Skinhead BBQ

Once, many years ago, I went along to a barbecue organised by a few feminist friends, accompanied by a couple of fellow male punk activists. It should have been a wonderful egalitarian roast, with no gender-based division of labour or assumption of patriarchal sexual roles. Instead, the sisters made a token show of trying to do it for themselves, before forcefully thrusting the matches and lighter paper - with a good dose of ironic sheepishness - into the hands of me and my Y-chromosomed comrades.

Now, while I don't doubt for a minute that many women worldwide are more than capable of barbecuing without male interference, it amused me then - and amuses me still - that some of the most wonderful, inspiringly self-reliant ladies I've known in my life, when confronted with red meat and naked flames, immediately turned to the betesticled among us in expectation that we'd take charge of the situation. Had we not been there, I'm sure they'd have lit the coals just fine and grilled many a burger and banger to feed the hungriest of downtrodden females, but as we happened to show up, well, we were expected to claim our territory; and inevitably, we did. Thousands of years of social progress and philosophy, yet the smell of charcoal smoke and seared beef can separate us into Fred and Wilma Flintstone in seconds.

And boy, I've been Fredding it up today. With the sun high and hot, and the neighbours giving us a bit of music worth dancing to, I've cooked surf and turf on the grill with beer aplenty to wash it down. My digestive system is bound to pay a price for this - you cannot possibly fill yourself this full of beef, bacon, cheese, prawns, sausage, potato and ale without some kind of side effects - but at least when I ring up NHS Direct to inform them of my discomfort, I can tell them honestly and sincerely that it's because my colon is stuffed with man points.