It just isn't right!

So Gordon Ramsay, Swearlebrity Chef, has upset the Australians. Not just the Catholic Chruch, mind you, but regular Aussies who actually don't want their kids listening to the f-word three times in every sentence per half hour show.

According to an article on metro.co.uk Ramsay "prompted outrage when one episode of his TV show featured him using a four-letter expletive more than 80 times in 40 minutes". Eighty times in forty minutes? I know completely uneducated people who don't have to resort to swearing that often to get a sentence said. So, what's the deal with Ramsay?

Here's a man who appears to be a brilliant chef. At least the Michelin Stars he's been awarded would have one believe so. He's got children who no doubt want to see Dad on TV, and his shows are aired on the cooking channel. What would posses him to think that the f-word would be welcome that often and in those settings? Again, we must assume the man has reasonable intelligence, so it can't be complete stupidity.

Many years ago my mother's brothers came back from their stint in WWII. At the Sunday lunch table, Robert - who had served as a medic and was never quite the same again - said the word "bloody". My grandfather apparently sent him to his room for swearing in front of ladies and children. A grown man who had fought a war was sent to his room for "unacceptable behaviour"!

I wonder what Grandpa would say today if he turned on a TV set to watch a cooking programme and heard Ramsay's potty mouth in action. I wonder what Ramsay's children are allowed to say at home or at school. I wonder how long it will be before Ramsay realises that the f-word said that often tends to desensitise people to it, and he starts using the c-word. I wonder why we put up with it.

Not being a prude, I have been known to use expletives along an entire city block. I repeat foul jokes when I think they're funny and I have no problem with the "f" word every now and then. But when the word pops up more often in your sentences than the letter "e", there's a deeper issue that should be looked at. By a professional.

Essentially, it's the unravelling of society that gets me. Things that were unacceptable ten years ago are commonplace today - swearing on television, blasphemy (except when it involves a prophet), stabbing a kid who looks at you funny in school . . .

How far to we have to go before we are no longer a civilised society? How long before we come full circle and ripping into raw, bloody meat with hands and teeth is acceptable again? Not far and not long, I think. Sadly, we believe we'll notice when something "big" happens that rocks our civilisation.

Here's the deal: Apathy does not wear a bright red jacket and announce its arrival. It merely erodes our values, morals and standards until one day we wake up and realise nothing big has to happen. All the small things have happened already so that swearing, stabbing, drugging, fornicating and everything else is no longer shocking.

We watch wars on TV and forget that those are real people being bombed; somebody's Dad and son and brother. CCTV cameras on every corner of British cities capture shots of drunken children killing other children. We eat dinner while we watch.

So what does this have to do with a stream of foul language on a cooking programme? Just about everything. A man who should be revered for his talent and skill can't seem to speak properly, and youngsters hear it. Whether we like it or not, youngsters emulate adults. If Gordon Ramsay can do it and still make that much money, it must be a good thing. If Amy Whinehouse (spelling intended) can fall all over the place, allegedly beat people, sing about the joys of "rehab" and then get rewarded with five Emmys, the message to youngsters is fabulous: Snort, baby, and be rich and famous.

I sound old, I know. I think I am because I remember having heroes like Gary Player, Sidney Poitier, Emmylou Harris and a host of others who won their fame - and a place in my heart - through talent and hard work. Not one of them ever had to rip a chicken's head off or speak like a lavatory to be remembered.

Just as I stage my tiny little one-person boycott of singers and other "stars" who make kids think drugs are fun, I am now staging a tiny little one-person boycott of all things Ramsay. I know that 31% of Londoners would vote Ramsay for Mayor, but I'll take that from whence it comes, too. I visited London some years ago and she's an ageing actress who has forgotten to remove years and years of make up. She offers only three things that delighted me: Harrods, Hamleys and a relatively inexpensive ticket to Ireland.

