Don’t you just love Strictly Come Dancing? No, me neither. It’s not like I’m not new age. I went to prenatal classes. Once. But this programme is spoiling my weekends.

For an hour and a half every Saturday, the kids and I have to knock about the house, bored, hungry, directionless, while Wife, an avid fan, cheers, weeps and yells “We should dance more” and “Why don’t you read them a story?” intermittently from the front room.

That’s not all. On Sunday, we are subjected to another 45 paint-drying minutes for The Dance Off. Why split it over two nights? It’s not as though they recorded it on two separate nights. All that differs is Tess Daly’s dress. Why the big pretence? And why not just get it out of the way in one hit? So Sundays can be free for . . . The Antiques Roadshow. Heartbeat. Oh dear.

And that’s still not all. It’s on every day in the week too. In Strictly Come Dancing — It Takes Two, Claudia Winkleman picks forensically through the remains of the weekend’s shows. I love Claudia Winkleman, but it’s still more of the slowest, most tedious series on the planet, a series that starts in September and finishes long after husbands have run out into oncoming traffic, shouting “Enough”.

And we haven’t even mentioned The X Factor. Or Dancing on Ice, which even Wife hasn’t managed to get addicted to yet. That’s the hard stuff.

There is no good television for men. Not if they don’t like cars or real-life police chases or America’s Dumbest Criminals. There isn’t much good television for women either, but there is an awful lot of bad. How to Look Good Naked? Who cares? If you’ve got that far, chances are nobody’s going to change their mind, and you can always turn the lights out anyway. Other People’s Breast Milk? I’m fine thanks, I’ve already eaten. EastEnders? Wife Swap? Yes please, I’d like to swap her for the PlayStation3 she never let me have.

And do you think we might have a period adaptation that isn’t by Thomas Hardy, Jane Austen or Charles Dickens in his girlie phase? Much as I cried a bit when they hanged Gemma Arterton at the end of Tess of the D’Urbervilles, you do wonder how much more satisfying a Sunday evening would be with some more male-oriented drama. Might I suggest Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment, Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath and Captain WE Johns’s Biggles and the Pirate Treasure?

Could we have The Andromeda Strain while we’re at it? And a remake of Day of the Triffids and Maelstrom, and that one about us all getting rabies off the French. Those were the days.

For a while there was hope. It was called Life on Mars. John Simm, Philip Glenister, 1970s police chases, time travel. Proper thinking man’s drama. Ish. But then they did a sequel with a woman in the lead role. And it was rubbish.

The truth is that the television is part of a conspiracy to celebrity-tango us into asexuality. We tried to counter with a brief, half-hearted retrosexual charge, but it’s faltering. Woody Allen warned us of this in his 1973 film Sleeper. Allen’s Happy Carrot health-food store owner Miles Monroe goes to hospital with a suspected peptic ulcer and wakes up 200 years later in a world populated by white-suited, poetry-writing West Coast wimps on macrobiotic diets.

Men, is that what we want? Of course not. It is time for a revolution, beginning with televison. Here are our demands: Brucie to be retired; proper accidents back in Casualty; all love-interest storylines cut out of The Bill; and The Sweeney brought back, untouched, with immediate effect.