I was very pleased to be able to give a load of women the benefit of my wisdom and experience on a Jane Austen course a few months ago. Of the twenty or so students, only two of us were men. During one session, a discussion arose as to whether some bloke or other was being genuine, or just trying to impress. After a few minutes I felt duty-bound to intervene. I put my hand up.

Tutor: Yes Terry.

Me: As someone who used to chat up women and girls — I’m no longer allowed to — I can say with some definititude that this bloke2 was absolutely trying to impress this vulnerable young woman. He was, to use the modern vernacular, “bigging himself up” with the intention of having his wicked way with her. I hope I have explained the situation to everyone’s satisfaction.

There were nods of agreement and not a few subdued chortles.

Later on in the course, having pulled out most of my hair over the fact that every so-called “Heroine” has no ambition other than to get married, I could contain myself no longer. I put my hand up.

Tutor: Yes, Terry.

Me: These women are a load of grifters. All they’re interested in is men’s status. They seem to see every bloke as a walking cash dispenser, even though they didn’t have cash dispensers back then. They are all the epitome of the worst kind of toxic femininity.

For some reason, this seemed to hit a nerve. Every woman in the class put her hand up to speak. The other bloke in the class was attempting to become invisible.

After twenty minutes during which I was treated as a kind of intellectual punchbag, the tutor turned to me.

Tutor: Do you wish to respond, Terry?

Me: Indeed. That was my first [several women started chortling] and possibly my last contribution to literary criticism.

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