The countdown to the mayor referendum could do with a few things to energise it: a couple more compelling candidates, confirmation on the proposed mayoral powers, and a massive poster draped over Town Hall bearing the wiggy fizzgog of Boris Johnson and the accompanying slogan 'Do YOU Want Another HIM?'.

However, what it really needs is a bit of passion. A bit of a rumble in our urban jungle. Some fiery politicking that enflames the public interest. That passion remained suppressed in yesterday's otherwise worthwhile mayoral debate at Birmingham University.

Yesterday, the issue of media standards finally jumped the shark. Or rather, it loaned the horse.

News International's former boss Rebekah Brooks, stunt double for Pixar's heroinein forthcoming movie 'Brave', was purportedly the recipient of a loaned police horse from Scotland Yard.

On the 12th of January 2011, the front page headline of the Daily Star was 'The End', referring to the (at the time) unconfirmed reports that Katie Price had ended her mutual promotional agreem...sorry, 'marriage' to human punchbag Alex Reid. On the same day, the Daily Express website led with 'Painkillers Increase Stroke Risk,' a story that warned heavy usage of strong painkillers may lead to other health problems. As my colleague Liz sensibly explained, this is a little like running a story warning that eating too many McDonalds will make you fat.

This isn't bad going for Northern and Shell, the newspaper group owned by Richard Desmond. The Katie Price headline is factually incorrect, but give it a few days and it might eventually turn out to be right. The 'painkiller' headline may have a kernel of truth in it, though that's undermined later in the actual story, with the sentence: "Patients were last night told not to panic because the overall risk of a stroke is still very low."

For absolute untruths, it's normally best to wait a couple of days before these newspapers, or their Sunday equivalents, produce something with less factual content than a unicorn smoothie. The problem is, after the 12th of January, Northern and Shell have a lot more freedom to write twaddle. Desmond's newspapers will no longer pay membership fees to the Press Complaints Commission (PCC), the body responsible for the self-regulation of the newspaper industry. Apparently, it's due to 'monetary reasons', which is as believable as many of Northern and Shell's headlines.

I used to live in Moseley. Most of my weekends there were spent recovering from heinous hangovers that made blinking excruciating. Regardless of this incapacitation, I'd be out of bed early doors on a Saturday morning. I had to be. It was the only way to be certain I'd get hold of my newspaper of choice, The Guardian, without travelling to some far-flung land (like Billesley).

Moseley people, by and large, like the Guardian. It's a predominantly middle-class enclave, where the politically correct and the artistically adept co-exist in a cosmopolitan melange of self-righteousness. They are a folk whose perfect weekend begins with FairTrade coffee, an almond croissant and a read through Ben Goldacre's 'Bad Science' column. Thus, by the time my alcohol-induced Saturday fug lifted by lunchtime, Moseley newsagents were bereft of Guardians.

It's a newspaper that holds a strong connection with its audience, such as its many fans in Moseley. Guardianistas revere the paper's columnists and admire its crusading attitude towards issues such as freedom of speech, human rights and 'quack' culture. Generally, if the Guardian's editorial is backing something, then its readers back it too.

With such an intriguing news agenda last year, it should've been a great 12 months for The Guardian. However, even as a devotee, I fear its editorial team will share the sentiments of Fabio Capello, Nick Griffin and Ann Widdecombe's stylist in being glad to see the back of 2010.

My favourite television moment EVER featured Five Star, a UK pop group the Jackson Five could've been, had they been 75% more rubbish.

They were on kids' entertainment show Going Live, cheerfully answering calls from excitable younger viewers. Amidst the standard 'what's your favourite colour?' style of gentle interrogation, one child got on air to put his query to the popstars du jour. The young viewer paused, readying himself for his moment of broadcast glory. Then, he delivered the bombshell question: "Why are you so f*@!ing crap?"

The reaction of Five Star was, ahem, worthy of five stars, taking the criticism with admirably good grace. The reassured look on their faces said it all: 'say what you like, pre-pubescent airtime abuser, watching at home in your jim-jams - we have fame and fortune. You, child, have school on Monday.'

It was an essay in how to handle criticism. Regrettably, during 2010, some of our city's representatives in and around local government haven't always reacted with such grace under media scrutiny.

