It was on, perhaps, the fifth occasion that the tournament hall was plunged into darkness at the Asian Cities chess championship in Tehran earlier this year that a daring, heterodox thought entered my head: could it be possible that when President Mahmoud Ahmadine-jad says Iran needs nuclear power for civilian purposes he might be telling the truth?

I am still slightly baffled as to how I, an oenophile, atheist Englishman, became Iran’s national chess coach: it began one evening five years ago when I was in my study thinking of interesting places to visit. Belgium did not set my pulse racing. Iran, on the other hand, had real novelty value.

Unfortunately I didn’t know anyone there. Undeterred, I fired off an e-mail to the president of the Iranian chess federation proposing that I play a match in Tehran against Ehsan Ghaem Maghami, the young Iranian champion. Twelve days later I received a response – “Dear Grandmaster Short, we agree with everything.”

Chess allegedly originated in India, although the first clear references to the game appear in Persian in the 6th century AD. The word “checkmate” is derived from the Persian “shah mat” – “the king is dead”. Alas, in more recent times the game did not enjoy official approval in Iran, and in the early 1980s it was banned by Ayatol-lah Khomeini as unIslamic. Shortly before his death, the supreme leader, in an uncharacteristic act of liberalism, revoked this measure, but not before he had ruined a generation of players.

The match with Ghaem Maghami proceeded smoothly (I won) and received excellent publicity. I was greatly touched by the warmth and friendliness of ordinary Iranians. However, there were a couple of jarring notes amid all the goodwill.

One of the girls on the national team invited me to her home for dinner, to which I agreed. It turned out that in order to take up her invitation I had to have the permission of both the federation and the religious police. Then, on the last day, as Mehrdad, an official and by now a friend, came to collect me from the hotel, a disagreement over payment occurred, which was odd because the federation owned the hotel.

When I asked for my passport, the woman at reception smiled but pointedly did nothing. Once previously I had been denied egress from a hotel, in Azerbaijan in the then Soviet Union in 1983, when I had been incarcerated for a day to prevent me, presumably as a potential spy for Her Majesty’s government, from witnessing the October revolutionary parade. It seemed quite fitting: Baku and Tehran, geographically so close; Marx and Muhammad, so radically different for their countless devotees but, from my perspective, more or less the same thing. This time, having finally been given my passport, I fought my way out, pushing, shoving, elbowing and barging my way past the porter who was blocking the door until I tumbled outside. Hailing a taxi, I reached the airport with minutes to spare.

After this highly stressful experience, I was in no particular hurry to return. However, more than three years later, after a chance chat with Mehrdad, I agreed to become the coach for the Iranian team for the Asian Games in Doha, Qatar, in 2006, in which chess had been included as a sport for the first time.

I was assisted by the urbane, chain-smoking Khosrow Harandi. As Iran’s leading player during the 1970s, he had enjoyed an active international career. After Khomeini’s prohibition, Khosrow, who was living in Britain at the time, registered with the British Chess Federation so that he might continue to play. He is apparently the only Iranian sportsman since the revolution to have competed against an Israeli, despite dire warnings as to the possible consequences. “I won,” he told me with a smile. “I had to.”

My team comprised two men (Ehsan Ghaem Maghami and Elshan Moradiabadi) and a woman (Atousa Pourkashiyan). Realistically we had little chance of competing successfully against the superpow-ers of India and China, but against the others we could hope. Ehsan was on poor form but both Elshan and, in particular, Atousa excelled. Both were in contention for individual medals.

Sadly Atousa, who was within a whisker of success, blew the bronze with an unexpected last-round defeat. How should one comfort a distraught 18-year-old girl when it is expressly forbidden to shake hands, let alone hug her? Such are the problems of coaching Iran. Nevertheless, after recovering from these individual setbacks and by routing the strong Qatari team in the final round of the team event, we took a bronze – a great result.

