Girl Talk

I think I’ve been discovering my feminine side lately, and I fear it’s now too late to go back.

This movement from the dark side to the pink doesn’t mean that I’ve suddenly lost my sense of direction, or started turning up on time for appointments, or that I now ask my mates to accompany me to the loo when we’re out at a restaurant. Nor does it mean I’m genetically untidy or only buy at Marks & Spencers because their returns policy means I can get another day out shopping.

So what feminine traits am I talking about? Well, this week I went to see a new musical called Legally Blonde, a pleasure that I would normally rank alongside eating cold kippers or licking fluff from a sweaty wrestler’s belly button. In truth I was dragged there and only went because I knew my girls would love it. It is very pink and fluffy and is more of a panto than a musical - think Paris Hilton as the ogre or Victoria Beckham as the beanstalk. There’s even a little cuddly dog carried in a pink handbag, and the whole experience is camper than Liberace in hot pants.

But, guess what? I loved it. I smiled, clapped or laughed from the beginning to the end in a way I hope my mates will never get to know about. The audience was made up mainly of young girls and gay men who screamed recognition of bits from the original book and movie, and there was a standing ovation at the end with me up on my feet yelling louder than anyone else.

My friends in Glasgow would be ashamed of me as a night out at the theatre there used to mean a visit to the front row of Robert Halpern’s hypnotism show or, depending on your persuasion, the annual Celtic or Rangers singalong. Now, thanks to the influence of a house full of girlies, I must also ask for the following offences to be taken in to consideration – I like the musical Wicked, I’m going to see the new Oliver musical for the third time this week, I’ve started trying to colour coordinate my clothes, and I’ve even got a Facebook page.

I’m fully aware that if my pals are reading this they’ll be making plans to get my rugby boots back out of mothballs with a lock in organised at a working men’s club afterwards followed by a curry and a beer drinking game. So, what has happened to me?

Well, I think it’s to do with having a house full of girls. They are supposed to civilise you but I find they just mould you in to copies of themselves and you end up watching what they watch and talking about what interests them. I can now tell you everything you don’t need to know about Robert Pattinson and Twilight, I know when Alexia Khadime is leaving Wicked and that her replacement was spotted in a reality show. I can tell you when The Jonas Brothers are returning to Britain and when Kerry Ellis takes over as Nancy in Oliver .

But even I have to set limits. I refuse to eat Haribos, I still think salad is for lining pet cages, amd I don't watch So You Think You Can Dance.

It’s time I toughened myself up again, so this week I’m going to pretend I’m seeing Oliver for the third time purely to decide whether Griff Rhys Jones is as good as Rowan Atkinson and Omid Djalili were. I’m going along solely with my critical hat on, and it’s blue not pink.

But first I must rush. There are only a few days to get ready and my legs need shaving.