Infallibility aside, maybe this Pope just isn't all that good. At popery, I mean. At generally poping about. It's just, every time he does anything, a lot of people get upset. Muslim people, and Jewish people, and gay people, and sexual health practitioners. And, while none of these people are really the Pope's core demographic, he doesn't appear to be upsetting them on purpose. It just happens. Frankly, he's starting to look like the most hapless religious leader since, well, the Archbishop of Canterbury.

And I think I know why. You know how many aspiring priests or vicars I came across during my textbook Oxbridge education? None, that's how many. Fifty, a hundred years ago, I bet you couldn't have moved for them. Think too much? No inheritance? Bad at fighting? Bang. Clergy.

Everybody did it. Even Darwin. It was just the way. If you were halfway clever, you became a Rev. Those were the rules. Not any more. And I studied philosophy. Some people I knew even studied theology. You barely needed A levels for that. And still, not a budding dog collar in sight. God knows where priests and vicars come from these days. At least, I assume He does. I certainly don't.

The talent pool, is my theory, is getting shallower. How hard can it be, nowadays, to reach the top of any given religious tree? Professionally speaking, I mean. In career terms. Harder, say, than becoming a junior government minister? A middle-ranking film star? The manager of a national football side? Surely it's considerably less hard than becoming the chairman of the Royal Bank of Scotland, and they'll evidently let any old moron do that. Keep your head down, remember not to be notoriously gay or openly married (depending on your flavour), and the field must thin out pretty fast. Nobody even minds if you used to be a Nazi.

I'm sorry if this all sounds offensive. It's not meant to. But when the cream of a certain profession is blithely saying things like “condoms spread HIV” and “let's have different courts for Muslims”, then my respect for that profession takes a wee bit of a knock. Look, I could be wrong. Maybe the great universities, even in my day, were bursting with young geniuses with a vocation who somehow managed to navigate through their entire undergraduate years without meeting me or anyone I know. Although I doubt it.

They say that failing industries struggle to attract the talent. Maybe that's why all the exciting voices in any church, these days, seem to come from the Third World. And maybe that's why, every time either one of them opens their mouth, both the Pope and the Archbishop sound thoroughly out of their depth. Because, maybe, they are.

Cold discomfort

I did expect some people to be annoyed with my item last week, in which I explained that cyclists were the safest, most responsible people on the road, doing their utmost to stay alive amid a sea of morons. Fool that I am, though, I didn't expect most of them to be cyclists.

Was it because I betrayed the cyclist omertà on the widespread, wanton disregard of red lights? Was it because I confessed that most cyclists do, sometimes, ride on the pavement? No. It was because, without a flicker of shame, I admitted that (wait for it) I don't always ride my bike in the winter.

You would be amazed at the apoplexy this causes in some people. There was a whole thread on one cycling web forum, entitled FAIR WEATHER CYCLIST COMMENTS IN THE TIMES. In this, I was derided as a “opinionated ignorant snob”, a “tawt” (could be cycling jargon, but probably a typo) and, worse of all, “a pseudo-cyclist”. I'm a bit lost as to what pseudo-cycling would involve, although a friend suggested it might be when you run in a crouching position with your bum sticking out.

I feel quite guilty now, because I had no idea it was so terribly wrong to ride a bike only in sensible weather. If it helps, I also tend not to eat ice cream when I'm already cold, and sometimes, if it's really hot, I might go outside without wearing a woolly hat. Must I be punished?

Surprise storm

What will it be like, in the London of 2030, when this “perfect storm” of Professor John Beddington arrives, bringing shortages in energy, food and drinking water, along with mass civil unrest, cross-border conflict and unchecked and chaotic migration? I'll be 52. I'd imagine I'll leave the house of a morning, turning off all electrical switches out of a vague and unquantifiable sense of guilt. I'll buy my water from the shop. I'll cycle to work (glorious weather permitting) because I won't want to travel on the Tube, because the Tube is always overcrowded and the lights always shut down in the middle of the tunnel.

Maybe I'll wonder whether somebody is going to mug me on the canal. Maybe I'll wonder why nobody seems to be speaking English. Somewhere, out there, there will be a war on, which I won't quite understand. Ken Livingstone won't be mayor but he'll still be trying, despite looking very old. I'll buy a sandwich, for an astonishing amount of money, and wonder whether everything in it is made of plastic. Everybody I speak to will be suffused with a vague sense of apocalyptic dread. Everyone will know that things cannot go on as they are. Everything will be exactly as it is now.

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