I was about 19 years old and threatening to kill myself with a Bic disposable razor (not easy: I was bluffing) when I realized that Women Love Bastards. The revelation arrived like this. I was a heartbroken student, having been dumped by, ah, let’s call her Emilia. For months I mooned about, bereft, wondering why Emilia had chucked me when I was so NICE – attentive, gift-giving, loyal. Then a good female friend – bless her wicked heart – took me aside and said: “Sean, girls don’t like nice. They like a guy with swagger. Stubble. Slightly mean.” She sighed. “I think we prefer bastards, if I’m honest.”

Putting down the razor, I picked up her advice, and I have used it ever since. I’m happy to say it works. You don’t have to be a combination of Charles Manson and Stalin, but women, it turns out, do rather like men with roguish confidence, verging on sweet cruelty, especially in bed and when choosing restaurants. As........

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