Come on, lads, own up now. Have you ever, or have you ever wanted to, dress up in women's clothes?

A friend's wife has this long-held theory (verging on obsession) that at some stage in his life, every man has, or will, dabble in a bit of cross dressing.

I reckon she must have misheard men talking about how they'd love to get into a woman's clothes, but no, she's adamant. And she's not admitting whether her theory holds true with her husband.

So I got to thinking back through my murky past, trying to recall whether I'd ever done a Danny La Rue.

I once put on my mum's pinnie to help her bake some lemon curd tarts. Does that count? I remember polishing off my rusks, knocking back my baby milk and jumping down from my high chair to assist. I was 28 at the time.

Mmm, and I once took part in a charity soccer match where my team - the Flying Ducks - were all dressed as Hilda Ogden. And that's about it. Not very salacious at all.

Mind you, if I tried to wear my wife's clothes they'd drown me. And so would she.

But you do hear some horror stories about women coming home and finding their plain old husbands parading in front of a mirror in full, sexy-undie get up, fishnets, the lot.

I remember our milkman calling for his money at one of my former homes one evening with a huge grin on his face. He had called at a neighbour's and the man of the house answered the door in his wife's stockings, suspenders and knickers - with full face make-up.

He tried to explain he was getting ready for a Rocky Horror Show, at which the audiences are always as freakily dressed as the cast, and asked that he please not mention it to anyone.

The milkman promptly told the story at every house in the street. I also know of a party of 15 male teachers not a million miles from York who twice a year visit a town in France on a football tour. Even I know there are only 11 men in a football team, but they need plenty of substitutes because of the drunken injuries en route.

From the moment they leave home, no matter where they are, they must wear a hat. If anyone is caught without one, he has to wear "the dress" for a day. For each tour a member is nominated to choose and buy an outrageous frock.

So far, victims caught hatless have had to wear the frock on the cross-channel ferry, on the Paris underground (where there were plenty of other men in similar outfits, apparently), in hotel lounges and at a civic reception in their honour when they arrived at the French ville. Weird or what? And these are the guardians of our children's education and welfare. Talk about Please Sir, er Miss!

There's a fair bit of cross-dressing on our river banks, as well. Lots of those hunky-looking anglers wear their wives' tights under their waders to keep out the cold.

Even a former Lord Mayor of York once admitted to wearing tights under his robes for services in the cool of York Minster. Les Dawson and Roy Barraclough made a mint out of their transvestism, so did naughty "Ooh, you are awful" Dick Emery waddling along in miniskirt and stiletto heels.

But, apart from cold cash, I just don't see what the thrill is. And skirts must be so draughty.

Anyway, women are just as bad. They wear trousers, even trilbies, shirts and ties, and they're not the butch ones. Yet nobody pillories them for their fashion statements.

Mind you, I've never seen a female in Y-fronts, nor do I ever want to.

I must not be so negative.

They do say about most things in life "if you've not tried it, don't knock it." Must get round to Ann Summers for a new Friday-night outfit.

Updated: 09:38 Tuesday, July 26, 2005