John Lyttle gives a man's response to Chris Evans pledging to go gay for a year
WOKE UP yesterday morning and found that overnight I had become a 100 per cent red blooded raging heterosexual. Immediately kick Andrew out of bed, shouting he's a filthy bum boy and insisting I didn't know where I was and anyway I had been drunk last night. Andrew rolls eyes, said it was way too early to be talking dirty and besides I don't drink and we didn't do anything last night. Details, details. Demanded he step outside. Andrew sighs. "This is one of your straight days, isn't it?" "That's right fruity. Got a problem with that?" Andrew says yes, he does have a problem with that but experience was a great teacher, so he was simply going to pop a Prozac and alert the media. Ignore him. Scratch my arse and sniff my socks to see if there was another day's wear in them. Andrew snaps, "That's attractive" and stomps out.

Went to bathroom. Dropped the kids off at the pool. Refused to flush because I'm a real man. Flung wet towels on floor. Don't bother cleansing, toning, moisturising or back combing either as chicks don't care if a guy has a face like Freddy Krueger. Look at Bryan Adams. Skin so bumpy Stevie Wonder once tried to read it. Decide to skip shower, shampoo and deodorant too and let my musky, masculine pheromones draw the drooling dollies like moths to a flame. Splash on litre of Old Spice as a chaser.

Can of Kestrel for breakfast.

Buy the soaraway Sun. Sit on Tube with legs spread wide apart. Run my eyes over Page 3 for the first time. Nudge person next to me: "Cor! Look at the tits on that!" Old lady gives me startled look, moves to another seat.

Arrive at work. Slap cute security guard on the back instead of the butt. Get into lift. Wait till it's full before breaking wind violently.

Office. Log on. Down to work. Send E-mail to lesbian columnist telling her she's a frustrated old biddy who needs a good sorting out by a man who knows what a woman wants. I'm a riot I am.

Hang out with the gang in M&S shirts, polyester ties and stay-press trousers. Want to be accepted, so stand about with hand jammed hand in pocket and jiggle testicles. Bite back compulsion to talk about Madonna's new video. (You know, the one where Maddie can't get out of the duvet cover she's wearing because there's a hurricane blowing and she keeps turning into a wolf.) Close eyes and picture Oliver Reed vomiting up the contents of a brewery. Urge ebbs. Also find that when weedy little drip from Business boasts about this fabulous bird he's shagged I feel no need to enquire if it was a vulture, bald-headed eagle or gannet. Talk at the top of my voice about football instead, never allowing anyone else to finish a sentence. Pepper conservation with "The ref must have been blind" and "It's a game of two halves" until one guy says he can't pretend any more, bursts into tears and sobs that his father died last night. Long, uncomfortable silence until I ask if that meant he hadn't been able to catch the match. Damn right he had: "We was robbed."

Make unusual discovery. If you're a heterosexual male, gossip and back- biting is dubbed "men's talk". Another discovery. What heterosexual men call banter, heterosexual women call sexual harassment. At least that's what the Arts secretary screamed when I asked if she was wearing tights or stockings. Must be one of those humourless lesbian feminists giving her dungarees the day off.

Decide that being straight I don't need to bother with the gym. Girls are gagging for a big gut and a generous portion of builder's cleavage. Well, the skinny ones are. Those fat cows who've let themselves go just whine about the so-called double standard. This is ignorance. Richard Littlejohn says scientific research proves that the male heterosexual body automatically converts lard into beefcake. The fact that he must be suffering from a testosterone deficiency doesn't undermine his case. Anyhow, skip herb salad for lunch in favour of greasy, artery-clogging fry-up. A man's gotta eat what a man's gotta eat. Hormone-pumped red meat, not battered cod-pieces.

Use loo. Remember to slouch at the urinal, looking neither left or right but staring ahead at the imaginary red dot on the wall. Then notice my buddies are surreptitiously checking each other's equipment. Another thing heterosexual men obviously don't talk about.

Receive E-mail back from lesbian columnist asking for "the name of the man mentioned in my earlier communication". Bitch. Spend rest of day picking my nose and flicking the contents randomly around the room. The Alpha- male marks his territory.

Pub crawl with the lads. Select Oasis instead of Abba on the jukebox. Get pissed, pick fight with bollard: "C'mon, if you think you're hard enough." Finish evening with "Babe Magnet" and deep-pan pizza and six- pack, singing "Achy Breaky Heart". Observe how heterosexual men infinitely prefer each other's company much more than the company of women, who are either a) slags b) saints or c) that Louise who used to be in Eternal.

Ring for taxi the moment Babe Magnet throws his arms around me and slurs that he loves me, I'm his best mate. Get home, fall into bed, throw my arms around Andrew, slur that I love him, he's my best mate. Andrew says I'm not touching him until I have a bubble bath, a face pack and act gentle. Protest that this is hardly butch. Andrew fold his arms and purses his lips: "Possibly not Gazza, but it is getting back to normal."