THINK of the women who keep cropping up on TV - the newsreaders, the sports presenters, the weathergirls - and your mind will almost certainly be filled with a veritable vision of loveliness.

For starters, there's a bevy of Kirstys (Gallagher, Young, Wark). Then picture, if you will (oh, go on, guys, it's not difficult) the likes of Suzi Perry, Gabby Logan and the luscious Carol Voorderman.

If posh totty's your thing, there's Tara P-T and Trinny and the other one. For those who like their ladies a little more, shall we say, down to earth, there's Jordan and Jodie.

For the older gentlemen, there's Jennie Bond; for the boys there's Fern Cotton; and for those in between there's oodles of what the Americans call "eye candy".

What I'm trying to say is women who appear regularly on telly tend to be younger and better looking than their bloke counterparts.

From Sandy Gall (squashed schnozzle) and Reggie Bosanquet (voluptuous wig) to Wogan and Parky (respectively, huge ears and eyes baggier than the Ritz's luggage room), age and looks have never proved to be much of a barrier for men.

But in all my years of telly-viewing, I don't think I've seen a more careworn and dispiriting visage than that atop the gangly frame of Bob Geldof.

Two hour-long programmes on successive nights (Monday and Tuesday) on Channel 4 stringently applied the now-famous Ronseal Principle and gave us exactly what it said on the tin (or, a touch more accurately perhaps, in the listings).

Geldof on Marriage and Geldof on Fathers - both full of anger, bitterness, frustration and despair. They were also full of Bob.

Whether he was talking to put-upon husbands and dads, or go-getting government ministers, there was never any doubt that Bob knew damn well who was the star of the show. Himself.

One father burst into tears, devastated that he couldn't see his children more often. But the camera wasn't just focused on him, and, as he sobbed, Saint Bob leant across to lay a healing hand on the poor man's arm. Soon, naturally, all was well again.

As Children's Minister Margaret Hodge blathered on, or Germaine Greer pontificated in that strident "Strine" way of hers, Geldof glowered, scowled, scoffed and cursed.

And this archetypal Grumpy Old Man now very much looks the part. His thatch of hair is almost white, so too his permanently-lowered eyebrows. Even his body language is livid - long skinny limbs crossed, chin jutting, feet tapping and fingers thrumming with impatience.

But it's the face that gets me. It's surely the most fascinating fizzog on the box - like an unmade bed or an old sofa.

The trouble is, the way he looks quite often distracts from what he says. No bland, blond, made-up himbo he - but maybe it would be better if he were.

His personality - his larger-than-life, uglier-than-sin, in-your-face and up-your's-mate attitude - actually detracted from the message he was so desperate to get across.

There's nothing wrong with a well-argued polemic, of course. A fiery first-person piece is fine. But Geldof's no John Pilger.

His travails with Paula, Michael Hutchence and the kids have been well-documented. He's got issues, as the Americans say, and he's not slow to share them.

But it's surely too simplistic to blame the breakdown of society on hussies dumping their hubbies, leaving behind a whole generation of latch-key kids who inevitably turn out to be thieving louts with little education and no respect for no one or nuffink. Yes, the so-called permissive society has led to many people having several partners throughout their lives. But that's surely better than spending unhappy decades together for the sake of subsequently seriously unhappy children.

And isn't it odd that a one-time rock star has somehow become the figurehead for the mythical middle-class Middle England way of life?

I suppose that's part of the appeal for the bigwigs at Channel 4 - take a bloke who looks as though he's been dragged through a hedge backwards and turn him into a male Mary Whitehouse - but I don't think it works.

Get Bob a facelift and a new wardrobe - and tell him to get off that soapbox - and you might have something.

No, make that something even better. Because, for their many faults, the Geldof programmes still smashed most of the other tripe on TV for a six so big it wasn't just over the ropes, or even in the crowd, but steepling over the stand and bouncing down the road after the number 21 bus.