I have just bought a dishwasher. And now I am thinking of smashing it into small pieces because when it’s finished washing the pots and pans it makes a beeping noise. And if I don’t empty it immediately it beeps again. And then again.

How stupid is that? It means you’re sitting by the fire, nodding off in front of the television, when you hear the electronic summons and, because you know it will go on until the end of time, you haul yourself out of your chair, pad into the kitchen, open the door and discover, as jets of superheated steam gush into your face, that the beeping was not, in fact, coming from the dishwasher at all.

So now you’re standing there, looking like Niki Lauda, wondering what on earth had been making the infernal noise. It could be anything, because these days everything beeps. Mobile phones beep when they are dying. Microwaves beep when your food is ready. Freezers beep when they get too warm. Cars beep if you don’t put your seatbelt on. Captains beep before they make an in-flight announcement. Airport golf buggies beep when they move. Children’s toys beep when they don’t. Lorries beep when they reverse. Parking meters beep when you put money into them. Phones beep when there’s a message. Shop doors beep when you open them. Actors beep when they swear before the watershed. There’s even a beep in the Radio 2 traffic jingle.

So you creep about the house, with your melted face, hoping that you’ll be near the source of the noise when it strikes again. Then, suddenly, you think: “Jesus. It’s a smoke alarm warning us that its battery is dead and that unless I do something about it – right now – everyone will be burnt to a crisp.”

Quickly you get a stepladder and replace the battery and just as the cover snaps shut you hear the beep again. This time, of course, you know it really is the dishwasher. So you open the door and it steam-strips the bits of your face that weren’t burnt off the first time. Because actually the noise was coming from the freezer, which has got a bit too warm.

Now I should warn you at this point that I’m not about to embark on a tub-thumping tirade about silly technology. Rather, it will be an impassioned plea from an insomniac who’s stumbling towards the mid-point of middle age for people to stop making an unnecessary racket.

We are constantly being told that light pollution is ruining life for astronomers, that patio heaters are killing polar bears and that your carrier bags will one day choke a turtle. But I don’t give a fig about aquatic tortoises or astronomy. All I want is a bit of peace and quiet.

Some things make lovely noises. Playful children, car tyres on gravel, sheep and the Doobie Brothers, for instance. My particular favourite is the mournful throb of a distant light aircraft. Or the fizz of ice cubes being dropped into a freshly made gin and tonic.

But mostly I spend my life being bombarded by sounds that screech into my head like polystyrene fingers on a six-acre blackboard. Motorcycles, crows, other people’s Strimmers, “amusing” ringtones, Birmingham accents, Radio 1, dogs, diesel engines, Ken Livingstone, “Mind the gap”, James May’s bottom, unnecessary announcements in shopping centres. And then there’s the worst noise in the world; a noise that’s worse than morris dancing and even that child’s toy called Bop It. I’m talking, of course, about The Archers.

I’ve always said that when I divorce my wife it’ll be because we are incompatible at airports. She likes to be there two weeks before the flight leaves. I think two minutes is plenty. But in fact we are much more incompatible at 7pm every night when she turns on the radio and fills the house with the pointless sounds of Ambridge. Should Mike divide the house for Roy and Hayley? I really couldn’t give a monkey’s. Just turn it off.

There isn’t even any respite at work. My office at the BBC is next to the lifts, which spend all day telling everyone within five miles what floor they’re on. I know this helps blind people but why have the announcement read out by Brian Blessed in his full pantomime baddie mode? Why not use whispering Bob Harris instead? Or play it at a pitch that’s audible only to guide dogs?

I appreciate that some things have to make a noise. Heathrow airport, for example. And the Heckler & Koch sub-machinegun. But most things do not and I urge people to think about that when designing products and services.

Did you know, for instance, that Microsoft employed Brian Eno to write the four-note welcome chime when you turned on a Windows 95 computer?

Why? I know when the sodding thing comes on because when I push the buttons on the keyboard, words appear on the screen. I do not need an audible alert. Nor do I need a car to chirp when I lock it. Oh, and publicans. If you have a jukebox on the premises, here’s an idea. Why not allow customers to buy three minutes of silence?

I also have an idea for people who run supermarkets. We managed for many years before you started saying, “Cashier number four, please,” over and over again. And I’m fairly certain that we could manage again if you stopped.

Normally, I would turn to the church for help in these difficult and noisy times, but I fear no backing will be forthcoming. Partly because the Archbishop of Canterbury is too busy chopping the hands off shoplifters, but mainly because, with its nonsensical and infernal bell-ringing, it is the worst offender.

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