It’s difficult to argue with the notion that, biologically speaking, females have got the pointy end of the stick. When it comes to reproduction, for example, men have very little to do. And, let’s be honest, that little bit isn’t so terrible. Our role is like that of a politician who smiles and snips the ribbon on a new factory. It’s herself who has to actually work there; every frigging day for nine months. We’re long gone, sipping champers in the back of the limo and telling our driver that speed limits are for the plebs. But at least pregnancy lasts a mere three quarters of a year and ends in the relaxed comfort of childbirth. The awful alternative, the monthly … eh … you know … a woman’s … natural … that lasts for decades. It’s so horrifying a prospect that we don’t even like to think about it, much less call it by its name. We prefer cryptic asides about painters and Arsenal and obscure relatives who’ve just dropped in. If a foolish male dares to engage in the hopeless battle of Who’s Got It Worse?, women have these shiny nuclear missiles to call upon. What have we got? The rusty revolver that is face-shaving. See how useless it is? You can’t even say ‘shaving’ because women shave their legs and pits. You have to be specific. ‘It’s all right for you girls, you don’t have to drag a flippin’ razor over your face every other day, except at weekends.’ As arguments go, it’s like Bill Gates telling you what a pain it is to open the begging letters. Oh well. At least we get to complain about feeling guilty. Even though we don’t. Frankly, we can’t believe our luck.