About a hundred years ago my parents bought my brother an ABBA album for Christmas.

Remember the one with Benny and Bjorn and Freda and the blonde one (I never could remember her name) standing in front of a helicopter?

I think they were wearing jump suits, which was a very cool thing back then. In fact, the whole ABBA thing was very cool.

So when my wife suggested we go to see Mamma Mia at the moviesthe other night, I wasn’t totally opposed to the idea.

I mean, how bad could it be?

And if it scored me a few brownie points, all the better.

Looking back, I should have make a run for the nearest exit the moment I saw the make-up of the audience.

For a long time after we found a seat, I was the only bloke in the entire cinema.

A small boat of testosterone lost in a sea of estrogen.

But was I embarrassed?

Not on your life. Because I am a sensitive new age man.

I am comfortable enough with my masculinity to sit through a chick flick.

I don’t care about sexual stereotyping for I am ... oh for god’s sake, who am I kidding?

I was as embarrassed as all hell and should have had the brains to make break for it then and there.

Eventually a few other blokes arrived, skulking through the shadows at the last minute in the desperate hope they wouldn’t bump into anyone they knew.

Most of them were obviously men who’d agreed to accompany their wives because, like me, they were chasing brownie points and had no idea what awaited them.

A few were young bucks - 18 and 19-year-olds with their girlfriends of their arms and keen to show they were committed enough to their fledgling relationships to sit through a girlie movie.

If I knew then what I know now, I would have yelled a warning.

But I had no idea.

Half an hour later, as Meryl Streep and Pierce Brosnan broke into yet another ABBA classic, I was contemplating cutting my wrists with a shard of my polystyrene coffee cup.

Meryl’s character was trapped on a Greek island with three men, each of whom could have been the father of her grown daughter because years earlier she’d been a complete harlot and slept with all of them in a short space of time.

An hour into the movie, as a bunch of Greek extras launched into Money, Money, Money and the plot surrounding Meryl’s promiscuity deepened, I wanted to yell "just take a DNA test and put me out of my misery!"

Oh sure, I can look back and laugh now but it was agony.

I saw some bloke make a run for the door just as Meryl launched into The Winner Takes It All.

He almost got there before his wife brought him down with a copybook tackle.

While she held him in a half-Nelson, insisting he serenade her with Fernando, another bloke took advantage of the confusion to slip out the side door just as Pierce began a stirring rendition of something which sounded vaguely like a cat being strangled.

(Trust me, the man should not sing ... even in the shower.)

"Take me with you," I yelled.

But it was too late. He was already halfway to the pub and wasn’t coming back for anyone.

Don’t get me wrong. I think 95% of the audience enjoyed the movie.

And I really, truly tried.

But women all around me were were laughing their heads off and I didn’t know why.

So I tried to concentrate harder, thinking I was missing the jokes.

Nothing.

Maybe the entire movie was in some sort of code which only women could understand.

Eventually the credits rolled to put me out of my misery and, just to rub salt ino my wounds, the audience clapped.

The lights came up and I turned to my wife, determined to maintain a brave face.

"Well, there you go," I said.

"That was ... well that was ..."

She just looked at me like I was an idiot.

"That was a complete load of crap," she said.

"Take me for a drink before I physically hurt someone."

I don’t think I’ve ever loved her more than I did at that moment.