Last week I wrote a men-only column, and I'm afraid this is another one. I'm sorry, girls, but would you kindly leave the room? No, no, all of you. You, over there, stop hiding behind that desk and get out of here. Pronto. Kevin Myers, writes.
OK, chaps, check under your chairs, and if you find anything that points at a strangers' feet and shrieks, "Where did you get those shoes?", or reverses from a car-park onto a motorway with a car-full of children while on its mobile phone, or which can have hour-long conversations about chocolate, it's a she-human. So lasso it, truss it, and carry it out of here.
Is that it? Girls all gone? Excellent. We should now have as much need for a gynaecologist as a pond of frogs. We pedal cycles in this room, not suffer them. Far from being in touch with our feelings, we don't even send them Christmas cards. In the absence of sport and politics, we have the conversational skills of a shoal of Cistercian cod in Lent. And we might have a vague idea when we last changed our underwear, but not necessarily the month.
So, lads, lads, here's the question: do any of you get this fashion-show caper? For now is the season for the fancy cute hoor houses of Europe to show off their designs. Except, they say it with a French accent and it's pronounced couture, but it comes down to the same thing. You have to be a cute hoor indeed to make money out in this world, where whatever the language they speak is, it's not English.
Herewith a report about the London Fashion Week from the Times "This may be the city whose high street flogged the boho trend to the max. . .but even Topshop, on the official schedule for the first time with its Unique collection, pushed an aesthetic that had sportier leanings and embraced sharp men's tailoring." Good. Indeed, excellent. But gentlemen, have any of you the least idea what that means? Look out! Here comes another: "So what will we want to wear next summer? My vote goes to Preen, whose hit collection of beautiful drapings in a seductive palette of nudes, pinks and silvery greys was marred only by its two-hour late start." A two-hour late start? And the girls stayed there for two hours? How did they spend the time? Oh, I know. Talking. My, how time flies. Do they have the faintest idea what us blokes would do if a rugby or GAA match started two hours late? The Easter Rising, the Boston Tea Party and the French Revolution were all prompted by unpunctuality.
Back to the Times: "Complex knotting and intricately assembled dresses appeared effortless. There were many examples of a fluid volume skirt in satins or silks, gathered gently at the hem and much easier to wear than this autumn's puffball. Less convincing were some of the cropped bustiers which jarred with the ethereal elegance of the rest of the collection. Even the newer labels endorsed a grown-up, pared down sensibility. There may have been hints of Lanvin in the pintucking details or the fullness of a 1950s Balenciaga dress, but the deft cut was there to admire."
What language is this? The words - well, some of them - might be English, but the sentences are meaningless: they are to the language of Chaucer and Shakespeare what fashion models are to the female form. And that's the bit we chaps really don't get about these fashion weeks.
They're not about proper human beings. They're about genetically-modified catwalk insects who, if they were poultry or pigs, would be the subject of a worldwide outcry.
These poor creatures don't eat. They subsist on expensive bottled mineral water, cigarettes, champagne and cocaine, which is supplied in coal sacks by the cute hoors who run their business. They smoke so much that they have to apply foundation with a pebble-dash gun to fill their pores. On St Stephen's Day, they have their annual bowel movement, apparently consisting of two chocolate Smarties. They usually don't have sex with men, but with one another: their nightly orgies resemble a cluster of rattling mantises indulging in some group cannibalism.
Now everyone, without exception, knows about fashion models. This is what they do, and no one judges them for it - indeed, most of us chaps feel rather sorry for them, and wish them well, or a few carbohydrates anyway.
So that's why we are baffled by the Kate Moss story: what has she done that so many in her business have not done? How can this one unfortunate be hung out to dry, her career ruined, because her habits are identical to those many others in her profession?
Yet with poor sweet Kate dead in the gutter, the carousel grinds on, now to Milan, from where we can expect more deathless, incomprehensible prose; and each night, girls will once again snort some cocaine and Marlboro Lite before vanishing for a bit of night-long group-sex, probably looking like stick-insects playing rugby league, and after 10 minutes' sleep, they'll be back striding the cat-walk.
Lads, do you understand any of this? Every newspaper and women's magazine in Europe this week will be gibbering about moiré silk, taffeta, organza, broderie anglaise and double georgette, and not one of us, not one, on the entire continent and its associated islands, has the least idea what they're going on about. But virtually every single woman does.
Does this worry you, fellows? It does me, boys, it does me.