I'm writing this quickly because time is running out for the male of the species.

Scientists say men are heading for extinction within 10 million years, or maybe it's just around the corner in about 100,000 years, according to a boffins' convention in London last week.

Apparently it is all in the genes - the chromosome variety not the denim type - because men have been rapidly losing their manhood DNA since time began.

Our only hope of survival is to develop a new type of chromosome like rats and voles have done, though I've seen some fairly mincing, effeminate voles around just lately.

It's no good, boys, women will inherit the earth. And though I'm not paranoid - would I have to say that if I didn't doubt it a little? - I reckon the fairer, more devious sex have been planning their takeover for some time now.

What do you think the ladies who do lunch talk about over those interminable liaisons, before they kiss and cuddle in public on parting (another preparation for doing without us).

I do concede that women are more perceptive than men and they saw this coming decades ago. It could be because of what they drink, the difference between wine and ale. In vino veritas as opposed to that other well known Latinism, in beerus sporticus.

They've been plotting their independence and I think they're just about ready for their accession.

Already they have a whole range of mechanical contraptions to make man redundant: Electric screwdrivers, dishwashers, foot spas, they'll be doing Black & Decker drills in pretty pink next.

My lawn has never been the same since my wife learned how to start the petrol mower (she asked a neighbour).

But what would a world without men be like? I suppose it depends on your point of view.

Tonka Toys will go bust and Barbie will rule the world. Company names will have to change to things like Smith and Niece and songs will be written about Matthew and daughter.

The new rich elite will be the (female) car body repair workers or companies which can point out where to put oil in the engine; tailors will go out of business if they don't abandon pin stripes, shirts and ties in favour of frills and lace.

Pubs will have to replace dartboards with mirrors, bored barmaids will have to idle away the hours polishing stemmed glasses.

The Women's Institute will become just The Institute and all the fun will go out of girlie nights out.

Surely we men are good for something; there must be some areas where we are irreplaceable. I'll come back to you on that one.

But I reckon the ladies' preparations are too well advanced for the process to be reversed. Already they have infiltrated into the world of men, taking over male-only jobs such as plumber, brickie, managing director and prime minister.

And we dim blokes were so busy watching Match Of The Day and Swedish Au Pairs Uncovered, we didn't notice what was happening.

Ah, I've thought of something, a compelling reason for the survival of the male gender. Who would they have to snap at or stab during that part of the monthly cycle when Dr Cybil Jekyll turns into Mrs Hyde; when those sweet loving creatures become raving monsters.

You may not have been aware but this is National PMS Awareness Week, run by the National Association for Pre-Menstrual Syndrome (it used to be pre-menstrual tension but it was politically incorrect to mention tension).

The press releases say PMS is all too often dismissed as a joke, especially by men. Perhaps it is by gay or single men, but not by married men it isn't. Woman may suffer the symptoms, but man suffers the consequences. "You look nice tonight, my sweet," says husband. "Waddya mean! Don't I always? Don't patronise me," comes the vicious response.

It is a serious topic and PMS can cost jobs or relationships, never mind the regular suffering of feeling fat, bursting into tears for no reason and falling out with loved ones.

And of course, the unfeeling male cannot understand what it's all about, he just storms off to the pub. As he's about as sympathetic as a benefits clerk with a long-term claimant, perhaps he is not good enough for this earth - perhaps he won't be around anyway in 100,000 years.

Ah well, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Come on lads lets all go down to the dry cleaners to pick up our skirts before it's too late.

Updated: 08:44 Tuesday, September 14, 2004