NONE of my 14 wives has ever thought I was gay - just, perhaps, a little in touch with my feminine side.

But market research on this column shows a distinct lack of male readers. "My mum loves your column," the ladies tell me. It seems everybody's mum loves the column. But where are the men?

So, from this week, I'm out after a different audience. A male audience. So far, the only non-female reader I am aware of complains regularly that I use big words like "apple" and "cat".

No more talk of ironing my shirts, there's gonna be a new macho me. I shall regale my devotees with tales of testosterone, pulling the birds and beer-swilling marathons.

I shall become what my dad always wanted me to be: A vest-wearing, arse-scratching, sports-ogling slob of a man's man.

If there are any ladies still reading, please switch off now or prepare to be offended.

I am writing this with a six-pack of beer on my desk, giving vent to the occasional loud belch and giggling - in a manly way, of course - at how powerful it was. I am wearing Tuf boots, heavy denims (generous amount of builder's bum on show), a thick, quilted work shirt as well as a safety helmet.

My army-green jeep is outside waiting, shotgun thrown on the back seat and hounds behind the wire grill, slobbering ready for the thrill of the kill.

I have sprouted whiskers that need filing down because a Gillette Mach-something 20-blade razor can't touch it. My cow pie has horns still poking through the pastry. You have to read the column in a deep, baritone voice.

I don't know how long it will take for this new man to drive out the long-suffering, current Mrs Hearld, but hey, won't it be worth it if I can attract millions more readers?

My gums are bleeding after removing a bottle top with my teeth and my palms are scarred after trying to crack a walnut in two hands. Burp. I've given up trying to crush a beer can, but I'm doing okay with plastic pop bottles. Belch.

The floor around me is littered with empty cans and fag packets, but I can feel the release of being back in touch with my masculine side. Mrs H has just walked in after the facelift operation and a supermarket shop and she's seen the mess. Yes, dear. Sorry dear, I tell her. I'll tidy up when I've finished.

She can't shout at me because she'll burst the stitches. Thank God for the helmet, though, because a frozen chicken swung at the back of the head in a Tesco bag could really hurt.

Is this a good time to ask if I can go out with the lads for a raucous evening of boozing, back-slapping and dirty jokes? Real men don't even think about it. Just tell the woman and order her into the kitchen to rattle the pots and pans.

The macho medicine can't have kicked in properly yet because I promise to be back at 9pm.

When I'm in the pub, I'll stand at the bar instead of finding a comfortable seat by the fire. I'll order drinks in a loud voice and be served immediately by a fawning barperson, instead of waiting timidly, shyly waving a fiver and being ignored til closing time. And I will definitely not say "sorry" when somebody bumps into me and spills my drink all down my macho menswear.

On the way home, I'll sing bawdy rugby songs and wake the neighbours.

I won't creep silently and apologetically into the house and slip quietly into bed to await the onslaught. Instead, I'll put the chip pan on, fall asleep and wait until the smoke alarm and flames wake me. Or another slap round the head with a frozen chicken.

Golly, gosh, this masculine stuff wears you out. The hairy shirt itches and I've got a draught down my builder's bum.

Roll on Friday night, when I can get back into my dress and make-up.