You will no doubt accuse me of being a charlatan,
when I tell you I joined a self-help group for troubled men,
to gather material for a would-be novel,
having won Best Essay Prize at Harrow public school.

I sat entranced as tormented souls unburdened themselves,
realising they are not alone, and reluctantly admitted to
being a misogynist (well, I had to confess to something).

I nodded in sympathy as Professor Jim Japes told us how,
happy in his cloistered life as a professor of geology at Trinity College Dublin,
his world fell apart when he took his students on a field trip to Iceland,
only to be led astray by his mountain guide, ‘Gorgeous’ Gudrun.

To save him from hot ash, spewed by one of mount Lusius’s volcanic eruptions,
she dragged him into a hot spring, and lustful cries filled the air,
fearing every breath would be their last.

The prof invited her to his cottage in county Wicklow overlooking the sea,
saying, ‘We’ll be able to collect rock specimens from the cliffs,
then breakfast on home-baked Irish bread and porridge.’

But his heart sank when she replied, ‘I’ve had enough of old stiffs,
and have fallen for a young singer in Cold Fire,
the leading Icelandic rock band.’

Then his students started telling tales of the
old chap’s romantic exploits (that’s putting his behaviour politely)
nicknaming him ‘A titillating tutor’,
and he would sit in the common room and mope,
until his pal, professor of psychology Pat McPee,
advised him to seek help in a men’s group.

But my favourite was Godfrey Godstail, former MP for Middleton-in-the-Vale,
who couldn’t stop playing pranks, such as adding glue to our seats,

His practical joking led to his downfall,
for he was expelled from the Liberal Party after
an embarrassing incident with a totem pole.

Needing a break from masculine angst, I headed for town,
only to see ‘Gorgeous’ Gudrun outside The Empire theatre,
which was advertising Cold Fire,
‘The amazing new band from Iceland’, talking to the lovestruck tutor.

I hid in an alcove and heard her say, ‘Hello prof,
meet me on the beach at midnight and we’ll enjoy a naked swim,
like we did in Iceland, when we indulged in unbridled passion.’

He looked stunned, ‘This is Ireland, it’s bloody freezing!

‘Your ardour seems undiminished, but even you must have limits!’

‘No,’ she answered, unabashed, ‘I realised all along that I
don’t like Cold Fire’s rock ’n roll,
and prefer the type beloved by a professor of geology.

‘I had great fun finding big stones and rolling them along the beach,
on our morning stroll.’

The prof gulped, ‘See you under the pier.’

‘Ah, this should be interesting,’ I mused, and wandered to the rendezvous.

I sat on a bench, and when the prof appeared, dripping wet,
tried to get up for a better view, only to find myself glued to the seat.

‘Help!’ I cried, but all I heard was a chorus of raucous laughter,
at the glue sticking to my bottom,
and was amazed to see my fellow troubled males,
along with the Icelandic lady.

But laughing the loudest was that notorious prankster, Godfrey Godstail.

‘Got you!’ He declared, ‘We always suspected you were a charlatan.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Gudrun, ‘and what’s more, I am not a femme fatale, just lonely.’

‘I can’t help it if I like the company of older men.

‘By the way, I’ve formed a women’s group,
and the main item on the agenda will be how to deal with misogynists.’

My ears pricked up at this, ‘When do you meet?’

The first one’s next week.’

‘Oh, can I come along and take notes for my story?’

‘Well, you’ll have to disguise yourself – actually,
I notice you’ve got man boobs, so that’s a start,
but you’ll have to wear a skirt.’

Well, I decided to pursue this avenue of research,
after my editor was impressed by the first chapter I’d sent him,
and encouraged me to attend this gathering of troubled women,
but as Geraldine Guss, newly divorced from a domineering man,
in a dress and non-revealing blouse.

Alas, they sussed Geraldine out straight away,
and thought the whole thing was a right laugh,
then persuaded me to dress in female clothes,
when publicising my book, The Trouble With Men,
and confess to being a misogynist.

The idea worked and my book sales rocketed,
so I took them all out for a meal at Pizza Express.

However, one of them had been married to Godfrey Godstail,
the men’s group’s annoying practical joker.
They were full of joy, after deciding to have another go at romance.

The assembled company raised a glass to me,
‘A self-confessed cross-dressing misogynist,
who became a successful writer’,
in a toast led by Godfrey, wearing false breasts and a mini-skirt,
and everybody cheered when I asked him up for a dance.