Just when I was getting worried that I didn’t have much of a fan base, a bloke wrote a letter to the newspaper the other day and signed it, “The world’s second greatest male chauvinist after Damian Bathersby”.

Now I know he probably meant it as a compliment but I can tell you right now that I cried myself to sleep that night.

I am, after all, a sensitive sort of guy; something of a shrinking violet, actually.

Male chauvinist indeed!

Anyone who reads this column regularly (notice I avoided calling them “fans” because that would imply fan-like behaviour such as gifts and indecent proposals, of which I have seen absolutely no evidence) ... sorry, where was I?

Oh yes, regular readers of this column will know that I am a big supporter of the women’s movement.

Seriously.

I am a happily married man and my wife will tell you that I definitely treat her as an equal.

I mean to say, I allow her to go to work each day so she can feel like she’s contributing to the world.

I show my appreciation when she cooks my dinner.

I do all the little things that the experts tell us we should to make our women folk feel loved.

Ow!

Stop hitting me!

Why didn’t anyone warn me she was looking over my shoulder?

Fair dinkum, ever since I allowed her out of the kitchen she’s been getting all uppity!

Seriously though, I’m not game enough to be a male chauvinist.

I might laugh about it but deep down I’m just a big softie who believes in equal rights and anything else my wife tells me I have to believe in.

She usually checks my columns because she’s worried I’ll upset minority groups but she left for work straight after slapping me up the side of the head, so I’ll write whatever I bloody well want today.

I can understand why some of you might get confused about my softer, more accepting side and I suspect it may be one of the reasons I’m not rich and famous.

You see, a little while back a few of you said some really nice things like “Damian, your column is really funny” and “Damian, you should write a book”, so I sent a few copies of my column off to some publishers.

I chose them randomly, based on the theory that one day they would be grateful for the fame and fortune I had brought to them.

I figured that because everyone knows about the bloke who rejected a chance to sign the Beatles when they were starting out, how could anyone be game enough to pass up such obvious talent as mine?

Before long I started getting responses back.

I think they call them rejection letters.

“Thank you for your contribution but unfortunately it’s not the type of work we are looking at publishing right now so please don’t contact us again you fat, sexist pig,” said one.

My favourite was the one which suggested I was as funny as a constipated polar bear which, by the way, I find extremely funny. (The bunged-up polar bear, not the publisher’s response.)

I wasn’t too concerned after the first negative replies but when the next dozen or so were along the same lines I started wondering where I was going wrong.

I mean, the stuff I sent them was bloody funny – even if I do say so myself.

It had all the elements of what the critics would call “a rollicking good yarn” – humour, drama, tragedy, a touch of nudity (all gratuitous) and a swarthy hero based loosely on myself.

How could they not like it?

And then I realised my rejection letters had one thing in common – they were all signed by women: women with no bloody sense of humour, apparently.

Let them out of the kitchen and suddenly they think they run the world, don’t they?

What did I tell you about minority groups?

So don’t talk to me about male chauvinist pigs, my friends.

I have been a victim of chauvinism and I can tell you that it hurts.

And I promise you that I’m not about to lie down and take ... bugger, was that the door closing?

I wasn’t expecting her home for ages and I haven’t even started cooking dinner yet.