It’s a sad fact of life that most men will happily tell women they love them when they don’t mean it. Most men will happily pretend to love children and loathe lap-dancing, when the opposite is invariably true. Best friends will tell terrible lies about each other to improve their own chances of getting laid, and there is not a man alive who has not, at some point, clucked disapprovingly at the boorish antics of his mates while in the company of a woman he is trying to impress, when the only thing stopping him from pulling down his own trousers and joining them in obscene song on the pub table is the knowledge that an alarming number of women actually fall for this kind of nonsense. Or do they?

Are women really that gullible? Or do they simply view this kind of antler-clashing pomposity as a necessary ritual to be endured as part of the ongoing struggle to find a mate? More pertinently, if I continue writing my column in this vein: lazy observations followed by inane questions about the dating game, will I end up owning $30,000 worth of shoes and landing a lucrative gig at Vogue like Carrie Bradshaw from Sex And The City?

I ask because a dearth of reading material on a recent Tube journey meant I was forced to seek diversion by more traditional methods: gazing absentmindedly into the middle distance while eavesdropping intently on the conversation of a young man and woman sitting across the carriage from me. Their discourse suggested they worked together, while their contrasting looks and body language suggested that any mutual attraction was infinitely more mutual on his part than it was on her’s. Talk turned to the most misunderstood programme on the box.

“What are you doing tonight?” he enquired; a loaded question if ever I’d heard one.

“Tonight? Tonight’s Sex And The City night,” she replied matter-of-factly. “Myself and the girls will be glued to that for the evening with a couple of bottles of red. We love it because it makes us feel empowered.”

Jayzus.

“Yeah, Sex And The City! That’s just the best programme on television,” gushes yer man, pushing his BBC2 spectacles up on to the bridge of his nose. “I love the way it’s so realistic in the way it portrays women as men’s equals.”

Creep.

“Equals?” she frowned. “I’d say they’re portrayed as men’s superiors. That’s why all the women I know love it so much.”

“I suppose you have a point, yes. Us men are a bit sad,” mused the wuss.

Any man capable of saying he thinks Sex And The City portrays women as men’s equals or – under pressure – superiors, is obviously capable of anything. Or else he’s gay.

Don’t get me wrong, as television programmes go, I would rate Sex And The City higher than most. It’s well made, very entertaining and occasionally laugh-out-loud funny. However, to say that its characters are either empowering or portrayed as men’s equals is to say that the life endured by the priests on Father Ted is an accurate portrayal of parochial house life in Ireland. It clearly isn’t, we know it isn’t, but we don’t let this temper our enjoyment of it in any way because it is very funny indeed.

Sadly, it seems a staggering number of women cannot enjoy Sex And The City for what it is, choosing instead to treat it as some sort of a blueprint for their singleton existence in the 21st century. If you don’t believe me, try explaining to any female that a single episode of the ludicrous Footballer’s Wives does more for sexual liberation and – as happens in living rooms nationwide every Wednesday night between 9 and 10pm – they’ll miss the point completely.

Nevertheless ladies, here, in case you’re wondering, is why your craven devotion to Sex And The City goes a long way towards proving your myriad intellectual shortcomings.

It appears that most women like the characters of Carrie, Sam, Charlotte and Miranda because they see them as smart, sassy, strong and independent. Other women aspire to be like them because they do not depend on men, they slag men off and – go girlfriend! - swear a lot. That’s fair enough.

Yes, the characters on Sex And The City belittle men, but only men who have got what they were after from them and subsequently dumped them. Yes, they swear a lot, but invariably when discussing what bastards men are for being unpleasant to them. And then there’s the incessant whinging – which female viewers can’t seem to get enough of – about men’s inherent lack of sensitivity.

Meanwhile, us blokes are laughing up our sleeves at the irony of seeing the ladies in our lives get twice-weekly lessons in cod feminism from a quartet of fictional characters who have become role models for women worldwide by behaving exactly like the very creatures they purport to find so loathsome. By the time a few genuinely decent blokes find their way into the script, the women have become too insensitive to be able to appreciate them and consequently remain dissatisfied, frustrated and unhappy. Good.

However, for irrefutable proof – if proof is needed – that Sex And The City does not provide an accurate portrayal of real life, try writing a 1000-word magazine column the way Sarah Jessica Parker’s character Carrie Bradshaw invariably seems to.

Typing at length on a lap-top computer while sprawled belly-down on a bed is impossible. If you don’t believe me, have a go. When you quit after five minutes because your forearms are sore and your elbows are bright red you’ll realise I was right all along. About everything. Then and only then, will the feminist movement grind to a shuddering halt and the war of the sexes will finally end.