Seventies-bashing is all the rage now, as we look back in disgust at the casual sexism, racism and homophobia that seemed to characterise much of TV in the decade that taste forgot.

This week Channel 4 relived some televisual horrors from the time in It Was Alright in the 1970s. It included a scene where Richard Beckinsale's character in The Lovers expressed his frustration over his girlfriend's refusal to get intimate with him, with the unchallenged quip "Oh god, I want to rape her", while the bored housewife in Butterflies voiced a fantasy that ended with her shouting: "I want to be raped". See a theme here?

As a baby of the Seventies I found some of the excerpts jaw-dropping. Of course, what's particularly disturbing is that we are watching them in the wake of Operation Yewtree.

In many ways, the clips from Benny Hill and others demonstrated how much has changed, but before we get on our moral high horse about how far we've come, let's cast our eye over our current output.

This televisual era will surely be looked back upon as the being dominated by reality TV. And what has that brought us? The prospect of seeing two inebriated inmates of Big Brother having drunken sex under a table or duvet, live on TV. Violence to such a level that viewers have to call the police to the studio during a fracas on the same programme.

How many fly-on-the-wall shows claim to be showing the work of the emergency services but are really about showing yet more drunk people make fools of themselves for laughs?

If the shows of the seventies reflected some of the misogynist views of the time, what fresh insight into today's society does I'm A Celebrity ... Get Me Out of Here provide? Bullying is acceptable. People suffering a mental breakdown is comedy gold. If you're a female and want to get on, lather up in the shower and wait for the phone to start ringing. Doesn't sound much like progress to me.

We're undergoing a spot of DIY chez nous that has resulted in me spending far more time than is healthy in soft furnishing departments. As I survey the shelves before me, a thought occurs: is it still possible to purchase a print/cushion/set of coat hooks that has not been defaced by a toe-curling, greeting card sentiment?

If I'm going to the bother of framing a photograph of someone, it goes without saying they're not some random individual, but a person of importance to me. I don't need Friends Make Life Worth Living emblazoned along the frame as a reminder.

Even innocuous kitchen jars proclaim Love, Peace and Joy and where once Tea, Coffee and Sugar would suffice. When it comes to cushions, I just need one to support my head while on the sofa, not pep me up and tell me it will all be OK. That's what actual friends are for.

Like a true friend, a fictional character can stay with you for life, even if it has been decades since you dipped into their world. I can still recall Chris Guthrie wrestling with her choice of a life on the land or entering the world of teaching in Lewis Grassic Gibbon's Sunset Song.

As a schoolgirl reading about Miss Jean Brodie I was as intrigued and intimidated by her as any of her fictional pupils, but a second reading as an adult revealed her to be a far more fragile, desperate creature than I'd first appreciated.

Which is why I'm really struggling to choose my favourite character from a Scottish book as part of a challenge from the Scottish Book Trust to celebrate Book Week Scotland. The poll to find the 10 favourite characters from Scottish fiction closes on Wednesday, with results to be announced on Friday. Decisions, decisions.