IT'S that time of year again. The season of jollity, japery and happiness for one and all. When families come together to do what modern families do best, and slump in front of the telly until late into the night.

No, not Christmas, you ninny, but Children in Need. You know, when St Terry of Wogan takes over the Beeb, with frightening Gaby Roslin and loveable little Pudsey Bear (aah, that cute spotted bandage over one beady eye), and we all sit by the phones, credit cards at the ready, looking to extend a helping hand (purely financial, you understand, not literally a helping hand), to some poor little mites somewhere.

Or do we? Sit by the phones, I mean, or even anywhere near a telly? Personally, I try not to waste too much time in front of the old goggle-box for the other 51 weeks of the year (preferring instead to spend my time more productively: watching paint dry, for example). But when Children in Need's on, I regard the TV rather as I would a plague.

There are two ways of looking at this. Either I'm a miserable old curmudgeon with no sense of humour - or someone who's unimpressed by so-called celebrities making fools of themselves.

If you're about to devote several hours to sitting in a bath of cold custard, you'll probably veer towards the former verdict. But I suspect there are more and more people growing increasingly weary of C-list figures queuing up to be associated with some wacky once-a-year stunt. For example, I'd rather news presenters didn't dress up as characters from the Rocky Horror Show, as it somehow lessens the impact the next time you see them all suited and sober-faced.

And isn't there just the teeniest bit of self-promotion going on - maybe even exploitation - when a scrubbed-up soap actress is shown, on the same channel that airs her fictional travails, stressing over the all-too-real plight of orphans or land-mine victims in some far-off land?

The third version of Band Aid is all set to notch up a 20-year hat-trick by topping the Christmas singles chart. Bob Geldof is a fine man who has done many great things, but he has much to answer for in the way that he started a trend for some truly excruciating records.

And this week's Sunday papers featured a distressing photo of Tory international development spokesman Alan Duncan MP dressed, if that's the right word, in just a Santa hat, red wellies and smug smirk, with only a cardboard cut-out of Lady Thatcher's head atop a ballot box to cover his unmentionables. Why? Well, it's a "saucy Calendar Girls-style stunt", of course, and it's all in a good cause.

The money, you see, will be going to the Make-A-Wish Foundation, which arranges treats for children with life-threatening illnesses - so how could anyone be so churlish as to complain, especially as those nice people at Hunter Wellingtons have gone to so much trouble to sponsor the Embrace Men in Wellies (why?!) Calendar?

Well, it is a tad mean-spirited, perhaps. But how much longer can this go on? You may think that embracing men in wellies has to be somewhere near the bottom of the barrel, but I suspect there's still a long way to go, from grannies in garters to strumpets in stockings.

This is not to decry those of you who raise money in workplaces, pubs and clubs purely and simply out of the goodness of your hearts. There's nothing in it for you but a well-deserved warm glow inside (unless you also gather funds by disrobing).

But surely there must be a better and more dignified way of helping those less fortunate than ourselves than inflicting upon them the gruesome sight of semi-naked celebrity publicity-seekers, accompanied by the banshee-like wailing of Bono and sundry boy band members.