Funny thing about rewarding disgusting behaviour is this: We create more of it. Whinehouse slugs drugs and wins. Ramsay spews filth and earns millions. Bet if I write "Muhammad Yunus" here, most people will have to Google him to find out who he is. And that, my friends, is the unravelling of society. And it's just not right.

Right, let's talk altruism . . .

The greatest communications event of our lifetime, the Internet has given rise to new strains of mankind. Chief among these is the Armchair Altruist.

While many of us are Armchair Athletes and play a better game of anything than the guys who are paid millions to physically participate, the Armchair Altruist doesn't just shout from the sidelines. No, he or she sends e-mails - hundreds of e-mails - to let you know what a crappy state the world is in; to ruin your supper with pictures of starving kids in Ethiopia; to let you know that even though you're an abomination, Jesus loves you.

There's the mail that tells you about the electricity price hike; the perfume salesman who is going to mug you and shove you in the boot/trunk of your own car; the Spotted Owl Dilemma in Alaska that YOU can change if you just sign here; the pair of green shoelaces tied to your gate that indicates a burglar is "communicating" with his gang and you're going to be robbed; the gang member who flashes his lights at you on the highway and if you flash back you get kidnapped and taken to Outer Mongolia as a sex slave. The list is endless - and all the information is bad. It's like having your unhappily married up-country aunt pop up in your mailbox every three minutes to tell you what a drag life is.

Now, the Armchair Altruist hasn't quite worked out that if you send a mail to fifteen people and ask them to sign a petition (which must then be forwarded to a non-existant government official), each person who receives that mail is going to be, say, Number Ten on their list. The first fifteen people they send it to are all going to be Number Eleven. How many Armchair Altruists must sign this bloody thing before one of us becomes Number Five Hundred and forwards it?

Perhaps it salves the conscience to be doing something. Most Armchair Altruists wouldn't dream of getting off their butts and marching in a peace rally; voting for a candidate in real life; sending hard cash to the starving; or tying themselves to a tree to save the Spotted Owl. Once they asked South Africans not to fill up with petrol on ONE specific day. The garages were packed. I suppose these people had sent an e-mail and felt they had done their bit already.

Now, I'm all for getting the word out there. Tell people how things really are so they don't just believe what they see on the news. But don't make me sign a daft little e-mail - usually badly written and never read by anyone who can do something. Don't make me forward it to all of my "contacts" or some armless war victim won't get fed for a month. If you care that much, go visit him and take some food with you.

I am not without compassion, but I am getting very tired of - not to mention "desensitised" by - the bad news mails that keep appearing in my mailbox. Funny, they always seem to come from the same people, too. The ones who would do well to fix their own lives before they embark on the cause of the electricity price hike killing off Spotted Owls.

I may not be right about this, but I have a thought: Either get off your Altruistic butt and DO something, or be like an Armchair Athlete and treat the whole thing as a game.

Knowing right from wrong

"Thou shalt not be a victim, thous shalt not be a perpetrator, but above all, thou shalt not be a bystander." - Holocaust Museum, Washington D.C.

Shame on the United Nations for allowing Robert Mugabe to speak at its World Food Summit in Rome. Shame on the British and Australian delegates who were "upset", but apparently not enough to get up and leave. Shame on the world for continuing to invite this person to functions - or at least letting him in when he arrives.

When the last Zimbabwean has been murdered, starved to death or thrown off his land, I hope you will ask yourself: Have I been a victim? Have I been a perpetrator? Have I be a bystander? If you have done nothing to make the voices of the starving and tortured heard, you have been all three.

When each of us says in our hearts, "We must never again allow another holocaust", we are. Now. And the United Nations is a bystander. I may not be right about much, but I'm not wrong about this. Shame on them.

Is that right?

Saw a news poster on a street pole today that said "The world wants Obama". Gee, not long ago the world wanted Osama - and were prepared to pay good money for someone who could get him.

