I've been excommunicated for bringing the male gender into disrepute. Ooh, it is painful, I can tell you. I'm a big disgrace to the chauvinist race. I'm not fit to wear trousers.

That's the verdict of the Six Just Men who every Sunday sit in judgement from the Star Chamber of their local club after umpteen pints of swill.

All I did was mention in last week's column that I have this obsession for secret Sunday morning ironing sessions. "Foul," they cried. "Hang 'im," they demanded. Not only must a man never do his own ironing, he must never, ever admit it in public. Gets us blokes a bad name and gives women ideas above their station.

Now I am all for a bit of male domination. Ask my wife. But these chaps take the biscuit.

Every Sunday without fail, they come together in their club. First they thrash their brightly-coloured balls around a snooker table, then they settle down to putting the world to rights.

Their judgements are sharpened by up to a dozen pints each per session. Each week they sit down to a different topic.

Sometimes it's the bring-back-hanging debate. "They want stringing up. I'd tie the noose if they raped my daughter." Then one of them remembers his holiday in Bosnia where a taxi driver pointed out the burned-out house where his brother and sister-in-law were tied to a chair and had to watch as soldiers raped their two teenage daughters.

Hanging's too good for 'em, they should be shot in the privates, proclaim the Just Men. But what if you hang someone and later find he is innocent? It would still be a deterrent to others, they proclaim.

Obviously football is one of the regular discussion topics and these armchair experts know more than the players.

They may be down to five members at the moment because one of them - a bachelor, no less - had to emigrate after he blurted out it had been a nice day and he had got his washing dry. Cardinal sin, that.

They slur on about items in the news, but a frequent moan is that women had been allowed into the club. It had gone down hill ever since, especially as they had to watch their language. One, apparently, is always being threatened with having his name in the club book for his persistent swearing.

One time, they were crying in their beer and even touched on the taboo topic of suicide. They all wanted to do it.

While they had been putting the world to rights, they had all missed out on wealth beyond their dreams.

They had formed a lottery syndicate and had chosen their fixed, weekly numbers. They decided to place their bet in the Saturday night lottery. Guess what? Soon after that, their numbers came up - in the Wednesday lottery. They were robbed of an absolute fortune. They've splashed out twice a week ever since.

While in their weekly huddles, they also gossip about other members, ripping their characters apart and generally being extremely catty. And I thought that was a distinctly female attribute.

When it is getting late and they can't count on both hands how much they have drunk, they wend their weary ways to their respective homes.

One of the crew always finds his doting wife waiting to open the garden gate, and help him to the table for a piping-hot Sunday dinner.

He has a good 'un there. He admits he has never chosen or bought, washed or ironed, a single item of his clothing since he got wed.

He's the chap I once told you about who after many years of being blissfully wed, got into awful bother when his wage was suddenly paid by cheque instead of cash. It was the first time his wife found out how much he really earned and, boy, was he in trouble.

No wonder I've let the side down by confessing to being a cissie, doing my own ironing.

Sorry fellers, in future I'll stop carrying a handbag and I'll start talking in a deep voice about football. You see if I don't.