For one night only, London’s hot ticket was a lecture on safety in the aviation industry given by a geeky Canadian journalist.

And make no mistake - this was a hot ticket. Malcolm Gladwell, the New Yorker staff writer whose lucid, sparky non-fiction books have become a minor publishing phenomenon, commands a reported $40,000 for conference appearances. Last night, he sold out the Lyceum, one of the West End’s largest theatres, twice over.

Morose web designers and business students were seen patrolling queues, begging for spare tickets. No one was selling.

It’s not bad business for a man who looks like the gaunt lovechild of Edward Scissorhands and Leo Sayer and whose specialist subject is, as Basil Fawlty might have it, the bleeding obvious.

Gladwell’s first bestseller, Tipping Point, explained how when a lot of people like something, it becomes popular. His latest, Outliers - which, we were not allowed to forget, these two lectures were an exercise in selling - describes how people’s success depends on the culture they were brought up in.

However, what Gladwell does, quite astoundingly in print, is reformulate these simple truths, research some esoteric field, switch the emphasis and make the world seem fresh and exciting again. He’s interested, so we are.

So it proved in person. He speaks high, no hesitation, has a kind of serenity to his movements I’ve observed in Chess grandmasters. Though the subjects that most fascinate him are on the frontiers of technology, the format for this evening was quaintly old fashioned - just him and a lectern, like some Victorian scientist (“Power corrupts, Powerpoint corrupts absolutely”, he has explained.)

The focus - expanded from a chapter of Outliers - was the sad tale of Avianca Flight 52 from Bogotá to New York, which crashed as the Colombian co-pilot never communicated to the ground staff at JFK that they were running out of fuel. Colombians are generally deferential; the co-pilot was intimidated by the Americans, so mitigated the truth to the extent that they didn‘t even realise the plane was in trouble. More than the bad weather, or the old technology, it was a cultural, human reason that led the plane to crash - just as, though we don’t like to admit it, cultural factors really determine most phenomena.
There was lots more to chew on besides. Most cherishable was Gladwell’s opening gag. Pondering what to call his lecture, he suggested that if you put ‘Freud and…’ or ‘A geology of…’ in front of any subject, it instantly makes it sound appealing. “Who wouldn‘t want to go and see a lecture called ‘The geology of footballers‘ wives?’”

Many. But Gladwell’s faith in our curiosity is inspiring - and it’s kind of reassuring that an auditorium’s worth of people found that funny.

Here’s Debrett’s in the gents:

"Always leave an empty urinal between you and the next man. If this is not possible, use the cubicle. You are not crossing the road: don’t look left and right."

Most importantly: "Conversation is for before or after, never during".

Loo attendants, by the way, are to be tipped with "a few small coins on your last visit of the evening". If you’re feeling generous.

This is Debrett’s new Guide For Modern Gentlemen - and as far as this sort of advice goes, it‘s diamond. It should be enshrined in London law. No one should chat to you at the pissoir.

However, beyond the etiquette stuff, it seems the venerable publisher, first founded in 1769 and still regarded as the authority on manners, is having an identity crisis.

The guide is laid out in the now familiar, old school-quirky style of Schott’s Miscellany. Its sensible instruction on mobiles at dinner (put it away) and mixing Martinis is padded with stuff you’d expect to see in Loaded circa 1997 which seems aimed at that tragic breed: the City Boy.

There are tips on technology: "the less comprehensible to women, the better". There’s advice on how to "blow the bonus" ("Fly a MiG over Moscow" is one of 20 things to do before you die). There are lists of albums you must own. (Who goes to Debrett’s for tips on how to boogie?)

There are also little items written by one Miss Debrett, "mistress of etiquette", telling you how women think, and how to make them think well of you. The fact that Miss Debretts is pictured in stockings and suspenders makes it clear: read this if you want to pull. Number seven of eight things men should know about women is: "She’ll ask you if you fancy her best friend (solution: lie)."

So, having spend two centuries telling poshos which knife to use, Debrett’s now sees its role as helping cads to bed. What is the modern gent to do faced with a harrassed mother, a buggy and a flight of stairs? This is not covered in the book, but we may infer that the best solution is to walk on, as she is not the sort you’d like to impress anyway.

Such codes of manners used to play a useful role in helping uphold the class system while pretending to help you unlock it. Now they are to help you impress birds. James Bond is, of course, the most quoted individual in this edition.

What the guide denies is that good manners should flow from kindness and consideration - which should not depend on your wearing the correct suit (bespoke) or shirt (also bespoke) or shoes (Oxfords - they’re what Bond wears) but are in fact the province of anyone with an ounce of feeling? The new Debrett’s teaches this stuff to mask a lack of kindness and consideration - and with the decline of the sort of bonuses that allow you to "Buy an island", it feels mercifully out of date already.

