MEN are so boring. Their dress is boring, their conversation even more yawn-inducing. That's why I prefer going over to the other side.

I can safely make this damning criticism of the male gender content in the knowledge that no men read this column (and probably very few women).

It's not so much a battle of the sexes, because we lost that war a couple of years ago, sometime around Adam and Eve. It's more the waving of a sad, white flag.

But women have really blossomed since they handed over the Hoover and the kitchen sink to their spouses. Freed from the shackles of domesticity, their conversation sparkles. No longer is it about the latest leak-proof disposable nappy (why is the wee-wee always blue on the nappy adverts?) or the ideal cooking time for apple crumble; it's about people, periods, the size of their bottoms and - men.

Oh to be a big-eared fly on the shoulder at a girls' night out. Imagine what they are saying about us, chaps. Probably better if you don't imagine, because they will not be talking about us and if they are it will not be flattering. The sighs are reserved for the stud at the opposite end of the room.

Yet men dare not talk longingly about women these days in case they are overheard and are either labelled chauvinist or thumped on the head by a possessive partner.

I hate beer and have a deep loathing for football (whoever christened it the 'beautiful game' wants his shorts shredding). As a lager lout I cannot join in the appreciation of a full-bodied ale with creamy head. That leaves soccer - and that's when I move away and join the women.

Don't mistake it for lust, though the scenery is far more attractive in the girls' corner; and don't mistake it for a latent gay streak (none of my various wives would agree with you).

At the ladies' table we can talk about how to avoid double creases when ironing shirt sleeves, what makes a good lover, how to get wine stains out of a carpet - and how much cleavage and leg to show at different occasions. Now doesn't that beat endless outpourings over Beckham's decline or rejoicing in the efficacious qualities of the widget in a can of John Smith's?

So let's pull male fashions to pieces: I attended a posh, black-tie dinner last week and the penguins were out in flocks, except these characters could not master the penguin waddle until the wine was sloshing around and they did not look half so cute as the real thing.

Some of the more adventurous blokes broke the mould and actually wore red or polka-dot bow ties. Apart from that, it was regulation black. Yet the women looked amazing in silks, sequins, gold and diamonds, slinky off-the-shoulder numbers and risqu split skirts.

Tell me this - why is it that the more formal the occasion, the more flesh is flashed by the women?

Even that over-rated hunk and ultimate dinner-jacket dummy James Bond is only there to play second fiddle to a range of Bond beauties.

I'll bet even the women's eyes are on the girl rather than on 007. That's another thing. I know a lot of blithely heterosexual women who find the female body far more attractive than the male.

Where did we go wrong chaps? In most other species, the male is the fancier of the two. Lions have that great shaggy, Afro hair style while the lioness has a nun cut (with my hairstyle I'd never win the lioness). The peacock struts his magnificent display of turquoise finery, while the male pheasant is the one with all the flash colours.

Even with robins it is only the mister that has the red breast.

If all these creatures could speak it wouldn't be about sport or alcohol, would it? It would be about the thrill of the hunt (sport), over-ripe berries (alcohol) mating (women again) and what colour fluff to decorate the nest (DIY).

So perhaps we are not so different after all.

Updated: 09:10 Tuesday, November 23, 2004