In my report of the event, I stressed a vital and obvious point: if women are to reach their full potential, they have to be allowed to participate against the best opposition, which in chess means men. Within a week of this report having been submitted, the Iranian minister of sport had agreed to an unprecedented change in regulations. While it would be inaccurate for me to claim full responsibility for this seismic shift, it would, perhaps, be fair to say that I acted as a catalyst.

After Qatar, I was engaged as national coach in the run-up to the Asian Indoor Games in Macau, southern China. It was a part-time post, which required occasional visits rather than a permanent presence. There is no way I would have done it otherwise.

I have visited 84 countries, and Iran remains low on the list of places I would consider emigrating to. It is not the least bit dangerous – as many people in the West imagine – provided, of course, you observe the laws. However, if you are the sort of person sensitive enough to find Britain’s omnipresent CCTVs and the security checks at Heathrow airport an insult to human dignity, then you are likely to find Iran oppressive.

Iran is a strange society. Satellite TV is banned but you will find dishes on many a roof. Alcohol is forbidden but widely available in people’s homes. Cheap heroin, from next-door Afghanistan, is a major problem. And one doesn’t need a tour guide to find (scarf-clad) prostitutes walking the streets. All vices (or perceived vices) are present in abundance. In this, Iran does not differ from western countries, but the amount of hypocrisy is far greater.

In February I was appointed captain of the Tehran women’s team for the Asian Cities championship. Three (male) officials from the Islamic guidance ministry were sent to ensure the propriety of my players. Particular emphasis was laid on a good hijab. Outside, in the trendy cafes of the city, seductive expanses of hair can be glimpsed beneath fashionably bohemian attire, but for my girls, aged between 14 and 26, the strictest austerity was required. There were no objections. All were delighted, for once, to be allowed to compete with the boys.

Everything went well until one evening, when we all gathered in my suite to analyse a game in preparation for the following day. Suddenly there came an irate banging on the door. I opened it to find a bearded ministry official on the verge of apoplexy. I politely invited him in: after all, he had a job to do, as did I. He didn’t look much fun, but as none of us was naked and I didn’t imagine the subtleties of the Sicilian Najdorf were going to hold his interest, I reckoned he would soon be gone. In he stormed and barked something in Farsi, whereupon my team, in a state of panic, got up, grabbed their belongings and hurried out.

I was devastated. When I met them later in the restaurant, I told them, quite sincerely, that I must be insane to do this job and I was going to quit there and then. “Don’t, please. We need you,” they implored.

Meanwhile the hirsute ogre submitted a harshly condemnatory report. Interestingly, neither of his colleagues was prepared to sign it. Several members of our delegation quietly spoke to him to explain that coaching does, in fact, involve sitting down around a chessboard. Gradually he admitted that perhaps he had overreacted. On the final day, he came up to me and offered his hand, which I took as, if not an apology, then at least a peace offering. Despite the hassle, my team responded brilliantly, finishing eighth – way ahead of their 15th seeding – which made it all worthwhile.

With time I have found visiting Iran progressively easier. Usually only errant British sailors get to travel there visa-free, and the rest of us require approval from the Iranian foreign affairs ministry. Last time I received a multiple-entry visa, which is convenient but difficult to come by. With my expanding circle of friends, evenings at restaurants, coffee shops and homes become ever more enjoyable. My liver enjoys a much-deserved rest. Even the chaotic, cacophonous, clogged traffic has become a familiar friend.

I am always impressed by the high levels of education in Tehran. My coaching is conducted exclusively in English and without a translator. That does not mean that every word is understood, but I rarely have trouble communicating.

Unfortunately for Iran, the most qualified, moderate people are the ones most likely to emigrate. They do so in massive numbers. Several friends have left the country and many others will follow.

It is not only the lack of freedom (on the internet, even social networking sites such as Facebook are banned) but also the lack of good job opportunities that drives them away. With weak private enterprise and a large state sector, jobs are created by such inane expediencies as tearing up parking meters so graduates may write out tickets. How very Soviet.

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