Excuse me while I crack open my bubbly and spray it all over some adoring, half-dressed young men. I just need to celebrate one more year in which we won't be plagued by the mosquito whine of Formula One cars emanating from a BBC channel. It won't last, of course. From 2009 I'm going to have to start putting the sofa cushions over my head again.

Why is our licence fee helping to pay for this trash? It's not as if Formula One is even watchable. The noise is excruciating, and the tedium is enlivened only if one of the cars spins out of control and crashes. Then you, as a viewer, feel guilty for having hoped for a bit of drama, anything to puncture the mind-sapping monotony of vehicles going round and round the same track in the same order for hours at a time.

You can't see the sportsmen because they're encased in protective clothing, helmets and cockpits. They don't do anything interesting with their bodies, unlike gymnasts, athletes or tennis and football players. They don't even do anything very interesting with their cars, at least to the inexpert eye. Yes, I am sure you have to be very brave and quick-witted to race one of those cars, but that doesn't make it any more exciting to watch.

In these days of environmental awareness, Formula One is the ultimate petrolhead sport. These cars manage only four miles to the gallon. Great swaths of land are dug up all over the world to build new tracks, and noise pollution is horrendous for miles around.

The money spent on it is equally grotesque: $2.9 billion by the 11 teams alone in 2006. And that does not include broadcasting rights or sponsorship or ticket revenues. All this to create a supercar, the rules for whose design seem to be changed by the regulators every year. No wonder there is a temptation to cheat by spying on rivals.

This is a horribly macho sport, with huge quantities of money, petrol, champagne and testosterone sloshing around it. You don't need to be Sigmund Freud to analyse the symbolism of the traditional post-race celebrations - or indeed the height (nearly a foot) and age (28 years) difference between the diminutive Formula One president, Bernie Ecclestone, and his towering wife, Slavica.

And you haven't even got me started on “cash for fags” - the £1 million donation to Labour from Mr Ecclestone that was swiftly followed by a special exemption for Formula One from the ban on tobacco sponsorship of sport. Then Labour was forced to give Mr Ecclestone his money back, so he got his exemption for free.

Tacky, tedious, sexist and maddening. Well done, BBC. All you have to bid for now is Miss World. Go on: that would really make my day.

Times Recommends

• Bank charges hit us for being human
• Sorry, Father, thou still shalt not steal
• The shed where Santa’s failures go to die