive way. With a smile on his face. 

Generations come, and generations go. I am now in the last generation – my family’s last, anyway. It is a strange feeling, looking down.

I emerged into this state a couple of weeks ago, when my last aunt died at the age of 95. If my calculations are correct, I have had 12 aunts, though not all at once. My mother had four sisters, and my father had two sisters and five brothers. All the brothers married at least once, and all but one had children. 

The aunt who has recently died is Thelma, my mother’s youngest sister. I can’t say I knew her well, though she never lived far away from me (except when I lived in London). She was not a great one for socialising, especially after her husband – to my eyes, a bit of a ringer for Robert Mitchum – died. For many years I doorstepped her at Christmas, and more recently still have been visiting her at a care home.

She was looked after pre-care home by a neighbour, and then by the neighbour’s daughter, to whom I’m extremely grateful. We will be two of probably fewer than half a dozen at her cremation this week. 

So who am I left with in my own generation? I’m pretty sure that this varied collection of aunts and uncles produced 14 cousins for me, and I had two younger brothers. Of that 16, I believe nine survive. The next generation is thinning already. 

It is at this point that I lose track. Although I have tried my hand at a digging up the family tree, I have trouble with the offspring of two uncles, one of whom lived most of his life and died in Africa, while the other moved to the south coast of England, where his children multiplied. In each case I know one cousin. Oddly the African-born one now lives in Liverpool. 

It is said that everyone now alive in England is descended from Charlemagne. You can see how that could happen. My wife has just discovered – quite accidentally – a branch of her own tree that runs to many pages in the North Walsham area of Norfolk. Her parents are Norfolk born and bred, but she was born in Glasgow. Someone, somewhere, will be trying to work that out one day. If you do work it out, please let me know – but you’ll have to make it soon. If you’re too late, tell my son. He lives in Canada. 

You may have missed the Olympics. If so, you must have been out of the country, or denied access to any kind of media. If so, I should explain that it is a recurring worldwide event that focuses on athletics and swimming but includes ever more bizarre activities that attract the description “sports”.

I wasn’t thinking of taekwondo in particular, but I would like to exclude sports where the observer can’t see what the participant is trying to achieve, or where you can’t see whether they succeeded or not.

Mr Grumpy – that’s me. To be honest, I watched a lot of sports, many of them several times, thanks to the BBC’s bizarre scheduling. But despite the brilliant achievement of Keely Hodgkinson in the 800m, I found myself more often than not rather irritated – and not just because the USA won so many medals because it has such a huge population. I think the states should take part individually, but I can see how this view may not be shared by many people. 

I also think it’s time we abolished all sports where medals depend on the opinion of judges, like boxing, diving or anything with artistic impression. Judges are too easily open to bias and straightforward error. I want to see someone clearly win or clearly lose. Of course trap shooting, where the judges don’t seem to be able to see whether a moving target is hit or not, might also have to be excluded. 

How about those sports where foul play is indistinguishable from good play, like basketball and hockey? The rules are so nitpicking that I am constantly amazed at how calmly the players react to ridiculous decisions. Or maybe it’s not the decisions that are ridiculous, but the rules? Someone should sort that out. 

Weren’t the opposing and closing ceremonies wonderful? Not so much. I missed the opening one, but I read that it was capable of unpleasant religious interpretations. In fact the whole ceremony thing is open to the criticism that it is a glorification of mankind, when we have a lot to be modest about. I guess it is part of the plan to exclude God from everything, or maybe I’m misinterpreting it? It was refreshing to see some athletes (particularly Americans, come to think of it) thanking God for their success. 

I did see the closing ceremony, which had some good points – although it achieved the near-impossible feat of making the French National Anthem sound boring. I do have to admit that the whole thing was very clever, in a way that reminded me of prog-rock: tremendously skilful but in the end not very interesting. Tom Cruise was quite interesting, though. 

One final thought about the commentary. Is it just me that likes to see unexpected winners? To listen to the commentators on the BBC, you would think that people winning again and again was what all the spectators wanted. Adulation of the top stars often just took over, especially if they were friends of the commentators. And I have to say I felt extremely sorry for those unfortunates who had to interview the athletes after their events. How did that feel? What were your thoughts? Are you pleased to have won? Sorry to have lost? Tell us that again, but in a different way… Don’t hit me.

What we really want is someone British taking a medal in a totally unexpected fashion and then seeing it again, with comments. Possibly a third time. What we don’t want is a favourite just going out there and doing what they were expected to do. Except Keely. Keely is wonderful. We love Keely. 

One of the greatest regrets of my life concerns my graduation from Birkbeck College, London University, back in 1969.

The surprising news that I had achieved an Upper Second BA Honours in German arrived with my birthday cards, which I was reading as I lay in bed with my wife. It was a Saturday. Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday, Upper Second, Happy Birthday.

