In olden days a glimpse of stocking was looked on as something shocking, but heaven kno... anything goes.

Thank you, Cole Porter. The song said it all. Anything really does go these days.

Now it's not just a glimpse of stocking, or even just stocking tops.

A night out in any town or city will show bare midriffs with bejewelled navals on display, plunging necklines and skirts the size of belts. And that's just the men.

I'm not complaining, you understand. I am just prattling on about the way society has changed.

But the world has seen it all before, and these matters usually turn full circle.

No better example is there than sport - and its spectators. You don't have to have lived as long as me to have noticed shocking changes in sport of every description.

Take darts. I watched some of the world championships on the telly at the weekend, and it looked a different game to that we used to see 20 years ago.

For one thing, there was not a drinker's gut to be seen. Nor hardly a nasty bri-nylon shirt. Darts matches used to be grudge matches between Big Belly and Even Bigger Belly.

Most of today's deadly-accurate contestants are young, manicured and bespectacled, as if they have just left their briefcases at the door and popped in for a quick game of arrows before returning to the office.

Even darts legend and commentator Bobby George has dropped his sequinned cloak and candelabra (that's how he used to make his entrances to darts matches, folks, to the accompaniment of Queen's We Are The Champions).

Mind you, he cannot escape his youth. He still sounds like a 100-a-day man with a voice that resembles a tenor Doberman with a sore throat.

At least the darts audiences are remaining true to tradition. The big competitions are usually held in some huge, licensed club, and the male and female supporters are still nicely rowdy, glaze-eyed and decked out in daft hats or fancy dress.

But the players themselves are never seen touching a drop. Like snooker players.

Remember the good old days when they would sit in their seats between shots and guzzle away at a pint of something, with cigarettes burning away in their ashtray to support the tobacco company sponsors.

Now, they sip delicately at a glass of sparkling water (though we don't know if there's a dash of vodka in there, do we?) and radiate the essence of clean living. Snooker audiences have cleaned up their act as well. Yes, they encourage their idols, but you can see some of them going blue in the face trying not to cough while a player is performing a delicate shot.

Then there's football. What has happened to all the scrapping between supporters? Mostly, the barmy armies are content to leave the fighting to managers on the touchline - or parents at a school soccer game.

And is this a good time to mention the c' word, cricket? Once upon a time it was the domain of gentleman. Support for a team was restricted to a gentle applause for a fine shot or catch or fallen wicket. Women were confined to the clubhouse to make tea and sandwiches. And, Great Scott, players had to wear white.

These days you can hardly hear the commentary for the chanting of crowds who have consumed a year's worth of lager in three days. And that's just the girls. Mind you, after our Ashes performance, English supporters can be forgiven for being driven to drink.

Where's it all going? The world's topsy-turvy. Football without fighting? Darts without drinking?

Soon, competitors will be taking part in the sex Olympics fully-clothed; bikinis will become office wear; and perhaps - one day - young people of both genders will set off for a January night out on the town actually wearing coats or jumpers.