PP: "Bloody hell, man - can’t you find a more cheery way to open today’s conversation? I’ve had a bloody nice morning on the golf course with my old pal Simon Bates, and now I come here and you’re droning on about brown leaves or some other drivel. Is that a lyric from one of these new pop idlers, or one of the toy bands? I tell you what, these bloody kids need a good kick in the arse to sort them out, singing about their roller skates and heroin habits. And before the bloody watershed too! That Simon Cowell is an animal, sucking cash from the minds of dope-addled students and zombified hair-dyed nancy boys. If that’s what passes for songwriting in the year 2004, you can stick it up your jacksie."

QV: "The lyric is from ‘California Dreaming’ by the Mamas and the Papas, released in 1966."

PP: "Well, obviously."

QV: "Yes.... now, Peter, we have a question this week from Kate of Wolverhampton, who has sent us a letter asking, ‘What do you think of ASBOs - are they working?’"

PP: "Of course they’re not working - all these bloody trade unions ever do is go on strike, like a load of bloody communists. I tell you, the best thing Tony ever did was move the Labour Party away from those Stalinist types. Go back to bloody Moscow where they like that kind of thing and don’t ram it down my throat."

QV: "No, Peter, an ASBO is a..."

PP: "Of course, I had to join a union when I started working for the Beeb in the sixties - the actor’s union, Equity. I tell you, nothing but a load of wannabe politicians and limp-wristed theatre types. But I had no choice, because of some bloody stupid rules within the acting community about only allowing Equity members to work on the television. But in some ways it was a good thing, because it weeded out all the dross from the drama schools, and gave you a chance if you’d worked your way up the greasy pole the hard way, in rep, doing the clubs, paying your dues. Nowadays, if you’ve got a GCSE in wearing black and smoking roll ups, you get a ten episode stint in ‘The Bill’. That’s what’s pulling the pants of this country down - too many bleeding heart liberals doing theatre of the absurd on one of these digital channels. Theatre of the absurd? It’s bloody absurd that you’re getting paid for this incomprehensible rubbish. I say to them, ‘Burn your Equity card and get a proper job.’ It’s the only way."

QV: "That’s an interesting point, Peter, but an ASBO is an ‘anti-social behaviour order’. Introduced in the Crime and Disorder Act of 1998 , they are civil orders which exist to protect the public from anti-social behaviour, not as a punishment for the offender. They are community-based orders and involve local people in the collection of evidence and in helping to enforce breaches."

PP: "Well you know my thoughts on this, don’t you?"

QV: "I fear I do, yes."

PP: "The birch. Bring it back, and everything will be alright again. Give these little sods a damn good thrashing and they won’t be needing any Hasbros to protect the community. Instead of stealing cars and shooting off drugs, they’ll be weeding old ladies’ gardens and building birdcages for the spastics, and they’ll be pleased to do it, as well. A bit of discipline goes a long way, let me tell you."

QV: "Mmmm. We’ve got a question here from Michael of Tyneside, who asks ‘What on Earth is wrong with John Noakes? Every time we see him on a ‘Blue Peter’ anniversary programme, he looks progressively more like he’s gone raving mad. What’s up with him?’"

PP: "Well, God bless him, Noaksie isn’t in the best of health upstairs these days, poor sod. The thing is, for some reason, he’s convinced that it’s 1970 and that he’s still in the prime of his youth, presenting ‘BP’ and getting sexy letters from excitable teenage girls wanting to bed him. He can’t get it into his bloody head that he’s seventy years old, and his days of having a rugged, manly physique, and a pert, rounded bottom, are long gone. It’s made worse with all these reunion programmes they keep doing, because he gets surrounded by sexy young nymphs like Konnie Huq, and he’s convinced they want to sleep with him. Of course, in reality, they’re a bit frightened by his accent, and are mildly repulsed by the smells of mothballs and piss from his slacks. They don’t remember him as he was back in the good old days. But I do. Here’s to you Noaksie, you old dog, you - don’t ever let the bastards grind you down. He’s still got a twinkle in his eye, y’know."

QV: "Our final question this week comes from Paul of London, who wants to know what you think of London’s chances of hosting the 2006 Olympic Games."

PP: "It’s a bit of a bugger, this one. There’s one part of me that would love to have the Games here in London, to have the whole country standing proudly in front of the whole world, showing that us Brits are top notch when it comes to putting on a good show. But there’s also a bit of a problem with our athletes, isn’t there?"

QV: "Is there?"

PP: "They’re all a bunch of talent-less, work-shy, arseholes. I mean that in the nicest possible way, of course, but they’re rubbish, and I don’t want to see us get egg all over our faces by having the Games over here, and then not winning any medals, apart from in the crap sports like synchronised diving, and window dressing, and all that namby pamby stuff. Where’s the Sebastian Coe of this generation? Seb was a bloody hero to me, and I remember getting all choked up when I was commentating on his fantastic gold medal in the 1500 metres at the Moscow Games in 1980."

QV: "Yes, that was a particularly memorable moment in the history of British athletics, wasn’t it? In fact, I think we can hear an excerpt from your commentary for BBC television right now."

PP: "...and here comes Coe, bending into the final turn like my classic Lancia at a roundabout. He looks battered, bloodied, and thoroughly whacked, but he’s going to carry on... can he catch up with Jurgen Straub, who’s racing off into the sunset like a great German bomber heading for Coventry, the dirty bastards... What? Oh, sorry, yes... no need for that, of course. Straub, then, zooming towards the finish line like a dachshund after a sausage, but what a heroic performance from Coe, another silver medal after the eight hundred... wait a bloody minute! Coe’s speeding up... he’s catching up with Straub, who’s now puffing like a warthog... Can he level...? It’s not... it can’t be... COME ON, SEB! KNOCK THE KRAUT OUT OF THE WAY, MY SON! GO ON... GO ON... YEEEEESSSSS! IT’S GOLD! IT’S A BLOODY GOLD MEDAL! I’m going down to that track now to give Sebastian Coe a kiss on the lips. He’s won the gold in the 1500 metres, and he’s made the whole bloody country proud to be British today. ‘Rule Britannia... Britannia rules the waves, blah-blah, never never never...something... else’. God save the bloody Queen, and God bless Sebastian Jethro Coe. Now, it’s time to go over to David Coleman in the pool, or somewhere."

QV: "That was... er... quite a unique commentary, Peter."

PP: "It was something special, wasn’t it? And what makes it all the more poignant for me is that it was my last work for the BBC Sports department. What a coincidence, eh?"

QV: "Yes. An... amazing coincidence. Peter Purves, thank you very much."

PP: "Thank you."