It was a great feeling – a wonderful birthday present – because it exceeded my expectations. So what’s to regret? Well, being a shy and retiring type at the time, I wasn’t really interested in dressing up, speeches and people applauding. So I didn’t bother with the ceremony. After all, I had the paperwork.

What I didn’t realise until some time later was that my mother, a hard-working widow, would have loved to travel to the capital to see her eldest son formally awarded his degree. It meant nothing much to me, but it meant a lot to her. I wasn’t a great son.

This all came back to me last week, when my grandson received his degree (BSc, first class, in computer science) from Warwick University.

As you may know, Warwick University is in Coventry. Why wouldn’t it be? And as it happens, between the ages of 6 and 11 we lived in Coventry, just three or four miles down the road from the university which, being 20 years younger than me, wasn’t there at the time.

The campus at Warwick is pretty impressive, and the arts centre, where the degree ceremony was held, is a lovely building. I now live close to the University of East Anglia, which also has a memorable campus, but I have to say that Warwick, two years younger, probably has the edge.

The ceremony was scheduled for 11am; so we travelled down (or up, or across) the previous day, staying at my favourite Coventry hotel, The Old Mill at Baginton. With us we had our only son, father of the graduate, who now lives in Canada. So quite a trip for him.

Also present were the sister and mother of the graduate, and the grandparents – all four of whom felt we had done pretty well to have survived long enough to attend, and one of whom discharged herself from hospital in order to be there. It was a sunny day to remember. It included a tour of the campus and a meal in the Dirty Duck. Oh, and pictures. Lots and lots of pictures.

I suppose one reason I showed so little interest in my own graduation was that I had not gone direct from school to university, as is the norm. I had moved to London on my own to work, and then attended evening classes four evenings a week for two years at Birkbeck, followed by a full-time year to complete the course.

It was a normal internal degree, but it didn’t have the normal interaction and camaraderie that you get from campus life and joining in a variety of clubs and activities. Perhaps that’s why I wasn’t drawn into the final ceremony. Who knows? It was a long time ago. Sorry, Mum. You would have liked it.

I should perhaps mention that in the middle of my degree course I got married. There was a wedding. My mother came to that. I think she enjoyed it. So did I.

I fell over yesterday. It was nothing. I’ve done it before, but I have to admit to a strong feeling of concern as my forehead hit the pavement rather hard, and blood started flowing. When I say flowing, I mean oozing.

I had been trying to avoid a young woman (not something I do often) and at the same time skip round a heavy road works item that had strayed on to the pavement. I know road works are designed mainly to obstruct cars, but clearly they’re expanding their repertoire. 

I was a bit stunned and lay there for a moment. Don’t let anyone tell you that people in distress are ignored: as I got to my feet I was quickly joined by several young women and a roadworks contractor, all of whom were extremely solicitous. One woman, who worked in the hospital, wondered if she should call an ambulance. I said no. I don’t like to cause trouble, especially for me. I’ve been to A&E before. 

My wife was if anything more stunned than I was, because of course she didn’t know what I had managed to achieve in the way of injuries and broken limbs. Happily my guardian angel had been alert; so I hadn’t broken anything. Nothing visible, anyway. I did have a bit of a headache, and one of my fingers was an interesting shade of black. 

My spontaneous care group decided against the ambulance in the end, and one of them located a nearby chemist on her phone. She thought I could get help there. I thanked them all profusely, and people began drifting away. 

So my wife and I strolled up to the chemist. I’m not sure if “strolled” is the right word, but it was fairly slow. Unhappily the pharmacist was on a lunch break, and no-one else could help in a practical way. One of them thought it might be illegal. However, they did sell us some wipes and some plaster and some painkillers. Oh, and some bottled water. They weren’t allowed to give me a glass of water, because, well, I’m not sure. But they clearly couldn’t. Possibly because it was a branch of a nationally known chemist, and… well, I’m not sure. Again. 

I don’t blame them. I expect they had rules. But their response contrasted sharply with those who had rushed to help me in the street. 

I was not feeling too bad by now. My wife was also starting to recover. So we wandered down the lane to have tea (or was it coffee?) with a friend, who had been waiting patiently and had kept us a seat.

I had a reasonable sleep, and today I don’t feel too bad, though I have to admit to feeling a bit dizzy when I tried to undo the trapdoor to the loft. My wife insisted on going up there instead of me. So that was all good. I do feel a bit tired, though. Back to normal, in fact.

Failing to tune into the dire warnings broadcast after a night of rain  – I had after all been asleep – we ventured out on to the roads of North-East Norfolk, and found water everywhere.

It was a Sunday. I discovered later that major roads in different parts of Norfolk were thigh-deep in water, and some had been closed. Merrily, we headed for the Broads. Of course. Why wouldn’t we? 