If I could be granted one superpower, I would wish to be able to complain and make it count.

OK, I would really prefer the ability to fly like a bird, or to obliterate buildings with one piercing gaze. But within the scant realms of possibility, being one of those people who can, with a quiet word, take 50 per cent off a bill would make me happy indeed. Lord knows such power goes a long way in London.

I thought I was making progress. Last week, at a friend's birthday at a West End restaurant, it fell to me to try the wine. It tasted like the discharge of a poorly badger - and for the first time in my life, I felt sufficiently confident to commend this judgment to the waitress. Fixed her in the eye and said it straight. And what do you know? A new bottle was brought with a smile. And later, an extra dish of nibbles too.

But it is in less rarefied surroundings that the need to get something changed is more pressing - and the more meagre the prize, generally the less easy it is to get.

Try Victoria Coach Station, site of a dispiriting defeat on Saturday morning. I had booked tickets for the 10am to Bristol - taking advantage of the so-called Fun Fare which, rather like the miniscule Fun Size chocolate bars of children's party bags, proved a funny idea of fun.

We arrived a wee bit late - but the coach was late too, still waiting on the forecourt. And though it didn't seem to be full, we were prevented from getting on. "I'm on my tea break", the driver explained.

This was the point where we should have bowed to his superior logic and apologised for troubling him. Instead, we asked him what his tea had to do with our getting on his coach. Everything, apparently. Soon, we were watching him drive off without us.

We pleaded our case with various National Express officials, who laid the full gamut of bureaucratic pedantry before us and made us buy two more full price tickets (£37) for the next coach, which was 20 minutes late and, incidentally, stank of excrement.

I suppose restaurants are used to discerning clientele; coach companies generally cater to those less sure of their rights and priveleges. The good opinions of the former category matter - they can easily go to another restaurant. Those of the latter do not - they more often than not have no choice but to take the coach. Why then do they insist on calling you a "customer"?

Perhaps impotent fury is the answer when logic fails. Just yesterday morning, I turned towards the bus stop to see two 106's waiting. I sprinted - and both pulled away. I turned and gave them both the finger. And guess what? One of them stopped and let me on. Perhaps I'll try that with National Express next time. Or better still - save up for the train.

Entertaining is a fraught affair, even at the best of times involving a degree of washing up and hiding underwear. Still, I don't think the prospect of the following day's lunch has ever caused me to have actual nightmares.

On Saturday night, disturbing visions began to cloud my brain: of lovingly prepared food left untouched, of guests becoming restless and bored. I pictured spillages and breakages, cross words and mighty tantrums. Not 12 hours later, one of our guests was crawling up our window sill, pushing open the pane and threatening to jump - but now I appeared to be awake.

"Is he supposed to be doing that?" I wondered.

"No!" cried Alyson, his mother - and I dashed to move him away from the ledge, just in time.

"This is the thing about children", Tom, his father, said, once Joseph, 5, had been diverted by some Lego. "They take your very worst fears and act them out". Greta, 3, duly took up the colouring pencils and produced a piece of abstract expressionism which, had it been by Cy Twombly, would have been pronounced a work of prescient genius.

This was the first time my wife and I had hosted members of the milk-toothed community - and as more friends reach parentable age, I daresay it won't be the last. I mean absolutely no slight on Tom and Alyson's parenting when I say I was filled with trepidation.

Our flat is simply a fun-free zone. Our collection of toys is wanting. When I decided to prepare a child-pleasing trifle I had to be reminded that three and five year olds would not appreciate the amount of Grand Marnier I chucked in. I made an alternative dessert,- but its combination of cake and jelly made Greta cry ("I don't love it!" she explained).

Most of all, I worried about the lack of space. We live in a one bedroom flat - which is fine for us, but offers little room for a decent light sabre battle. If we were to have children of our own, we would have to to move to the suburbs or to another city, which suggests that inner London will soon become a child-free zone unless housing becomes significantly more affordable.

In the end, we resorted to the magic of moving pictures to keep our guests placated. I offered up my cherished DVD of Watership Down and though Joseph had his objections, Greta was keen on rabbits, so they sat watching on our bed as the grown-ups drank wine next door, going misty eyed when snatches of Bright Eyes drifted through.

I was amazed how well it hushed them. Tom, however, had seen this kind of thing before all before: "They're quiet now. But when they have nightmares, I take it you won't mind explaining the concept of bunny heaven over the phone at three in the morning."