I'd planned to write about the Jeremy Clarkson N-word controversy, but since everyone else in Britain has already filed 850 words on the subject, I won't. That's both a relief and a pity because I'd thought of a troublesome opening gag that, despite being broadly absurdist and actually rather well-meaning, might have been interpreted as racist itself because it also made use of the N-word, thereby leading to phone calls and apologies and ultimately a public beheading. I typed it out, then deleted it, typed it out again, deleted it again, ummed and ahhed and decided it wasn't worth it. You'll never know what that joke was now. Your life's ruined.

But as luck would have it, another controversial TV Jeremy was in the headlines: Jeremy Paxman, who's leaving Newsnight after 25 years of sustained, despairing aggression; an ongoing sigh for help. Hearing Paxman's leaving Newsnight is like discovering a depressed polar bear that's spent the past decade angrily banging its head against the wall of its enclosure is finally being released from the zoo. You're happy on its behalf but concerned for its future welfare.

God knows what Paxman'll do next. With any luck it'll be a documentary in which a camera crew simply follows him around; a man conditioned to believe everyone he encounters is an evasive liar attempting to rehabilitate himself in the everyday world.

Day one: Paxman enters a newsagent's shop and demands a pack of Juicy Fruit.

"We've run out," replies the newsagent.

"Do you honestly expect me to believe that?" barks Jeremy. "How long have you known about this? Isn't it time you considered your position?" He then repeats these questions ad nauseam until the police arrive.

People roll up for a circus, so if Paxman's replacement is less confrontational, ratings will plummet. The only way to guarantee success is to hop straight to the logical conclusion and trade him with a feral dog. Just a politician in a cage, versus a feral dog, for 45 minutes each weeknight. And to make it interactive, they could position a sort of automated high-pressure mince-hose at the side of the arena, which further enrages the hound by firing raw meat into the ring every time the #newsnight hashtag hits 10,000 mentions.

The anguish over these two high-profile male presenters focused on their professional merits, unlike the other big TV presenter story of the week, a minor furore generated by Susanna Reid, host of ITV's spangly reboot of Good Morning Britain.

I haven't seen Good Morning Britain because it's on in the morning, a time of day I dismiss as mere myth, as tangible as the eighth dimension, but it had a controversial debut. Like most people, Susanna Reid has legs, but unlike most people, her legs aren't merely articulated flesh banisters used for transporting her from one tiny section of planet to another, but emblematic totems by which she must be judged. The problem was that for the bulk of the show's first edition, they were hidden behind scenery.

Some viewers, infuriated at having their early-morning masturbatory plans thwarted, reportedly complained that this was like "buying a Ferrari and keeping it in the garage", which is odd because I thought it was more like hiring a journalist and seating her at a desk.

Later Reid appeared in front of the desk, only to stand accused of crass opportunism. "SEXY Susanna Reid finally unveiled her secret weapons in a desperate bid to halt Good Morning Britain's ratings slide," squealed the Star, going on to claim there were "acres of thigh on show", which smacks of exaggeration, although the camera does add 10 pounds.

Of course, it isn't only women who are judged on appearance, especially in an era of 50in wall-mounted flatscreens dominating the living room like an animated canvas. Whenever I turn up on screen, for instance, viewers complain I'm subjecting them to a glimpse of face, and write in demanding the desk be raised by several metres. Former Daybreak presenter Adrian Chiles was routinely described in terms a bullfrog would object to, and Paxman had passersby pointing and laughing at his beard. But the degree to which Reid's legs were scrutinised felt particularly anachronistic since it occurred at precisely the same time as a berkish Ukip donor was being derided for repeating his view that women shouldn't be allowed to wear trousers. That guy wasn't simply a throwback: he was further back than mere throwing would allow. You'd have to throw him, pick him up and then fire him from a cannon. Piltdown Man saw that interview and wondered what century he was from. But there's little difference between whining that women are wearing trousers and whining that Susanna Reid's wearing a desk.

Aside from anything else, the clear implication is that women's legs are somehow "better" than men's, which is sexist and appalling and untrue. They just don't get the coverage. Paxman's departure generated many watery-eyed tributes to his journalistic prowess, although no one mentioned his shapely pins, which to this day he tantalisingly insists on shrouding in opaque trouser. And then there's Huw Edwards. Night after night he bangs on about Syria without so much as a hint of calf, the pricktease. There's only one thing for it: boycott the 10 O'Clock News until he comes round the front and gets his knees out for the lads. Anything less just isn't fair.