It's not that I don't like Obama. No, really - I don't even know the bloke. But with the world slowly unravelling, wouldn't it make sense to have a strong leader at the helm of one of the world's superpowers? Hell, I like self help books as much as the next person, but to have a walking, talking one in the oval office would be downright scary.

The first clue should have been the endorsement by Oprah. Any endorsement by Oprah means "schlock" . . . gooey, touchy-feely, perhaps motivational - but, like the lose-it-quick diets she endorses - may be hazardous to your health.

I won't even start on why it would take someone over 20 years to discover his metor is a dingbat - and then still defend him. I just smile wryly at a politician who wears his flag on his lapel when he's addressing the most patriotic of US workers, and takes it off for crowds like his wife who have "never really felt a part of" the American way. What really did it for me was a little thing. One sentence. The one that he shouted to the people of Philidelphia: "We're going to change the world!"

K, Barak . . . come on over. We could use some change. American small change, in fact, which is worth seven times here what it is in your country. Come and change the fact that thousands of black people have just been rendered homeless in South Africa by other black people. Go to England and change the fact that every day some kid kills some other kid in a brutal stabbing or shooting or plain old yobbo beating. Take a trip to Myanmar and change the lives of all those who are also homeless and starving. C'mon, fella - you're the one who is going to change the world!

See, it's not the sentiment that gets me. It's lovely, sweet - very Oprah. It's the follow through that so many Americans appear not to have thought about. How, exactly, Senator, are you going to change America and change the world? Game plan, Bud. Give us a game plan.

It's a sad state the world is in when we're so desperate to have someone else come in and fix our personal issues that we're willing to vote for anyone who promises change. We don't care that he has no plan, no real means of changing the world. Just please change it. Quickly!

See, I have a plan that would change the world. Just as football clubs can buy the best players from anywhere around the globe and have them play for England or Brazil, I think we should be able to buy politicians. And don't tell me they're not for sale.

I'd buy the Clintons for the South African government. I'd buy Condy Rice and make her Minister of Health, since ours is a dingbat. I'd put up some money for a few of the Scottish MPs because they're grumpy and straightforward, and I'd buy Bertie Ahern because he's lovely and has that fabulous Irish accent. Finally, I'd buy Kalkot Mataskelekele , the President of Vanuatu, currently ranked number one on the Happy Planet Index. (I know, I also had to Google the country. But it appears to be happiest country to live in outside of Disneyland.)

Now, Mr Obama, that's how you change a country - and the world. Start by acknowledging those who have been around longer than you; those who have a game plan; those who take seriously their countrymen's desire to live happily and peacfully. But remember, like you, I'm not always right.

Always writing, not always right

Even the most snobbish of writers would eventually have to succumb to the lure of The Blog. We're opinionated, you understand, and blogging gives us a place where we can air our views without offending potential clients, getting fired from sleazy press rooms and ticking off the person who's about to finally pay his long-overdue invoice.

Freelance writing is about learning new industries, keeping up with trends and keeping your opinions to yourself until you can retire to that beach cottage and write the Best Selling Novel. Your day begins with a picture of the beach cottage in your head and the sound of waves in your ears. When you realise it's your computer - the life blood of your business - making the wave-y noise, you're wide awake. If you're a lucky, busy freelance writer - and I am blessed this way - your computer boots up and your phone rings and the "briefs" come in.

Now here's the thing about briefs: If you're fortunate enough to have diverse clients like I do, your briefs will range from an almost perfectly written article asking you to write an article, to a three minute call from the mobile phone in a BMW asking for "another article like the last one, only updated, see".

It's all good practise, and many of your clients may well become character in your Best Selling Novel. If you come from circus family as I do - we're The Flying Faux Pas - you'll "get" the most inane brief and run with it. If you don't, you should look at a comfy job in a corporate environment where requests are made in triplicate and instructions come in all your country's official languages.

Freelancing is not for sissies. But it beats listening to some radio personality's opinion for two hours in horrible Johannesburg traffic. If you're a radio personality, no offense. I'm always writing, but I'm not always right.