The mothers control the media. I have known this for years, but it was confirmed on Tuesday when a BBC weather presenter ended her bulletin with the words 'stay safe'. A mother's phrase. I have worked with three male editors in my time, and all three still ring their mothers before making a major decision. I have seen a man in his fifties phone his mother to ask whether to run a story about a fox. She said no. He ran it anyway, but he did it quietly, and he felt bad. That is the state of British journalism. You, reading this on your telephone, are a complete nob, and your mother is probably reading this over your shoulder. She is nodding. She is saying 'see, I told you he was like this.' I know. I know, mother.

The lay-by generation

In 1983, I worked in a newsroom run by a man who had been left in a lay-by near Didcot at the age of six and told to find his own way home. He never once asked anyone how they felt. He did not apologise. He did not explain. He did not ask permission. He ate what he was given and he wrote what he was told. That man once cut a story about a famine to make room for a crossword clue. The clue was 'what you do in a lay-by' (six letters). He did not care. That is the difference.

Today we have trainees like Liam. Liam is 23. He wrote a story about a missing dog. The story was cut for length. Liam cried. His mother came to collect him. She parked in the disabled bay. She had a word with the editor. The dog story ran. The dog was never found. The editor now has a standing apology in his diary, written in pencil, next to the words 'Liam's mum'. I met Liam at a conference last year. He asked me if I was 'okay'. I told him I had been left in a lay-by near Didcot at the age of six. He looked at me as if I had confessed to a crime. Twat.

A proposal for reform

I have drawn up a list of measures. I have printed it on A4 and I have laminated it. The mothers will not get their hands on this one.

First, a ban on the phrase 'stay safe' in all broadcasts. It is a mother's phrase. It means 'I have no control over you, so I will pretend to care from a distance'. Second, a requirement that all editors undergo a 'lay-by induction'. This involves being locked in a car park for two hours with no phone and a copy of the 1983 Press Gazette. If they complain, they stay for another hour. If they cry, they are sent home to their mothers. Third, a new editorial code that states 'no story shall be dropped because it might upset someone's mum'.

I have seen this work. In 1987, a man called Derek did the job of 'mothers officer' at the Daily Mail. His job was to intercept calls from parents and tell them, in a firm voice, that their child was busy. He was sacked after three weeks for telling a reader's mother to 'do one'. He is now a successful novelist. That is what we need. That is the spirit. Instead, we have editors who keep a photo of their mother on their desk and a note from her on the fridge. I have seen the note. It says 'remember to eat'. The editor is 58.

The editor's own mother

My own mother, now 94, still phones me every Sunday at 6pm. She asks if I have had a hot meal. I say yes. She asks if I am wearing a coat. I say yes. She asks if I have been 'nice' to anyone this week. I say no. She sighs. I sigh. We both know I will never change.

But lately, something worse has happened. I have begun answering 'yes, mother' to all editorial queries. Last week, a sub-editor asked me if a headline was too long. I said yes, mother. The sub-editor looked at me. I looked at him. We both knew what had happened. He did not say anything. He just wrote 'yes, mother' in the margin and moved on. The mothers control the media, and they control me, and I am the only one who will admit it. You are all too busy checking your phones to see if your mother has texted. She has. She wants to know if you are coming for Sunday lunch. You are going. You always go.

A final word

I have a vision. It is a newsroom with a sign on the door: 'No mothers beyond this point.' It is a junior reporter being asked by his mother, on the phone, whether he is 'sure' about a story, and replying, 'Yes, mother, I am sure,' before hanging up and being applauded by the whole newsroom. That is the future I want. That is the future I will never see.

My mother rang while I was writing this. She asked if I was working too hard. I said no. She said she was proud of me. I said thank you. I am now going to sit in the lay-by near Didcot and think about what I have become. The headlights are off. The engine is off. The phone is off. For the first time in my life, I am not answering to anyone. And it is the most terrifying thing I have ever done.