I have a real problem with violence in films. This may surprise some people, especially since I am typically incredibly liberal about such matters, particularly where film is concerned. You can argue it all you like, but people watch films that - to use the clichÈ - glorify violence and, subconsciously or not, they think, pain and violence and sadism is sexy and cool and beautiful.

Last Christmas I caught a news item on the radio. The story was of two girls who had been kidnapped and taken into a car park by a gang who had put pillowcases over their heads, and told one that she was going to hear her friend die, before they stabbed that friend repeatedly in the chest and neck. The second girl received a gunshot to her head - one which, incredibly, she survived.

At that moment I told myself that I just could not justify presenting violence as exciting, or entertaining, or beautiful; nor could I justify others doing it.

I was revelling in the fact that I had this gruesome story to tell…

I’m not for censorship at all, but I am for self-censorship. Filmmakers should take the responsibility themselves. The culprits of the Columbine shootings entered the room of the crime dressed all in black, wearing long leather coats, and punted bullets into everybody there. I think that the first two thirds of The Matrix are truly brilliant. I think that the last third is worthless bilge typical of any Hollywood film; I think that the filmmakers resort to shooting everybody in sight in slow motion and expect us to be entertained.

And we are.

I have a real problem with that.

Tonight, sat in the train sat in the station on my way home, I saw the most disgusting thing I have ever seen one human do to another. It made me feel sick for some time afterwards. It was horrific, and for the rest of the train journey and most of the walk home, I planned this journal entry, and imagined myself telling my friends and my family and others of what I had seen and the horror of it.

And then I realised how passionate I was becoming about the brutal details of this display; how much I was revelling in the fact that I had this gruesome story to tell.

What kind of person does that make me? Any better than those filmmakers?

So this is my challenge to you: don’t ask me what I saw. Don’t think about it, ponder it, don’t begin to imagine it. Close off the sadistic-voyeuristic passions that drive your curiosity on this matter. If you can really escape the powerful desire to hear of human brutality, I cannot commend you enough. For whatever reason or none, we’re developed to lust over that gore, and I have a real problem with that too.