Is it appropriate to expect a modern warrior to display social polish, like a kind of martial Rex Harrison?

One's heart goes out to Air Chief Marshal Sir Michael Graydon, who, as Chief of the Air Staff, is responsible for the image of the British flying ace in the Nineties. Poor Sir Michael has discovered that the wizard- prang element has departed from the modern RAF. The deckchairs-and-handlebar- moustache tendency baled out long ago. The scramble-chaps-I-say-Ginger's- bought-a-packet-over-Dusseldorf strain of British aviator has ejected from the nation's cockpit for good. Today's recruits, Sir Michael recently learnt to his horror, are closer to Rodney Trotter than Douglas Bader.

As two senior officers found when they recently visited the officer training college at Cranwell, the new boys are tragically maladroit conversationalists. Ask what their most recent bit of action was like and they will not say, "My dear, the noise ... and the people." They will say: "Werl ..." Ask them if they think the old crate can take it much longer and they will not say: "Wing and a prayer, Sir." They will say: "You wot?" An absolute shower, in my view. The Air Chief Marshal has, I'm pleased to note, ordered that the riff-RAF be given lessons in etiquette, conversation and ballroom dancing.

Cynics will wonder, however, if it's quite appropriate to expect the modern warrior, trained in the skills of battle, to display social polish as well, like a kind of martial Rex Harrison. It reminds me of the time the writer Edward Blishen was applying for an Army commission and handed over a reference from a former employer who recommended, along with Blishen's other sterling qualities, "that brand of personal charm which is so important in professional relationships". A staff sergeant eyed the letter. "Come in handy, that," he commented. "Nothing like personal charm in the face of the enemy."

I quite agree; but I'd go further. What the training departments of the British armed forces should be aiming for is a new generation of Renaissance Men, a concept that's been all but lost in the wave of job specialisation. Henceforth no squaddie should be allowed to venture outside his barracks without a full grounding in swordplay, watercolouring, Petrarchan sonnets, German lieder, equestrianism, macrame, haiku and advanced cuisine minceur. That should put the fear of God into the marauding infidels who are even now advancing upon us.

Current sport in the Groucho Club is wondering whom Damien Hirst, the artiste terrible, will be seen schmoozing with next. At different times, cronies at the bar tell me, it's been Vic Reeves, the Northern droll; Alex, the bassist from Blur; Eddie Izzard, the epicene raconteur; Chris Evans, the bespectacled interrogator; and Marco Pierre White, the volatile chef. Mr Hirst's wide social acquaintance has been much noted, and his apparent interest in transmedial collaboration (directing videos, designing record covers) much remarked. So it's not surprising that Soho types are predicting that Damien's friendship with Marco will result in a joint- venture restaurant. The name should be no trouble (Flock Off), but I see difficulties with the menu: will the punters come crowding in to try the Gigot d'agneau farci avec polystyrene finished with a jus of formaldehyde and carved with a chainsaw?

I dropped in to the Cyberia Cafe the other day - you know, that frightfully cool place off the Tottenham Court Road where you get a cappuccino and a slice of chocolate cake and a go on the Internet. The same gang of curious people always seems to be there, sitting clenched and sulking before the glowing screens as if they're e-mailing some disobligingly ill distant relative. Some frantically scribble down things on spiral notepads as they hack into research libraries in Vladivostok or call up the (updated daily) Douglas Adams Worship Page or the Shakespearean Insult of the Day (today, "thou whoreson zed! thou unnecessary letter!"). Other Net fans sit nodding away at their screens as if it were telling them secrets, although, as anyone who's studied the phenomenon will tell you, it's more likely they're staring at some recondite plea for pen-pals from http://www.jasper anorak-nincompoop@sad bastard enquiries.co.uk, or a similarly attractive new contact in cyberspace.

Don't get me wrong. No one could be more switched-on, clued-up, on-line, off-web and so forth than I. But sometimes, as one pauses in the midst of ordering up a Filipino bride via the Internet, or catching a live Supergrass concert via the computer screen before you, or tuning in to the cafe's new Cyberia Channel (it's brand new - they broadcast a daily menu of programmes from a single small room with five screens, a table and a man with a hole in his sock), one can occasionally pause to wonder: is this absolutely me?

I'm glad to say the same existential doubts assailed the lovely Kylie Minogue, the bony chanteuse and exhibitionist, who visited the Cyberia recently. According to the cafe's in-house magazine, it was a mixed success. The Aussie songthrush, accompanied by her press agent, chatted away convincingly about her interest in technology, earnestly sounded a warning note ("The Internet is a double-edged sword ... it will end up getting bigger and bigger until the world powers stop it. ..."), looked forward to having her own "web site" on which fans could send her loving comments - and then abruptly put her foot in it. "I'm actually," she informed the thunderstruck nerds, "a bit of a technophobe." It was not a wise remark in such surroundings. If HM Bateman were alive, he might have done justice to the looks that greeted her. Even the valiant attempts of her PR person ("No you're not. I think of you as being someone who's very into gadgets.") failed to retrieve the situation.