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This is the story of Alf, from Weymouth. But more about him in a minute. Last week, I saw a vision of hell. On one of the BBC websites someone was asking for a rugby phone-in programme. Please let us man the barricades.

The descent of Radio 5 Live into an orgy of self-congratulatory babble is too depressing for words. When you examine the way that the legacy of John Inverdale, who revolutionised broadcasting in this country on that station, has been betrayed then it makes you weep.

What you get these days are giggling programme presenters pleased with themselves because they have fluffed their intros prior to reading a news story about the death of 50 people in a car bomb. You even have the station wafflers infiltrating the timeless Test Match Special, introducing verbal diarrhoea.

And worst of all, you have the endless succession of cheap programmes relying on the dullard, non-interesting, non-informed phone-in or even text-in. It seems some programmes consist only of an opening appeal for listeners to send in their own opinions, which are discussed by someone with no depth of knowledge in that field.

Enter Alf. Last summer, one of the Grands Prix was being broadcast. Radio 5 Live has a diminishing number of real professionals, including Ian Robertson on rugby, Jonathan Agnew on cricket and David Croft on motor racing. Croft's commentary covered the opening laps of a significant race with Lewis Hamilton leading in the exciting opening stages. Suddenly, poor Croft had to read out a text from Alf in Weymouth - something to do with the tyres on Hamilton 's car.

For goodness sake! I am not in the slightest bit interested in the opinions of Alf, or in the opinions of anyone else either guessing or babbling. If Alf was a top-line expert on the genre from which we could all learn something, I would be hanging on his every word. I know that all of us in the media depend on the interest of the public and indeed, welcome it.

But for a national broadcaster to be so dependent on the phone-in and text-in drivel is way beyond the pale. Some people must like it, but I swear that in all my travels and in all my investigations amongst friends and colleagues it is still a total mystery as to who they are and the descent into the utterly inconsequential has now become headlong.

There is nothing that crucifies the airwaves quite so completely as the soccer phone-ins. They are everywhere. And they are compered by such global megastars as someone called Spoony. Who cares? Sorry, Alf. I simply do not give a monkey's what you think. I want experts and a thirst for knowledge, not cut-price rubbish. I appeal to rugby fans, whenever you are asked to phone in or text in to some cheapskate programme compered by an ill-informed presenter (these days, they must have a gargling Ulster accent or be a token Taff or token woman) please leave your telephone in its cradle, leave your mobile phone in your pocket, and please turn off the radio.

Time for a wind of change at Sale

It has been said many times that rugby, spectacularly ill-equipped to move to the professional era, was bailed out brilliantly by a group of rugby-loving club owners in England and the fact is that without them, there would be no professional domestic game in any of the four home countries or France. Something to think about.

My favourite owners are Dave Thompson of Newcastle Falcons and Brian Kennedy, of Sale Sharks. Not only are they both rampantly and infectiously driven, but they have established clubs in difficult areas. It is relatively easy to establish a pro club in Leicester or Gloucester, not quite so easy in Manchester or Newcastle.