By virtue of the fact that I'm a terminally irritable grump, it's almost impossible for me to enjoy any televised charity event. Last night, watching Children in Need 2009 Rocks the Royal Albert Hall (BBC One, Thursday, 19 November, 8pm) I again found myself sneering and flicking birds at the screen.

Whilst the cause is noble, it's hard to swallow the mewing requests from various fat blokes off the TV. James Corden, Chris Moyles, Peter Kay... I'm looking squarely at you. If you want The Great British Public to dig deep in a recession, then perhaps you shouldn't display your gluttony quite so candidly, eh?

It's a bit like someone telling a homeless man to be self sufficient and half choking on some crate veal before the sentence is out.

Naturally, this idiotic line of thinking on my part saw me sniping at the incredibly wealthy pop stars that paraded around the stage. Robbie Williams, famous for yelling "I'm rich beyond my wildest dreams!" doing his flabby whiteyrap with an outstretched hand asking for our wages... well... you can see where that's going can't you?

In addition to all that, a procession of the blandest, most uninspiring horseshit you've ever rested an ear-drum against. Annie Lennox turned up with her beige menstrual mawk-pop, whilst Katherine Jenkins looked like a Daily Telegraph wet-dream in her Grade 3 P-opera. Paulo Nutini buckled over with his sense of self-importance and Paul McCartney, genius that he is, mugged away with his face that looked like it had been trapped in an invisible sock.

Don't even get me started on the idiotflume Fearne Cotton or f***ing simpleton landfill voidpopsters Snow Patrol.

That said, even the biggest jerk-off like me can soften. Amongst all the non-events were some fine and baffling TV moments. It was only this morning that I managed to find my jaw on the floor after having seen Dizzee Rascal rap with Dame Shirley Bassey (who, incidentally, owned the show).

There, in the middle, was pop's oldest shoulder, Gary Barlow, singing away with Next marionettes, Take That, who managed to have a little on-stage moment hugging old chum/adversary Robbie Williams. Oh, and Lily Allen looked really, really fit.

I know all these arguments against are well-worn and tired, but they consistently rear their ugly heads cometh the hour of (Children in) need. However, like always, all complaints are Rizla-thin, because, even at its lowest ebb, things like this are wonderful. They raise money for a good cause and when you're not punching the air at great pop music, you can simply revert to the moaning old twat you usually are... and both are equally fun.

Tonight, get the claws ready as the Eastenders cast celebrate 50 years of Motown and the newsreaders show us that they own legs for the millionth time.