Diana Ross, yes. Jonathan Ross, no.

BBC4 is almost worth the licence fee in itself. I wrote in The Guardian about the fantastic football documentaries on the channel recently, and today I have been catching up with some of the Motown programmes broadcast to mark the 50th anniversary of the greatest label in the history of pop music.

A few thoughts struck me, especially after Motown At The BBC, a programme compiling performances of the label's artistes on the BBC from 1964 to almost the present.

I could not help being impressed by the professionalism of people like The Temptations and the Four Tops, used to being backed by the Funk Brothers, having to sing live with the house bands on those light ents shows so popular in the '70s, fronted by Lulu, Julie Felix, and other acceptable light music figures. There were fine musicians in those bands without a doubt, but not what you would call groovy. The Motown people undoubtedly struggled, with the god-like Levi Stubbs playing it for laughs quite effectively on I Can't Help Myself on, I think, the Lulu Show.

Gladys Knight didn't struggle, though, in a 1973 performance of Midnight Train To Georgia (actually made for the Buddah label) on Top Of The Pops. I had forgotten how truly brilliant Gladys Knight was. She may have had the most soulful voice on Motown - with the obvious exception of Levi. Her original of Heard It Through The Grapevine defines commercial funk.

It was the best thing on the show, and in complete contrast to the typically self-indulgent staging of Heatwave on Jools Holland's show, with Jools himself tinkling the ivories, various other luminaries on the jam session, and cutaways of Al Murray in the crowd. Martha Reeves, bless her, who does so much to keep the Motown candle burning brightly, was just not at the races.

If you want to recapture the rush of excitement you had when you heard Heatwave for the first time, try Joan Osborne performing it with the Funk Brothers in the film Standing In The Shadows of Motown (also on You Tube - what isn't?).

It's one of the sexiest performances ever captured on film. If you look up the meaning of the expression "up for it" in the dictionary, you'll find a picture of Joan. She has a child by one of the Grateful Dead with whom she toured for a few years, but says she enjoys sexual encounters with women as well. I just throw that in for all my one-handed readers.

Thanks to BBC4 for bringing all this joy to an old man, and let us not forget BBC3 either, home of Family Guy. These are the two jewels in the BBC's crown, alongside Radio Four and Five Live - mainly for Fighting Talk.

Not much use for the rest of it, I am afraid. Radio Three used to get my custom on a Sunday night when Andy Kershaw was there, and I thought BBC local radio a useful service when it employed me.

Frankly, since I left I have only ever listened by accident, or for the purposes of my Guardian radio column. Not to say it did not perform a useful public service in keeping people like Anne Diamond (Radio Oxford) and Henry Kelly (Berkshire) off reality TV shows, and enabling people like me to entertain a tiny coterie of followers with filth and quirky opinions late at night. But now it is no longer providing a life support system for the careers of people like me, Terry Christian, the great James H Reeve, and others, it is time for local radio to be handed over to the community, to the pirates, to anybody who isn't going to play Holding Back The Years while pleading with the dwindling band of listeners to text in with their favourite flavour of crisps or what the first car they ever owned was.

This is not something I have dealt with in detail in my Guardian column because there are some hugely talented people who work in local radio, and I have some good friends still clinging to that wreckage.

It is the publicly funded, hugely overpaid, entirely unnecessary layer of management, dreaming up national strategies - Dave and Sue anyone? - for what started out as, and should still be, local services. However many focus groups are consulted, these grand plans always come down to the same thing; Simply Red records "for the ladies," and bright and interactive speech breakfast shows (text us or email us now with your favourite biscuit).

Why not a proper, intelligent, non-patronising oldies station, playing genuine r 'n' b, the several thousand Motown records that never get played, the Beatles tracks the GMG stations don't even know exist. Bitter? Well, of course. Why not? It's a potent fuel. Why do you think Craig Bellamy invariably scores when he returns to a former club? If we all sat back, and just respected the opinions of the fuckwit who sacked us - "Yeah, he's probably right. I am shit." - none of us would get anywhere.

As for BBC6 Music, the Guardian has been receiving a fair bit of mail from disgruntled message boarders, and have asked me to do a piece, so I have been listening. I tend to disagree with the demonisation of George Lamb in a lot of the messages to the Guardian. He is clearly a funny guy, something of a force of nature in fact. He reminds me a little of Danny Baker, in that ideas, notions, jokes come tumbling out, often too quickly to make a mark.

What he lacks, though, is warmth, which is quite important on the radio. Sarah Kennedy has it, and Wogan. Kenny Everett had it, and was funny as well. I think Lamb would be better if he slowed down a bit. But what do I know? The key issue is what is the justification for 6Music being publicly funded? Frankly, I have to admit you've got me there. Guardian Media section in a couple of weeks for more on this.

On the subject of forces of nature, by the way, the funniest thing on TV remains Harry Hill's TV Burp. Harry's performance is phenomenal, particularly the way he uses facial expressions almost as catchphrases. The last comedian who did that to any great effect was Tommy Cooper, with whom Harry bears comparison. But it is the gag writing and prodigious research that lifts the show to a higher level. Take a bow, my friend Paul Hawksbee and colleagues.

Finally, and sadly, another once fine show is now withering desperately on the vine. I refer to the emasculated Jonathan Ross on a Friday night. Since the Andrew Sachs incident, a haunted look has been ever present in Ross's eyes. He is trying to be cheeky like before, but something has disappeared for ever, and what we are left with is a sad, unfunny husk, a truth cruelly underlined by the sycophantic laughter from his house band, and the cutaways to the guests giggling, as the dead man, Ross, strokes them.

His fifteen masturbatory minutes with James Corden - and when was it decided he was the funniest man in Britain? I missed that meeting - were excrutiating. I could recommend he remove his tongue from the fundament of his guests long enough to be funny, but I don't think it would work at the moment. He should leave now, give the BBC their money back, and go and work for Absolute Radio until his mojo returns.

Not sure about this blogging business, by the way. Samuel Johnson said, "No man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money." The subscription service starts any day now.