Last updated 13:55, Thursday, 20 November 2008

Turn your television on after 9pm these days and, a pound to a penny, your ears will be assailed by a volley of swear words.

Clean up your act: Chef Gordon Ramsay should face instant dismissal unless he cuts out his bad language on TV, says John Charters

It’s just not good enough to quote the “after the watershed” excuse any more.

It’s high time, many would say long past the time, when television bosses got a grip of the most foul mouthed of their presenters and told them enough is enough.

Gordon Ramsay has a lot to answer for. He set the benchmark for foul language and others now follow. Even Jamie Oliver is at it and it just isn’t amusing or clever.

If top notch presenters like Parky and Sir David Frost could manage all those years without resorting to the “f” word, why is it considered so necessary today?

We seemed to manage to have watchable late night show then without all this filth so what’s changed?

Channel4 boss Julian Bradbury seems to think there’s nothing wrong with obliging viewers to suffer Gordon Ramsay’s non-stop tirades and obscenities.

The Beeb’s Mark Thompson hardly covered himself with glory over the Russell Brand/Jonathan Ross affair.

Are these TV bosses having a laugh at our expense? Taking the you know what out of the vast majority of viewers who just want to take their programmes with a bit less swearing thank you very much.

The more viewers complain the worse the misuse of language seems to get.

I hate the idea of censorship. But when TV presenters can’t be trusted any more, their bosses must step in and remind them just who they are supposed to be performing for, and who pays their over-inflated wages.

Ironically this week saw the death of veteran comic Reg Varney, star of Sixties series On The Buses.

I’m one of those simple souls, the sort of viewer smartypants telly chiefs probably snigger about, who enjoyed the harmless fun of Stan Butler’s never ending battles with Inspector Blake and his failure to cop off with the pretty clippies who always ended up falling under the wiles of seedy conductor Jack.

And all of it without anything riper than the occasional “flippin’ heck” from a bemused Stan, the hapless driver played by Varney.

Not very fashionable viewing these days, I guess. But you could watch it without fearing the next bout of assault and battery on the senses.

Oh Mary Whitehouse late of the Viewers’ and Listeners’ Association, wherefore art thou?