An open letter to Sex and the City creator Darren Star

We’re the first to admit we heterosexual blokes haven’t always treated you, our fabulous homosexual brothers, with the respect and affection you so richly deserve.

We can only guess at the number of times some knuckle-dragger inserted your head in an S-bend at high school after being driven into a homophobic rage by your fashion-forward outfit, Truman Capotesque lacerating wit, or Elton John pencil case.

We can picture you now, pacing up and down your tastefully decorated bedroom thinking, “One day I shall I blow this tragic town, join Hollywood’s gay mafia, and create a zeitgeist-reflecting TV show revolving around four gay men cunningly disguised as self-obsessed single women.

“Then those Neanderthals shall pay, and pay dearly, for the outrageous indignities they have visited upon me and my kind.”

Well, mission accomplished. Well played, sir. It’s testament to your evil genius that you’ve managed to craft an R-rated TV show stuffed full of material we’ll happily spend hours searching for on the internet – bizarre fetishes, hot girl-on-girl action, well-known actresses getting their tits out – which no straight man in the world has ever, of his own free will, watched.

A pop-cultural phenomenon that disingenuously appears to have encouraged a whole generation of women to slut it up but that has, in fact, inflated their expectations to the point where the typical man has about as much chance of convincing them to sleep with him as he does of determining whether they’re wearing Manolo Blahnik or Jimmy Choo.

Let’s be honest here, Daz, you knew the chicks would never actually identify with, let alone start putting out like, that old boiler nympho played by Kim Cattrall. No, as all your female viewers will readily confess after one Cosmo too many, they’re “soooo Carrie Bradshaw”. And who’s Bradshaw into? Mr Big.

Now, granted, it’s not like the ladies’ expectations were exactly anchored in reality to start with, but post-SATC every woman in the Western world has come to believe she’s entitled to a devastatingly handsome, obscenely rich alpha male with – if the moniker is anything to go by – an awe-inspiringly enormous penis.

A man who’s a thrillingly unattainable bad boy right up until the moment he proposes, at which point he magically morphs into sensitive and monogamous life partner. If this ubermensch actually exists anywhere outside of your sick imagination, Star, we can only presume he’s getting more action than Tiger Woods at Viagra-sponsored golf tournament held in the grounds of the Playboy Mansion.

You can rest assured that the rest of us Mr Averages have, thanks to you, been getting very little sex in our respective cities.

When the TV series came to an end we presumed you’d taken your vengeance and were satisfied. But, no, you had to prolong our torment by making a film. Then another. Now there’s talk of a third.

So we give up whatever you want, you’ve got it. We straight men will make an effort to dress better. We’ll vote for gay marriage. We’ll learn the words to all your favourite Broadway show tunes. We’ll hunt down your high-school tormentors and force them to sit through all eight series of Will and Grace. Then flush their heads down the toilet. Please just stop filling women’s heads with your cock-blocking concoctions.

Surely if Queer Eye for the Straight Guy taught us anything, it’s that we men can put the troubled past behind us and reach the hand of friendship across the divide of sexual orientation. Why not give Carrie and co the arse and let the healing begin?