WALKING down Friar Street in Worcester the other day, my thoughts momentarily strayed from the usual daydream enjoyed in this area, namely the demolition of the multi-storey car park. Instead, I started to observe two youths heading my way.

Many times I have visualised the crumbling of this monstrosity as the charges are set off, a mushroom cloud of dust enveloping Ye Olde Talbot, the demise of the horrendous pile providing a fine spectacle for people emerging from the new cinema.

Ideally it would be filmed, televised, then played back in slow motion. Just for fun, the film could then be set in reverse so that we could remind ourselves of what we were losing. Down, up, up, down, shake it all about. Yippee.

I don't imagine I'm alone in fantasising about the day when the most historic street in Worcester is liberated from the space station that landed there back in those hazy, lazy, crazy 1960s. Fine, you've made your point, aliens. Now kindly take off and return to Planet Zog. Thank you so much.

The youths were now almost level. Standard-issue Kevins, these two - all baseball caps, sunken shoulders, pasty faces, chip-reared acne. I could hear what passed for a conversation, this ubiquitous EastEnders patois, sharp vowels and glottal stops punctuating the mid-morning air.

Well, we now know the full extent of the horror unleashed by EastEnders in the 1980s. These dismal, snarling, throat-ripping 30-minute doses of unbridled aggression have now spawned an entire generation of ersatz Cockneys, an age group whose diction resembles one long, continuous garrulous hiccup.

Yet I could just about withstand the estuarine seepage that has spread like ink on blotting paper from Albert Square to John 'o Groats, across East Anglia and westwards to the foothills of Snowdonia.

For none of this would be that bad were it not for attendant swearing. And believe me, these two youths were pumping the old Anglo-Saxon like there was no tomorrow.

Right. Some honesty before we go any further. From time to time, I swear. Yes, even Phillpott has been known to turn the air slightly blue. After all, most of us do. A little bit, anyway. Some more than others, then. But we should come clean, as it were.

There was a time when what some euphemistically called "ripe" "bad" or "fruity" language was mainly to be found on building site or barrack room. But for years, this has not been the case. For, as we all know, swearing has for long been common in workplaces, pubs and just about every public place you'd care to mention.

The big question is how we feel about this. My suspicions are that more people object to it than is generally realised, accepted or admitted. The silent majority lives up to its name yet again.

There are, however, two kinds of swearing, so we will examine them. One is an exhalation of exasperation, a volley of the vernacular that can be triggered by extreme disappointment or sudden pain.

Examples are responses to the discovery that the wretchedly tedious "sport" of football has shunted the excellent Coronation Street on to a later time, or one's considered reaction upon suddenly slipping from bicycle saddle on to crossbar.

The taking of numerous and various oaths, some alluding to the possible, others to the biologically surreal, is permitted in such conditions. Just as a kettle's spout sings and the lid bangs with the upwards pressure of steam, so does the afflicted person need to let it all out. It would serve no purpose to bottle up such frustrations, indeed might even be harmful. Better out than in.

We will now deal with the second form. With this sub-type, there are generally fewer excuses, although sometimes there is a crossover category. We're now referring to the aggressive, violent, in-your-face swearing that is used purely - or is it impurely - for effect.

YOUNG men are the biggest culprits. You see them lurching down the street all the time, effing this and effing that.

Occasionally, practitioners exhibit almost admirable skill in squeezing an f-word into one of several syllables, as in "nah, I ent gunnoo do it, that's effin' ree-effin'- dik-yoo-luss."

(Translation: I have made a decision regarding the matter and intend not to comply. The issue is not without absurdity).

In such exchanges, the use of swear words is for emphasis. Like nearly everything in Britain today, the origins of this lie across the Atlantic.

Have you noticed how many people these days sound as if they are acting out a scene in a third-rate crime film? Adversaries are threatened with being blown away, their legs broken, or simply informed that they are dead, a truly intriguing form of prophesy using the present tense.

And all this is, naturally, invariably accompanied by a barrage of... yes, you've guessed, swearing. A glance at the court cases recorded in the Evening News will soon prove my point.

Other factors come into play. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind about the inherent sickness of the current fixation with British gangster flicks in which the brutal, gross and just plain disgusting are feted as high art and its practitioners elevated far above their abilities.

But there again, a country which, a couple of months ago mourned the passing of the last of a triumvirate of three of the most vicious criminals in recent history, probably deserves everything it is given. Road rage, air rage and, presumably, any variety of rages-to-come are also symptoms of a nation perched right on the edge.

Maybe it's to do with this overcrowded island of Great Britain. Perhaps we are now jangling each other's nerves so badly that we can only place our hands on the sides of our heads and scream out loud. And swear.

But while there has always been unreasoned adulation of the unspeakable, there was not, until recently, almost universal uncouthness. There is now. This is why I'm quite convinced that the vast majority would like to see the return of a gentler, more polite society and a reduction in the aggression that seems to be present everywhere we go.

It's all extremely politically incorrect, of course, but this makes such a prospect all the more desirable. We desperately need to stop the rot that was partially ushered in and given the seal of approval when Blair invited his incoherent pop star friends to Downing Street. Society must start searching for more suitable role models.

But where such arbiters of taste and good behaviour will be found, I do not know. Britain would have to undergo a sea-change to reverse the trends of the last 40 years. So perhaps - on reflection - it's more realistic to dream of the day when Friar Street will be free of grotesque space stations.