We noticed quickly that the fields were very wet, but until we turned off the main road at Stalham, it didn’t make much impression. Damp is normal in this part of the world.

There was not much traffic about, but oddly as we turned off the main road we found ourselves behind three other vehicles – two cars and a van carrying scaffolding equipment. That’s OK, we thought. We’re heading across country. They’ll be going somewhere else.

Amazingly all three of them turned left and immediately right, on to a narrow country road. Our bad luck, we thought. That was our route. It turned out to be good luck.

Only a few yards on to the country road there was a significant covering of water. Our first instinct was to ask ourselves how deep it was, and whether we could get through it. There had been several scary stories recently about cars trapped in water which hadn’t looked that deep.

At least, that would have been our first instinct, but ahead of us were those three vehicles – instant measuring devices. All of them ploughed on, quite hesitantly but persistently, and we simply followed, round corners and through junctions, because if they could get through, so could we. And there was always the scaffolding…

The water had poured off the fields and overflowed out of neighbouring ditches. There was almost as much water as road. But it was only a few miles, and we followed, and followed… until we reached our destination: the small village of Lessingham (good name), where there was an exhibition in the village hall, focusing on the neighbouring village of Happisburgh and its battle against the encroaching North Sea. 

As it happened, my mother-in-law had been born just down the road. I mentioned it to the woman serving tea and cakes, but it was too long ago. We decided not to go and look at the house, because it might have been very wet, and it was only a mile or so from Eccles, which had finished disappearing  under the sea well over 100 years ago. Who knew how soon we would hit the ocean? The water seemed to be winning everywhere. 

As we were in the area we drove up to Happisburgh through more standing water on the coast road and found the disappearing car park, put in place only ten or 12 years ago and now about to be abandoned as the cliff edge makes its unexpectedly swift way inland, eating houses as it goes.

I got out of the car to have a look, and fell over a random fence into the cliff top mud. I won’t be able to do that much longer. 

The media sensation that has become known as the Post Office Scandal has appalled many people. The realisation that an apparently untouchable elite group has been able to sacrifice innocent people in order to facilitate their own privileged existence has quite naturally aroused deep emotions in many – not just those who suffered and are still suffering.

This one will run and run – quite rightly, because the selfishness, ruthlessness and callousness of the “top” people involved, and their reluctance to compensate victims, is so marked. And we are angry because we know it could have been us who were falsely accused, charged, imprisoned…

But in our modern society a somewhat similar scenario plays out in many different areas. The common factor is our increasing helplessness in the face of complex organisations.

At the lowest level, if you are “caught” by a speed camera and are convinced that it is faulty, what can you do? If you take it to court, magistrates will accept what the camera says, and the only way you can challenge it is by spending money on having the camera tested. Even then, how do you know you will get an accurate result?

Councils everywhere spend money on “improvements” whose main outcome is to close or obstruct roads for months. If they have so much roads cash to spare, they could of course fix the thousands of potholes that are a real hazard to all road users – especially cyclists and emergency vehicles. But this seems too small a problem for them to bother with. Tell me about it. Better still, don’t.

What about banks? We have seen recently that if a bank does not like your political views, it may try to block your account. How do you contest that? 

And universities? if you apply for a top job in academia, or even a simple place on a top college course, you may find yourself rejected, not because you are not good enough, but because you are insufficiently diverse. Too white, too male… And of course, you can’t say so.

More serious, perhaps, is what happens in the sacred worlds of science and medicine. 

We are inundated with one-sided views on climate change. We may not agree with the so-called experts, but there is nothing we can do about it. UK net zero is a ridiculous idea which will likely make us poorer and weaker, and even if we accept the dubious mechanism suggested, it won’t have any measurable effect. 

But how do we combat it? A consensus  of scientists gets together and says that no other view is possible, and to make sure this appears true, they block scientists with other views from senior posts, and even from peer review publishing. They also infiltrate and bully compliant news organisations like the BBC so that no dissenting view is reported. 

Bad enough, but what is happening in medicine may be even worse. Senior, experienced doctors have their careers blocked because they question the efficacy and safety of Covid  jabs, or suggest other treatments. How long will it be before those jabs become compulsory for everyone – at least if you want to travel? Good news for drug companies, of course. 

What if you, as a private citizen with a functioning brain, notice that those who have all the recommended jabs still get Covid – and that illnesses generally are more frequent than they used to be? You may therefore be convinced (rightly or wrongly) that those particular jabs are not conducive to your wellbeing. There is plenty of evidence in that area. Have you seen it? Or have you been told that it is the work of conspiracy theorists? 

I can see how someone might have said that to those sub-postmasters. Dodgy computer programming, you say? What is this, some kind of conspiracy theory? We don’t have to listen to that. Go directly to jail. Do not pass go. GIve us all your money. Die, if you like.