So let's get down to sorting out these men

FINALLY, it's my turn. Oh boy!

After reading my dear husband's weekly offerings, as well as others over the past few weeks, it strikes me that male writers use their columns like most men use flash cars - as an extension of their manhood. A sort of flexing of put-upon emotional muscles squeaking 'look at me, all you horrid harridans, you still need me!'

The problem with media men is that for some reason they usually choose extreme stances. It's all retro-machismo, "ah, the days when women knew their place and we could hold a door open without receiving a glare or a black eye".

Either that or it's pseudo new man with his "I understand PMT and am in touch with my inner child - and look, I'll even help you with all those horrid household chores".

Note the "help", as if they are some truculent teen who needs telling to peel the festering T-shirts off their bedroom carpet rather than a fully-paid-up grown-up who surely can see that the house would benefit from a quick 'Hoove'?

To be fair, Him Indoors is not domestically inept in any way - in fact, he irons much more competently than I do, can cook and is, perfectionist time-scales acknowledged, brill at DIY and decorating.

However, I digress. Let's tackle men.

There is the would-be celebrity chef. He cooks but only when there are friends round for dinner, so he can show off his one well-rehearsed Gordon or Jamie special.

This performance involves piles of pans, dishes and mixer attachments, which he abandons, covered in nameless gloop, on every available kitchen surface until the place looks like a scrap-metal yard sprayed with tomato sauce.

The woman in this scenario is reduced to apprentice, picking up the detritus and trying desperately to restore some semblance of order to the culinary chaos before the kids walk through it on their sleepy way to Weetabix in the morning.

He delivers the meal to the table with a flourish worthy of a six-gun salute and, resplendent in a jolly 'bitch in the kitchen' apron, he looks quite non-plussed when no triple fanfare announces his glorious creation.

The whole exercise is planned to point out that as well as being a captain of industry, he can easily manage a little domestic chore which us girls make such a fuss about.

The fact that we only make a fuss because we perform this miracle day in, day out, without decimating the domestic domain, is completely ignored.

That sort of cooking - to keep us all alive - is deadly dull. Like cleaning the loo or sorting the washing. It's not art. It's not Nigella. It's life, guys.

And don't get me started on the loo.

Of course we all know the magical 'loo fairy' who does the nasty little jobs no one else wants. She's great, isn't she? Endless supplies of paper, bleach and a good scrub

But cleaning. Just ordinary everyday keeping the nest fettled. Not the sort of cleaning that men do. Their cleaning is tied to polishing the thoroughbred - sorry, car. You know, that lump of money-guzzling metal that on a good day may get you from A to B.

How can anyone spend practically a whole Sunday cleaning a car for goodness sake? It's half the size of a bathroom. It doesn't get three kids eating yoghurt or trying their artistic hand at finger painting in it every day. The dog doesn't pad through it after that lovely muddy walk in the woods.

Good grief! By that reckoning, it should take us two weeks to clean the house.

The other extremes include the old fogies - aged anything from 18 to 80 - and the lads.

Fogies first.

This bunch amazes me. Probably because my dad brought me up wrong. I was expected to pay my way, use my brain, contribute not cling. So, for those who hrmph hrmph and say we shouldn't be worrying our pretty little heads, all I can say is stop propping up the golf club bar bewailing where the money goes and how 'she' doesn't have a clue and thinks you're made of the stuff.

The lads are as bad. You've seen some on Channel 4's Wife Swap. Unattractive slobs, they behave like hormonally-challenged adolescents. They follow the footie (well, they're too out of condition to participate), hang around leering and pass comments on all the women they see. "Fat, ugly, 'orrid legs".

Sorry, didn't realise you were one of Leonardo da Vinci's masterpieces, mate.

They whistle at girls young enough to be their granddaughters and cannot let a female pass in peace.

Ignoring them, or worse still, standing your ground brings howls of "lesbian" or "frigid". Like we are all desperate to be chatted up by any sad sack allowed out?

They say they don't understand us. What's to understand? Everything we do is done for a good reason - unlike say golf, or fishing or talking about cars.

Dream on, boys - 21st century woman has decided to let you off the hook a little, because never forget that equality is a step down for us.

And that is it on this subject because women always have the last word.

Updated: 09:41 Tuesday, November 18, 2003