SIDELINE CUT:The "wacky" character act became increasingly offensive to women and it was amazing Channel 4 were as acquiescent in championing him for as long as they did

JOHN McCririck is – or was – the last remaining proof that being disturbingly eccentric was no hindrance when it came to making a career on television.

The only surprise at yesterday’s announcement that Channel 4 are dropping McCririck from their racing coverage was that the man managed to last until the year 2011.

For years he managed to celebrate openly chauvinistic and sexist views in broad daylight in which he established his attitude to women as ranking somewhere between the philosophy of Bernard Manning and the comic smuttiness of Benny Hill.

McCririck’s job was to add a splash of colour around the paddocks during England’s best racing festivals. He literally couldn’t be missed: a big lumbering figure who dressed as if he had been given licence to raid ITV’s period costume wardrobe with impunity, mixing Brideshead-era boating attire with smoking jackets and hats that evoked Sherlock Holmes and always sporting a set of whiskers that made him appear as he effectively was: a man from a different time and century.

He spoke like a toff, puffed on Lusitania cigars and clearly gloried in the complexities and fast-shifting energy of the betting odds in the build up to big races.

He delivered his regular updates on the pre-race betting with a mid-ranking stage actor’s flourish and complemented his spiel with the hand signals of the betting world which practically nobody understood but which helped to make him appear as a savant of the numbers game.

McCririck was a sort of counterpoint to the gentlemanly demeanour of Peter Sullivan, the doyen of racing and by all accounts as gallant as that great voice of his suggested.

Big John roamed amongst the punters and engaged with them and they liked to gather around him when he spoke to camera. When you demand attention as McCririck did, it is fairly inevitable you are going to get it and, on more than one occasion, his bulletins were interrupted by tipsy punters acting up behind his back.

And on more than one occasion, McCririck duly erupted, turning in the middle of his broadcast and roaring “behave yourself” like an irate schoolmaster straight out of Greyfriars or employing one of his favourite reprimands: “You toe rag. GROW UP.” The general barmy way with which he dealt with people enhanced the notion of McCririck as one of England’s lovable oddities.

But in recent years, that notion began to dissolve. Once the vogue for reality television took its grip, it was only a matter of time before the roving eye of celebrity fascination fell on McCririck, who was more than willing to swap parade rings of Newmarket or Aintree for a turn in the Celebrity Big Brother house, when he was memorably housed with Germaine Greer.

It was then that McCririck was seen by millions rather than just the racing fraternity which put up with his questionable politics for his unquestionable command of racing statistics and history and the hyper-cleverness of his delivery. Within the last decade, though, McCririck’s worldview was becoming glaringly loony. Even amid the daft and damaged cast who featured on Celebrity Big Brother, McCririck’s moral compass gave cause to concern when it came to his views on women.

He was always willing to defend his blatant chauvinism to anyone who appeared on a morning television show alongside his wife Jenny – whom he affectionately refers to as “The Booby” – to boast that she “does all the cooking and is quite good in bed so what more do you want from a woman?”

He made Alex Hammond, the Sky sports presenter, visibly uncomfortable when he quizzed her on air about her interest in motorcycles, chortling as he advised her to wear leathers as it would “turn us all on”. (I’ll be on your pillion,” he hooted).

Alan Titschmarsh ejected him from a television chat show after he was rude to a female guest. He gloried in his behaviour and trusted that viewers – and his television bosses – would see him as harmless.

For some, McCririck was a loathsome character. To others, he was a delightfully unreformed figure in a world made grey and dull by political correctness. He was hard to figure out: racing commentator Julian Wilson, who went to school with McCririck in Harrow once observed that “his whole life was an act”. One interviewer described him as having “all the charm of an armpit”.

But look behind the carefully constructed wackiness of the costumes and the mad-but-harmless-uncle routine and what you left with was just another grouse with a blinkered view of women and an equally narrow set of opinions on everything from social welfare to technology.

Yesterday, McCririck put Channel 4’s decision to put him out to pasture down to another victory for “ageism”.

McCririck is 72-years-old now and there is an undeniable truth in the cruelty of television: once presenters reach a certain age, their bosses want nothing more than to lock them in an attic and replace them with someone younger.

Channel 4’s big coup was recruiting Claire Balding, whose bright and effortless presentation of the BBC’s Olympic coverage left her co-hosts floundering in her wake. Tanya Stevenson, who used to work the betting rink with McCririck and was treated by him much as magician Paul Daniels used to treat his glamorous assistants (McCririck referred to her as “The Female”) will now take over from his job.

McCririck’s absence marks the end of an era which needed ending. His genius was to present himself as being slightly battier than Lord Sutch and the rest of the Raving Loony party. But in reality, he was no different than the long line of inhabitants of the Big Brother house, those fallen or never-to-be stars who were willing to say and do whatever was necessary just to stay public and known and needed. He wanted to be a television star and he created his own madcap character.

Yesterday, he admitted that he was devastated by Channel 4’s decision and there are bound to be some who will lament the day and observe that racing – and television – has lost one its last characters.

The best thing that could be said for McCririck was that he highlighted the vanilla suaveness which dominates so much sports coverage now – shirts and jokes starched to death and safe, middle-of-the-road conversation.

McCririck had spirit and an occasional glint of brilliance. But he was offensive to women and it was amazing Channel 4 were as acquiescent in championing him for as long as they did.

“There’s only one moron allowed on TV,” Big John boomed one on occasion when an exuberant punter tried to share some screen time with him. “And it’s me.”

Well, not anymore. The betting has closed.