I WONDER if I'm truly becoming more stupid?

A research team from Stanford University claimed recently we need less intelligence to survive because in modern society so much is done for us – as a result our brain power genes are mutating into porridge.

I can certainly see the signs of my own increasing idiocy. For example, I'm still paying for a tennis club membership even though my knee will barely bend, I still can't work out how to switch power tariffs, how to take photos on my phone, or tag someone on Facebook. (I don't know why I don't care either.)

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I can't for the life of me work out the attraction in Cheryl, Tulisa or Kate Moss. I still can't find Checkhov or Strindberg more than mildly entertaining. And I don't know what women are really thinking (but then no man truly can).

I can't figure out how MPs can rent their flats to a friend and claim the profit, while renting another home and claiming expenses. Nor indeed can I fathom why footballers get so much money they can afford to rent flats to MPs.

But there are other indicators of developing daftness. I took the bike onto the cycle path recently, at 7pm, without lights, in the middle of the country where it was as dark as Jimmy Savile's heart, and almost hit a little black dog – then actually found myself muttering: "Why can't the owner put a light around that mutt's neck?"

Perhaps the brain cells have not yet mutated into mush. I can (just about) follow the plot of Homeland and I've realised watching X Factor and I'm A Celebrity represent an hour lost out of my life.

Having said that I still think I'll interview Olivia Newton John sometime soon and she'll reckon I'm hotter than July.