When I was in my early teens, my hero was flame-haired foghorn Carol Decker, lead singer of T'pau. I still remember the bemused looks on my parents' faces as I excitedly walked through the door, clutching a giant poster of Decker like I'd discovered the cure for the common cold.

In my later teens, my appreciation for music moved beyond the recommendations of Bruno Brookes. It was then a realisation hit me: a watered-down British approximation of American soft rock wasn't going to change the world. My idolisation of the short-skirted chanteuse was laid bare for what it truly was - an adolescent crush on an exotic (look, she was ginger and from Liverpool - that was exotic enough for a boy from Huddersfield). The poster of Decker was casually ripped from the wall. My copy of 'China In Your Hand' was discreetly binned.

That was the first time I realised heroes weren't all they were cracked up to be. When you reach adulthood though, you think you know enough about the world to be a good judge of character. To fully appreciate talent. To admire intellectual rigour.

To choose your heroes wisely.

You expect this to be true of those operating within the more intelligent areas of the media.

But, at 35 increasingly wrinkled years old, I have had my Carol Decker moment once more. This time, it was with Jeremy Paxman.

'Nasty' Nigel Lythgoe. Piers Morgan. Simon Cowell.

This contemporary collection of smuggards has proved it's OK to be objectionable. Acceptable to be aggressive. Cool to be a cad. But why have their ostensibly toxic media personas prevented them from being pelted with baked bean tins each time they walked into Waitrose?

Truth. In the realm of reality, this trinity of gleamingly-toothed telly titans have made millions by telling the truth. If a contestant looks like they've been dressed in the dark by a hook-handed dwarf, and sing like they've spent their entire life gargling with hedgehogs, then viewers want at least one person to say it like it is.

Sometimes though, in the world of PR and marketing, the truth hurts. In the case of Nadine Coyle's career, the truth didn't just hurt - it kicked it flush in the mouth, repeatedly, until it was expelling teeth through its bum.

We Birmingham folk have a peculiar way of showing our appreciation. Look at the askew, ironic fashion we regard our best-loved landmarks.

For example, we have the much-maligned Rotunda, a phallic throwback to over-reaching architectural ideals from the 60s. There's Spaghetti Junction, a fabulously ingenious concrete creation, with a tongue-in-cheek nickname that fails to do its complex construction justice. One of the city's most celebrated statues is known as The Floozie in the Jacuzzi - disappointingly, people are yet to refer to the Statue of Liberty as The Tart With The Torch.

However, if I was to draw a venn diagram where each segment represented 'Cultural Significance', 'Local Renown' and 'Something That's A Bit Rubbish But We'll Praise It Like It's The Sistine Chapel', one establishment would stand proudly, greasily, on its own in the intersection. That establishment is takeaway hole Mr Egg, and I am here to honour its passing. Don't ask me why. I just feel duty-bound.

As a black man, I LOVE reading my daily newspaper and finding endless news stories about lazy black celebrities, features on children abandoned by irresponsible babyfathers, and tongue-in-cheek investigations into the shrinking size of black men's penises.

That paragraph is the dumbest I've ever written. I shall follow it with one even dumber.

If I was a woman, I'd LOVE to read my daily newspaper and find endless news stories detailing how thin (or fat) famous women are, features on how feminism has eroded women's skills in the kitchen and tongue-in-cheek investigations into how promiscuous a woman is depending on what she's wearing.

A wiser man than myself used Twitter a couple of weeks ago to proclaim:

"Wow! The Pope's going down the Hagley Road in his Pope Mobile. I hope the girls in Spearmint Rhino put on an open-air show for him."

That wise man (@josephbush) hit upon one of Birmingham's peculiar juxtapositions. The city is deservedly regarded as an impressive performer on the international stage - the admirable handling of the papal visit further confirmed that.

Simultaneously, the city also seems to be aiming for world domination in terms of a different stage. The type of stage trodden by barely-clad women with adopted monikers such as 'Amber,' 'Storm,' and 'Desiree'.

No, I'm not referring to another 'Gladiators' revival at the NIA. I'm talking about an area of industry that our leading business newspaper covers regularly here. And here. Hang on a mo - it's here as well.

It's almost as if the Birmingham Post wants its readers to start a debate. So let's start it: why is Birmingham so in thrall to lap-dancing clubs?